Michael pulled into the cemetery's north entrance and killed the engine. His hands gripped the steering wheel. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the air conditioning.
The place sprawled across rolling hills dotted with marble headstones and bronze plaques. Old money graves near the entrance, cheaper plots climbing toward the back fence. A groundskeeper's truck sat parked near the maintenance shed.
He checked his mirrors. No black SUVs. No suspicious cars with tinted windows. Just a few scattered visitors placing flowers on graves.
His phone buzzed. Franklin.
"I'm here. Southeast corner by the mausoleums."
"Give me two minutes."
Michael drove deeper into the cemetery, taking random turns. He parked behind a grove of oak trees and walked the remaining distance. His dress shoes crunched on gravel paths.
Franklin stood beside a marble tomb, hands shoved in his pockets. He wore a crisp button-down and slacks. Business casual. The uniform of legitimate success.
"You look good," Michael said.
"Clean living." Franklin's eyes swept the surrounding area. "This feel like a setup to you?"
"Everything feels like a setup these days."
---
Franklin watched Michael approach. The older man looked tired. Paranoid. His polo shirt hung loose and his khakis needed pressing.
"Where's Trevor?" Franklin asked.
"On his way. Probably stopped to cook meth or torture someone."
"That's not funny."
Michael shrugged. "Wasn't meant to be."
Franklin pulled out his phone and checked the time. Two minutes late already. In the car business, late meant lost sales. In the criminal business, late meant dead.
A motorcycle roared in the distance. Getting closer.
"That him?" Michael asked.
The bike appeared around a bend in the cemetery road. Dirt bike, not street legal. Trevor rode without a helmet, hair whipping behind him like a battle flag.
He skidded to a stop twenty feet away and dismounted. His jeans had grease stains and his t-shirt advertised a strip club in Sandy Shores.
"Well, well." Trevor grinned. "The gang's all here."
---
Trevor kicked the bike's stand down and studied his former partners. Michael looked soft. Suburban living had dulled his edges. Franklin looked successful. Legitimate. Like he'd forgotten where he came from.
"You boys miss me?" Trevor asked.
"Like a rash," Michael said.
Franklin stepped between them. "We're not here to reminisce. Show us the photos."
Michael pulled the envelope from his jacket and handed it over. Franklin examined the first photograph, then passed it to Trevor.
Trevor's grin faded. The photo showed him at the helicopter, mouth open in a battle cry. Pure adrenaline captured in glossy paper.
"Professional work," he said. "Telephoto lens. Good positioning."
"How do you know that?" Franklin asked.
"Military training. Surveillance and counter-surveillance." Trevor flipped the photo over and read the coordinates aloud. "Whoever took this knew we'd be there."
Michael took the photo back. "Or they got lucky."
"Nobody gets this lucky." Trevor pulled out his phone and entered the coordinates. "GPS says it's downtown. Warehouse district."
---
Michael watched Trevor work the phone. The man's hands were steady despite the meth habit. Military training ran deeper than addiction.
"Could be a trap," Michael said.
"Could be our only way out," Franklin replied.
A car engine approached from the main road. All three men tensed. Michael's hand moved instinctively toward his waistband, then stopped. He'd left his gun at home. Suburban paranoia, not professional preparation.
The car passed without slowing. A sedan with an elderly driver and passenger.
"We need to decide," Franklin said. "Meet this person or let the photos go public."
Michael thought about Amanda in the shower, humming off-key. Tracey rehearsing lines for her recital. Jimmy complaining about Wi-Fi speeds. Normal problems for normal people.
"What's the worst that happens?" he asked.
Trevor laughed. "Death. Prison. Or worse, they make us wear orange jumpsuits."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." Trevor pocketed his phone. "These photos surface, we're done. All of us."
---
Franklin studied both men. Michael's suburban paranoia. Trevor's manic energy. Six months had changed them, but not enough.
"I got a business to protect," Franklin said. "Employees depending on me. Legitimate income."
"We all got things to lose," Michael replied.
"Do we?" Trevor spread his arms wide. "I live in a trailer. Cook drugs for tweakers. Date lot lizards and gas station attendants."
"Your choice," Franklin said.
"Was it? Really?" Trevor's voice sharpened. "Or did someone decide that for me a long time ago?"
Michael stepped forward. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Trevor pulled the second photograph from the envelope. Franklin sprinting toward the getaway car, duffel bag bouncing on his hip.
"Professional surveillance. Military-grade equipment. Someone with resources tracked us during the job." Trevor tapped the photo. "Question is, why wait six months to make contact?"
Franklin felt cold despite the afternoon heat. "Maybe they been watching us since."
"Maybe they been watching us longer than that," Trevor said.
---
The implication hit Michael like cold water. His witness protection deal. The Ludendorff job. His entire arrangement with the FBI.
"That's paranoid thinking," he said.
Trevor fixed him with pale eyes. "Is it? Your boy Norton dies, then comes back to life. We pull three major jobs in six months. Now someone's got professional surveillance photos."
"Coincidence."
"You believe that?"
Michael looked at Franklin. The younger man chewed his bottom lip, thinking hard.
"What do you want to do?" Michael asked.
Franklin folded the photographs and handed them back. "Check out those coordinates. See what we're dealing with."
"And if it's a trap?"
"Then we run."
Trevor mounted his dirt bike and kicked the engine to life. "Or we fight."
"No fighting," Franklin said. "We're not those people anymore."
Trevor's grin returned. "Speak for yourself."
He gunned the engine and roared away, leaving tire tracks in the cemetery grass.
Michael pulled out his keys. "This is a mistake."
"Probably." Franklin started walking toward his car. "But it's our mistake to make."
Michael watched him leave, then looked around the cemetery. Marble headstones stretched in all directions. Dead people with carved dates marking the beginning and end of their stories.
He wondered what his headstone would say. What dates would bracket his life. Whether anyone would remember the real Michael De Santa or just the lies he'd built around himself.
His phone buzzed. Text message from Amanda.
*Don't forget the recital starts at seven.*
Michael typed back: *Wouldn't miss it.*
Another lie. He was getting good at those.