A/N: Hello and welcome to my Burn Notice story. If you read my lackluster description you already know that this story will focus on the origins of Michael Westen and his path to becoming the man he was when the series started in 2006. On this journey, we will see his home life, his training in the army, his fateful first interactions with figures like Larry, Tom Card, Sam Axe, and Fiona Glenanne. I have tried to get this story as canon as I can with what I know about his past and what others have compiled, but some dates and scenarios have been changed, as sometimes there is conflicting information from the show about certain things in his past.

As with all of my stories, I will remain as true to character as possible, but also keep in mind that this story begins when Michael is only seventeen years old, and so the person that he is now is a little different from the man he will become.

I hope you enjoy this story, and this first chapter, which will be longer than most others. If you do enjoy it, please leave a review or comment. If you have any suggestions about where you think the story should go next or what characters you would like to see, feel free to message me or leave a review.

Jenthewarrior.

XxXxX

I. Bartering

Miami, Florida.

1984.

When you grow up in a home dominated by an alcoholic, you take notice of certain things.

In my world, the first sign of trouble is no sign at all. On his worst days, when he finds himself between jobs with a bottle of whiskey, my dad becomes a really neat person. If he did something violent the night before, like break two of my ribs, he started caring what the neighbors think. He works hard at appearing likable – a more extreme version of my mother, who orders Christmas wreathes from catalogues but recycles coffee filters every morning.

When I look at my house, it's the tranquil lawn gnomes and the freshly planted daisies that give me the story for the day. I look for closed doors and carefully drawn curtains, and little signs of his trembling hands messing up something he was trying to fix.

Is the mailbox hanging open? Are there tire tracks in the grass? Did someone forget to take the trash to the curb? Is there a muffled baritone coming from the garage?

Sometimes the rest of my day hinged on the answers to those questions. Would it be better to sneak in through the back, or avoid the house altogether? Was it one of those surprise sleepover nights with Andre? Was it time to call the cops, or to play the mediator? Was dinner being served on the table, or being stolen from the store?

I listen for the hum of the Charger in the garage, or the whining of my dad's old stereo. He was a fan of yelling, so if the neighbors got curious he could just crank the music or rev the engine. He could pretend he was watching the game. If the cops came, he would recruit my mom to lie for him, and she did it with a smile every single time.

One day after I turned seventeen, all the signs were there.

I stopped at the edge of the driveway, staring at the little yellow corner of the flyswatter mom had pinned to inside of the kitchen blinds. It was a warning sign she had started using when I was ten. From here, I could count the empty beer cans in the trashcan. I could see the curtains, drawn so tightly shut that they almost seemed to be sewn together.

When I looked at my house, I felt the danger like a vibration in my chest. It lingered in the air like an odor, and it was ripe today. But I had something else on my mind, something that overpowered my aversion to my father.

I came in through the front, scanning for signs of trouble. Mom was the only one there, washing dishes, though she hadn't cooked in a while. I had a feeling she was just washing things from the cabinet to pass the time. Dad was in the living room, splayed out in his chair with a beer in his hand. I could see two trashcans from here, and each of them had three or four beers stacked on the top, and spilling over around the sides. Busy day.

Dad looked up when the door shut, but he was smashed, and I wasn't even sure he recognized me through the red veil over his eyes. I went straight for the kitchen, leaning against the counter to watch mom half-wash every plate and set it up to dry.

"I have to ask you something."

When I spoke, it was always a harsh contrast to my father's volume. He had no inside voice, but then again, neither did my brother. Sometimes it seemed that my mom and I were the only ones who could have a conversation like civilized human beings.

She glanced up, plucking her lipstick-stained cigarette out of her mouth and blowing a puff of smoke into the air. She was movie-star beautiful, with curly blonde hair and dark veins in her blue eyes, but was far from the helpless housewife portrayed in movies – she had a hard, frowning face and steel in her posture. We understood things about each other, about our situation, that my brother, or our neighbors, or our extended family, would never be able to understand. Our connection was something that forced me home every afternoon.

Or, it used to be.

She saw the change in me – she was observant, despite pretending to be ditsy and airheaded when the mood took her – and I caught the change in her demeanor. She popped her cigarette back in and carried on with her task, never dropping her scowl. "I take it I won't like it."

I gazed down at her hands. I was born when she was seventeen and she was only in her thirties now, but the hours she had spent biding time at this sink had taken a toll on her palms. I spoke without making eye contact. "I want to join the army."

Mom didn't seem surprised by that. In fact, she had dread in her face, like she had expected this all along. "I found the catalogues in your room. You need better hiding places, honey."

My lips twisted up on their own. I wasn't sure how she had gotten them out of the ceiling tiles, only that my mom was impossible to hide things from. It made me wonder if she had found my other stashes as well, and suddenly I felt that I was in the hot seat. "I don't know what you-"

"Relax," she said, flashing a smile for the first time. Oh, how she loved to see me squirm. "I heard you dragging a chair into your room last week. I figured it must be something good, to hide it in the ceiling. I suppose I was right." She took a hit of her cigarette, watching me thoughtfully. "So, the army, huh? Feeling patriotic all of the sudden?"

When I was twelve I told my mother I didn't want to live with her anymore. I told her I hated her, that I hated my father, and that she would be fine because she had another son. I went to the bus stop, bought a ticket for myself, and waited for midnight transportation to some city I had never heard of – I wasn't even sure if it would get me out of Florida. When my anger faded, and the prospect of leaving sunk in, Mom came and got me. She never mentioned it again, never rubbed it in my face, but it always stayed with us.

If I wanted to leave, I would. But I stayed. I let her lean on me. I took care of Nate. I dragged my father into bed on the weekends. I stole groceries and walked five miles at the crack of dawn to escort my brother to the front door of the school building.

I turned seventeen the day before, and suddenly, with that bland question she asked me, I realized why she had seemed so sad. She knew it was time for me to go, and this time I wasn't coming back.

"Four years in camouflage pants just to get away from us," she went on, her voice edging on bitter. She lit a new cigarette with her old one. "You could just get a job, Michael. You could move out and get yourself a house or something. Do what I did."

"So I could marry a drunk, have two kids, and wash plates all day?"

She flinched a little at the sharpness of my response, but I couldn't make myself apologize. Mom was not a delicate flower. She knew what was happening here. She skated over the comment. "I'll sign the papers, if that's what you want. You can put away the act."

I felt my jaw lock up. It closed around another biting remark. Instead of antagonizing her, I pulled the paper from my bag and set it on the counter. She signed hastily on her designated line, and lingered for a moment, looking at the 'father' box. I had thought about that, too.

"Were you going to forge his signature?" she wondered.

"I think that's a crime."

"That's never stopped you before – nothing stops you from getting what you want."

I leaned over the form, considering forging it right then and there. I didn't want my new career to start off with lie, so I left it blank.

"Or you could wait another year, Michael."

Since the army recruiter visited my school when I was thirteen, I was waiting for this moment, and the thought of holding off for another year made my stomach clench up. There was no way to say that to my mom, so I just waited, staring at the floor.

Mom blew out another puff of smoke, and it wreathed around me like a warm snake. "I'll ask him tonight." Her tone surprised me. She usually only spoke to Nate like that. Our relationship rarely called for a real 'mommy' voice. "Make sure your little brother takes a shower. If you could, try to get that car running again."

I stayed where I was for a moment, put off by her reaction, and then I brushed by her, putting a hand on her shoulder as I passed, "Yeah, Ma."

When I stepped out of the kitchen the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Dad wasn't in the chair anymore, and I hadn't heard him move.

I had an internal radar of sorts, placing my dad in the room, in the house, in the neighborhood, so I can avoid him. When you live with someone like him, it can be helpful to keep yourself on the opposite side of the house, because in my case conflicts never came out good. Mom never took my side, and it was getting harder and harder to bite my tongue.

Nate squealed from the garage.

My brother was six years younger than me, and dedicated to irritating me in every feasible way, but hearing him scream was a trigger. If I was locked in a room with him for a day I would knock him out with the nearest heavy object, but if my dad put his hands on Nate, I couldn't force myself to remain passive. It wasn't in my nature.

Dad was twisting my brother's arm up against his back and watching him with that gleeful, red-eyed expression I had come to loathe. He was testing the kid, seeing if he would cry out again. It was one of the games he played with us when he was really smashed. He lived with the idea that real men could only be forged from pain.

He didn't waste time turning on me. He always heard me coming.

He released Nate and watched him scamper off into our mother's waiting arms, puckering his lips obnoxiously and bracing one hand on the Charger, almost tipping over as the haze of alcohol played tricks on his mind. He would remember none of this when morning came. It was almost better that way. It was better for him to be oblivious than to listen to him give Mom a soppy apology. If I could have forgotten, too, I would have.

"Well, look who blew in with the tumbleweeds," he said, a distinct southern drawl making his words sound like the calling card of a supervillain. He held out his other hand, inviting me closer. "Come 'ere, boy."

I stayed where I was. I didn't make a habit of getting within arm's length of my father.

"Go to bed, Dad," I said, keeping the venom out of my voice. I had to be as neutral as possible. Talking to him was like holding a lighter to a pool of gasoline.

He gave me a dangerous scowl. "Or what?"

Dad was over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and dense, and I could lift as many weights as I wanted at school and never stand a chance against him. His feverish eyes, his venomous tone, made me stumble back a step.

"I'm not… I just meant…"

"Stop that stuttering," he snapped. His expression was something I saw in my nightmares. When he got his hands on this much alcohol, he became something else entirely. "Never heard a real man stutter. Say what you wanna say or shut the hell up."

I stepped back again, matching his step forward. Inside I was shaking, but outside I tried to look brave.

"Maddie, you better get your boy," Dad snarled at Mom.

Dad was hanging his jaw out like a piñata.

I was burning inside, my muscles coiled up with rage. I could have hit my dad. Andre and I played around after school, made a punching bag out of an old mattress. I had a mean right hook that got a nasty bully off my back in middle school and I was much bigger now. With him this drunk, with him standing there like that, practically asking me to hit him, the temptation rolled through me like a summer storm. It made every hair stand up, sprouted sweat on my neck, made my hands shake. I was so tired of listening to him talk, tired of having my life ruined by him, tired of Mom and her excuses, her meekness, and tired of hearing my little brother cry.

But I held myself back. I swallowed that anger, let it flash white hot through my insides until it simmered and gave way to my rational side. Mom would switch sides the moment I took action, shouting at me for hitting my father. It hurt to know that she wouldn't back me up, that I was isolated on one side of an equation, when all I wanted to do was help her and Nate.

It hurt to be along in a four-person household.

Just like the anger, I had to swallow the hurt, and deployed my greatest weapon against Dad. He may have been clever, in a cruel, charismatic sort of way, but I had intelligence on my side, not inherited, but honed. I spent my life trying to outsmart him, learning to lie to him and to my mother, and to the police. I spent my life manipulating my neighbors, my teachers, and even my friends to get through life, to get what I wanted. He was bigger, and he ruled my house, and he had Mom on his side, but as far as I was concerned I had the advantage. I was smarter.

"Do you want me to get you some more beer?"

Dad was pretty simple, and pretty complicated. His weakness, his vice, was alcohol, but he had a hard time keeping a job, so he had little money to spend on the thing he wanted the most. In his bad spells, he took what he could from us – he took the grocery money, our lunch money, and whatever my mother managed to save up. He invested it all in drinking, but he always wanted more.

He knew I could get more without being caught. He had tried stealing in the past but he always ended up in the drunk tank at the local station. I took it off of delivery trucks, gathered it from local refrigerators, and slipped it out of convenience stores in my pants.

I could hand him everything he wanted.

His eyes lit up at the question, and then narrowed as he realized I was diffusing the situation. He could either press on with his challenge, or give up, and reap the rewards.

He leaned heavily on the car, making the hood pop inward, and made a big show about considering my offer. Finally, he said, "Miller, none of that watered-down crap."

I felt a big lump dissolve in my stomach. Dad went to his workbench and started sorting his tools, paying no more mind to his family, and Mom ushered Nate into the house. She didn't even look back at me. She had no intention of thanking me for being the distraction, and she wouldn't ask me how I did it. She took it for granted.

When I was outside, with the garage door between my father and I, the angry buzzing of my pulse slowed down. I stood there for several second glaring at the thin slab of wood that separated us, and imagined myself going for that punch, how good it would feel to break my knuckles on his jaw. I also gave myself time to calm down, because being around Dad pumped me full of adrenaline and I looked like a junkie.

A very nice couple lived across the street from us – Mr. and Mrs. Reyes. Phil was a fan of Miller, like my dad, and he kept enough stocked that he wouldn't miss a few cans. They always left the back door unlocked because one of their nieces came over to walk the dog during the day. Even if it had been locked, I knew where they kept the keys.

Despite my long criminal record to say differently, I really hated stealing. It seemed wrong to take things from the Reyes family, because they had sheltered Nate and I when things got bad at the house. Stealing from faceless companies and stores was nothing to me, but stealing from people was harder. People had bills to pay and crappy families of their own to take care of. The Reyes' were no exception. I had known them my whole life. I had played T-ball with their nephews.

I could have taken it from the store down the road, or any of the little gas stations dotting Miami, but I wanted to get back to Dad as fast as I could. Mrs. Reyes might even understand if I explained it to her, but I would find a way to replace what I took before they noticed.

She had always been so nice to us.

I was thinking of her kindness when I stepped into the kitchen and found her leaning over a sheet of paper on the counter. She was crying. If I had been paying any attention to my surroundings, I would have heard her before I came in.

She looked up at me, and I saw the strangest thing in her eyes. It was the kind of grief my mother often expressed when she snuck out to smoke and sob in the backyard. It was the same desperation I was dealing with – a need to escape, a desire to start driving and never stop. I was caught off guard by it, so I didn't muster the excuse I had come up with.

I had nothing. I stood there like a jackass and stared at her, open-mouthed.

Mrs. Reyes sniffled and wiped her tears away, standing straight. "Oh, Michael. I'm sorry. I was just…" She glanced at the paper, and then stared out the kitchen window, trying to blink her tears away. "What do you need, sweetheart?"

She was my mother's age and smoked the same brand of cigarettes. She was an open, compassionate person, the kind of woman who would stop traffic on the highway to save a kitten, or shelter two kids from their dad for the night without notice, and without asking questions. She was the person my mom should have been, in an alternate reality, and when I was little I spent long hours sitting on her couch imagining that I was her son.

Seeing her cry was a stab in the heart.

But she had caught me in the middle of trying to steal from her fridge, so I had to stifle my immediate urge to run away and reconcile my desire to help. It was a situation I had no faced before, confusing and bizarre.

I wondered what, if anything, I could do for her.

"What's wrong?"

She smiled. Her only fault was her sweetness. I had learned years ago that too many heavy doses of hospitality, even from someone I thought so highly of, made me sick. It was something my mom and I agreed on, and maybe the reason I was born across the street.

"I'm fine. Do you need a place to stay tonight?"

I hesitated. Here I was, coming to steal from her, and she was offering me a bed for the night. "Um, no… I was just… Dad is out of beer, and I…"

Mrs. Reyes pulled three beers from the fridge and set them on the counter, and while she moving, I got a good look at the paper she had been crying over. It was a note written in slick cursive, and the last line stood out. You're dead.

"Who left you that?" I asked.

She snorted, balling the note up and tossing it into the trash. Her hand was trembling. She tried to play it off by rearranging some magnets on the fridge. "It's nothing."

I relented, but only with the intention of returning later to make sure she was alright. I didn't like to see nice people get hurt. It was one of the lessons my mother had imprinted from the beginning of my life. If you didn't put your hand out to everyone who fell on hard times, you were just as bad as the abuser, just as cruel as the oppressor, and just as guilty as the murderer.

Ironically, she did not live by her own advice.

"Thank you for these," I said, grabbing the beers and backing toward the door. I wasn't a big fan of charity, but the prospect of sleeping on her couch, where I would be safe until morning, was too much to pass up. "I can sleep over?"

"Phil won't mind. Bring Nate. If you come in after dark, try not to make a lot of noise."

I walked back with a new purpose. I still had the permission slip in the back of my mind, nagging me to put my father in a chokehold and force him to sign it, but Mrs. Reyes gave me something else to focus on. Solving problems – math problems, chemical equations, dinner plans – was a hobby of mine. Okay, it was my only hobby. Solving problems gave me an outlet for my frustration. There was nothing like mapping out the social hierarchy in your high school to make the rage ebb away. Instead of throwing punches and bullying like the other kids, I was being constructive. Still, my mother was convinced I should join a club or something.

We could call this little curiosity the 'or something.'

I gave my father his beer and watched him saunter back into the living room like a hotshot. Mom was still washing dishes and she hadn't even noticed me come back. I slipped out soundlessly, shutting myself into the garage to do battle with the decrepit Charger my father was 'fixing.'

Hours passed and the sun went down. Nate joined me after his shower, sitting in one of the jagged metal chairs in his superman pajama bottoms. He was, like me, not a big fan of being in the house after dark. Dad had some kind of supernatural connection with the moon. He was always angrier when it was nighttime, as if he thought his voice wouldn't carry in the darkness.

"Does it drive?" Nate asked me quietly. We were leaning on his bedtime, so he was a little out of it. He had his scrawny arms folded over the back of the chair.

I shrugged. "One day, maybe."

"Is Rebecca coming over today?"

Nate was in love with my girlfriend, and he was all kinds of annoying about it.

"No."

"Oh."

Seconds passed in silence, and then,

"Are you gonna join the army?"

I looked up, unable to hide my surprise. I wasn't going to tell him until I was halfway to basic training. I didn't want to deal with the waterworks. Surprisingly, he seemed calm and thoughtful. For once in his life he didn't babble about how selfish I was.

"Maybe," I responded. I wasn't a fan of definitive answers. Nate had a tendency to take everything as a promise. Being ambiguous with him was a requirement.

He let the answer roll off of him, looking back at the street. I had the garage door open. "Did you steal that beer from Mrs. Reyes?"

"She gave it to me."

"Why?"

I stepped back from the engine, wiping my hands on my shirt. I shrugged. "I don't know. I guess she was feeling charitable. Try to start the car."

Nate hopped up and slid into the driver's seat, turning the key aggressively. Nothing happened. He peeked his head out. "Mom says charity-"

"I know what she says." I ran my hands over my hair, forgetting for a moment that they were covered in grease. "It's more like a barter, anyway." I gauged his mood, and then ushered him out of the chair. "Let's go ahead over. I need you to keep them occupied. This should be enough," I motioned to the bruise forming on his arm.

"Why do I always have to be the distraction?"

"Because you're little, so people don't think you're up to anything."

"Should I cry?"

"If you cry, there's an omelet in it for you."

I walked him across the street, taking note of the dark vehicle parked just around the corner. It could have been nothing, but I knew for a fact that none of our neighbors drove expensive cars like that. I left my brother on the doorstep, knocked, and ducked behind the house.

Searching through trashcans is never glamorous, but sometimes you can find gems that make the rotting taco meat on your sleeves worth it. In an uptown neighborhood years ago, Andre and I had found a fully functional game system buried in a dumpster. I've learned to cloak my hands with plastic bags, to make gentle lunges to avoid impaling myself on sharp objects, and to avoid anything related to metal soda cans. It only takes a few soft crackles to alert someone to your activity, and I haven't found a good excuse for rooting around in the garbage.

My first objective was finding the note I had seen on her counter – it was already in my pocket. My second objective was to look for anything else out of the ordinary, like severed animal heads. So far I was arm-deep in normal trash on a chilly night in a quiet suburb, learning little more than how intolerant I was to the scent of rotting tuna fish sandwiches – a staple of Mrs. Reyes' diet.

I crept back into the house in the midst of my brother's scene, retreating to the bathroom with my backpack and changing my shirt. I still sort of smelled like trash, but spraying perfume on myself might be a little over the top. I sat on the edge of the tub to read the note in its entirety, that chill I had experienced earlier returning with a vengeance.

It was hastily written, with a few blobs of ink showing how hard the author was pressing his pen to the paper. He had torn through it in one place. It was addressed not to Mrs. Reyes, but to her husband, Phil, and it mentioned his name half a dozen times. I gathered that Phil had something he wasn't supposed to have, and that the person who had left this note really wanted it back. It had a lot of juicy one-liners about torture and revenge, but the part that really stuck with me was emphasized with a few jagged underlines.

This is the last warning.

I always thought it was eerie when my dad said that to me, so when I imagined Mrs. Reyes finding it on her front step and reading it for herself, I felt more than a little protective. Somebody was gunning for the couple who had saved my ass on many occasions. Their kindness toward me was not an obligation, but something they did because it was right, and they were good. It would be nice to repay them before I split town for good.

I went back into the living room, smiling as I took in the scene. Nate was sitting beside Mrs. Reyes on the couch, eating from a plate of vanilla wafers and sipping on a full glass of milk. His face was red from his fake tears. He seemed very pleased with himself.

"Michael," Mrs. Reyes said, inviting me over with a wave of her hand. "Come sit down. You boys need to get some sleep. You have school in the morning."

I stayed where I was. Getting coddled was not my thing. "I should go tell my mom where we are."

"I called her earlier and told her. She thought it was a good idea."

"Of course she did," I responded, grateful my mom was so agreeable, but a little peeved she had ruined my excuse to leave the house. I scratched the back of my head, glancing around for a new story. "I have to… go get my notebook, to finish up my homework."

"You had homework over the weekend?"

"It's more like a project. Like a semester thing. A semester… project."

She narrowed her eyes a bit, obviously amused by my blatant lie. "You're a bad liar. But go on, do what you have to. I can't keep you here."

I nodded, smiling, and went back through the front door. Phil was on the porch with a Miller in his hand. I cringed when he cleared his throat. He shook the bottle, pursing his lips at it. "I swear when I left for work this morning I had at least three more of these."

"I'll get you more," I said, lingering at the top of the steps. "I just had to-"

"Save it. Just replace the ones you took."

Phil was not my biggest fan, but he was still a nice person. He was gruffer than his wife, a big, balding man who favored white tank tops despite the way they framed his gut. He reminded me a lot of a mobster with his thick northern accent. He had a soft spot for Nate, though, and it made me respect him. I figured he didn't like having a teenage boy around the house since his nieces stopped by so frequently. He thought I wanted to ravage them, and on a few occasions, I had.

"Yes, sir," I responded shortly.

I went back to my house, to the garage, and took a few firecrackers from the box I kept under the workbench. I milled around the neighborhood for a while, keeping watch on the area, looking for anything that fell outside of the normal patterns. Phil went inside early, so I took up his spot on the porch and listened for would-be assassins sneaking around in the bushes. The longer I waited, the more I thought the threat they had received would be carried out tonight.

I thought about calling the cops, but then I remembered that they weren't big fans of me, either. I had been arrested by almost everyone in the area, and I had a habit of overreacting when someone put their hands on me, even if that someone was just doing his job. I had whacked one of them in the nose when I was twelve and earned a reputation as a delinquent.

So I was on my own with four firecrackers and an old, cracked lighter. It would have been easier to just go to sleep, to let myself believe that nothing was wrong, or that nothing would happen that night, but I couldn't make myself go in. It wouldn't hurt anything to sit out here if I was wrong.

If I was right, the people inside could die.

It was almost four in the morning when I heard something down the road. It was that expensive car I had seen earlier. Someone started the engine and it rolled back into the shadows. I heard the door open, but I didn't hear it close.

Red flag.

It took me ten seconds to get inside, make my case to the desk jockey who picked up my call, and arm myself with a knife from the kitchen. I hid behind the porch swing, crouching to stay out of sight. It was dark out, so anyone approaching from the glow of the street lights would not see me hiding here. A few sets of boots were coming toward the house, and one slipped into the backyard.

Someone cocked a gun.

Several things became evident to me in that moment. Phil had not borrowed a leaf blower and forgotten to give it back. It wasn't some teenager laving aggressive notes for the hell of it. Whatever he had in that house had attracted real danger. From the looks of it, he had gotten himself involved in nasty business. People who brought guns to residential neighborhoods in the middle of the night were not there to beat some sense into him.

They were there to kill him.

I really should have called the police sooner.

My heart started racing and I clutched the knife so hard the handle left an impression in my palm. It took me six tries to light the fuse on one of the firecrackers. I slung it into the bushes in the next house over. When it went off, the popping noise caused all the shadowy figures to stop in their tracks. I lit another and sent it flying onto the neighbor's front porch. It landed in the window frame and jumped up onto the glass, amplifying the sound.

Someone whistled in the yard. One of the figures was standing there, half-crouched with a gun in his hand. His head was cocked toward the other house, waiting.

I threw the last firecracker at the door the moment he relaxed.

For almost a full minute I watched the shadowy figure debate his options. If he thought the neighbors were aware of his presence, he had to imagine the cops getting a phone call. He had to be wondering if his little midnight excursion was going to land him in jail. He had to be wondering if it was worth the risk, even if the risk was miniscule.

Finally, he whistled again and waved his hand, calling his friends off. I sunk further into my hiding place as one passed right by the porch railing behind me. They congregated in the front.

But they weren't leaving.

They whispered something in another language – probably Spanish – and then the boots hit the front steps. I was wrong. He wasn't waving them off. He was bringing them together.

It was too late to run for it.

A steely hand clamped down on my arm and dragged me out into the open. Four flashlights clicked on and zeroed in on my face. I put my hand up to block the light, unable to see past it. Someone kicked me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me, and two sets of hands nearly dislocated my shoulders forcing my arms behind my back, and wrenching the knife away. They put a cable tie around my hands.

Before I could scream out, a gag filled my mouth.

"I would hush, if I were you."

I knew that voice.

Pete was a local gangster and a former classmate of mine. He had forgone graduation to become a drug runner for a powerful Miami gang. I could never pronounce the Spanish name, but I knew it meant 'death squad.' He was standing in front of me with a silver gun pointed at my head.

He was smiling at me.

"Last time I saw you, you broke my arm." He stepped closer, pressing the tip of the gun to my forehead. It was cold. The metal bore into my skull. Pete locked his caveman jaw and grunted, "What are you doing here?"

I tried to talk through my gag.

Pete grabbed my hair, holding me up so I had to scramble to my knees to keep him from ripping my scalp off. He forced my head back at a harsh angle. "If I take this gag out, you're not gonna scream." He handed his gun off to another guy and pulled out a jagged knife. He put it to my ear. "I think you want both your ears, right, Mikey?"

I nodded.

He pulled the gag down so it hung like a scarf around my neck.

I gasped for air. "First tell me why you're here."

His grip on my hair tightened. He scowled at me – it was the same scowl he had given me every day in algebra, like his hatred for me ran deeper than his hatred for the rest of the world. He had the same amount of patience for me that my dad did.

"I have the knife, and the team, Mikey. I'm asking the questions." He nodded to one of the other men and a steel-toed boot dug into my ribs. It hit the same spot Dad hit the night before. I tried to double over, but Pete held me up. He watched the pain sear into my expression. "Why are you here, Westen?"

I tried to keep breathing normally to slow my heartrate. It was impossible to think when the pain in my abdomen kept producing black dots. I could feel the broken ribs wiggling around inside, probing at my flesh, threatening to tear me apart. I was used to getting kicked, but this guy must have weighed three hundred pounds.

"I was stealing from the shed. Heard you coming."

Pete kept his voice low, but it was obvious that my presence was making him very angry. I could see the fire of violence in his eyes. "I think you're lying. What are you doing, helping Phil hide the money? Everybody needs a rat to hide the acorns."

"Squirrel."

"What?"

"I think you meant squirrel."

Pete released me, and within seconds of my slumping over, the boot came into my side again. It knocked me into the swing, sending it skirting backward. Unfortunately it made a soft sound that could have been attributed to a stray cat. I had no breath to cry out with. I pulled myself into a ball and tried to get the pain to ease up.

"I think you have a short life planned if you don't give me that money," Pete said, reclaiming his gun and pointing it at me. His hand shook slightly – I wasn't sure if it was because he had never shot anyone, or because he was so angry that the adrenaline was making him tremble.

He looked ready to shoot me. I recognized the determination. I had seen it in my mother when she was ready to knock the crap out of Dad with a frying pan. It was a primal kind of preparation. It was the knowledge that you could never go back once the action was complete. It was the motivation to do it and face the consequences.

I tried to say something, but the massive guy who'd kicked me decided to start using his hands. He struck me in the jaw, and then punched the side of my face. The skin broke apart and blood dripped down to my lips.

"Wait, wait," I pleaded, shrinking away from another blow by the big guy. I spoke as quickly as I could, spitting out blood when it crowded my mouth. "I called the cops five minutes ago. Response time is seven minutes in this neighborhood. I would start running."

Pete wavered. I was staring at the tip of the gun, and it shimmered in his hand. "You're lying."

"You could wait and see. I'm sure they'd love to talk to you."

I was only half-bluffing, but the terror of the situation was threatening to overwhelm me. Pete only had to twitch his finger to end my life, or to maim me if his aim was off. I had no idea how much time had passed since I had made that phone call – three minutes or five? I was sure Pete would revel in killing me. I was sure he would take that risk, if he could still get away with it.

But sirens were going off in the distance. It was music to my ears for the first time in my life. Pete panicked and rabbited across the front yard, streaking toward the end of the road, where his drug-funded car was parked. He turned halfway there, looking frustrated.

He said nothing, but I filled it in with my own dialogue. You're a dead man, Michael Westen.

Every part of my body was throbbing, but I managed to twist myself around so I could kick the front door a few times. I couldn't get my hands out of the cable tie and I didn't want the cops to find me like this – all wrapped up and bloody on the porch of a house that wasn't mine.

Some lights popped on inside and the door flew open. Mrs. Reyes stood there in her nightgown, looking horrified as she took in my appearance, and the blue lights dazzling the other end of the street. She didn't seem to know what to think, but she fell down to my side and started fiddling with the restraints. "Michael, what on Earth happened? Who did this to you?"

"Get some scissors," I gasped, nodding toward the house. "Scissors." She ran for the kitchen and I rolled onto my knees, wobbling into the house. I used the doorframe to get to my feet, but I felt dizzy. Blood dripped to the floor, but I wasn't sure where it was coming from until it dotted my eyelashes. I had a nasty gash on my forehead.

I kicked the door shut behind me, almost falling as the pain took me off balance. I careened into the couch and leaned against the back of it, trying to keep the room from spinning.

Phil was coming down the hall, closing a plaid housecoat. Nate woke suddenly and rolled off the couch, doing battle with a fleece blanket until he could crawl to freedom. He staggered toward me, half-asleep and terrified. His first instinct was to find me when he was afraid.

"Is it Dad?" the kid asked.

I shook my head, pushing off the couch and stumbling into the kitchen. When I got to the sink, I spit blood into the drain. "No, not dad." I turned so Mrs. Reyes could cut the cable ties, and when I had my hands again, I reached up to assess the damage to my face. It wasn't an awful cut, but it was bleeding a lot. I probably looked horrifying.

I pulled the gag off my neck and threw it into the trashcan.

"It was some guys," I went on, looking at Mrs. Reyes, but keeping her husband in my peripheral vision. I watched him stiffen up at those words. "They came out of nowhere and jumped me."

Mrs. Reyes put her hands on my face, dabbing a paper towel on the cut. "What guys?"

"Pete. He used to go to my school. He dropped out. I tried to keep them away. I called the police." I looked over at Phil, who had every reason to look as pale as he did. "Pete said you took money from him. How much did you take? Where is it?"

"I didn't take anything," Phil responded in a stutter.

"You look sick," Nate said, trying to drag me to the couch.

I pulled away from him and went to the back door, holding up my hand to Mrs. Reyes, who tried to follow me with that paper towel. "I can't stay. I can't go to the hospital."

"Sweetheart, you're hurt," Mrs. Reyes objected.

"You're bleeding," Nate whined.

"I can't stay for the cops. Go out and talk to them. Don't mention me."

"Michael, you have to tell them-"

"Make something up," I cut Mrs. Reyes off. I already had the back door open. I could hear the cops on the front porch. "I can't go to the hospital. I'm fine. Just get them to leave."

"But-"

"Can you please just trust me?"

She stared at me. Nate stared at me. Phil stared at the ground. Finally he pulled Nate into the living room and beckoned to his wife. "Let the boy go. We owe him that. Let me do the talking." He looked at me, tilting his head. "Hide in the shed. If they come in, climb into the rafters."

Phil had the same idea that I did. If he told the police why Pete was here, he would get himself arrested. If he even mentioned Pete, the police would look into their connection, and at this point I was pretty sure Phil had done something illegal. If anything, he made that clear to me by helping me hide. Phil didn't want to tell the police the truth – so what could he be hiding?

I went into the shed and climbed up into the rafters, hiding behind Christmas decorations. I could hear the soft sound of Phil and the police talking outside. He was explaining that some hooligans had come by trying to vandalize the house and that Nate had called the police because he was scared. He was selling it like he had been lying his entire life.

I sat back a little further when the police requested to take a look around, just to make sure the issue was resolved. I hit something hard with one hand and tried to identify it by touch.

It was cold, metal, and shaped like a rifle.

I would've thought nothing of it – my dad kept a shotgun in the closet – but as I felt around behind those boxes of lights and Styrofoam snowmen, I counted twenty different types of guns, some of them set in cases, some of them surrounded by boxes of bullets that rattled like maracas.

Phil had not stolen money from the gang – he had ripped them off.

And now I was his accomplice.