I had been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night by my cousin, because he needed to talk. There are few people in this world who could even find me in the middle of the night, let alone drag me out of bed. Carlos could, but never did, unless it was for a very good reason. Now, here I was, sprawled on a leather sofa in the dark with a steaming cup of coffee in my hand. I watched as Carlos lit a blazing fire in the round hearth in the middle of the sitting room, as if he were my host rather than an intruder breaking and entering.

"Nice work, Ranger," I said, emphasizing Carlos' moniker for effect. Ranger is one of the best covert operatives around if you want someone dead. I'm best at rubbing elbows with the living, which is why I prefer using a name rather than a marketing label on my calling cards. That's not to say that I'm less than lethal. But I have to admit, it gives me a dark, creeping chill when Ranger sneaks up on me mid-mission when I should be alone and off the grid. If Ranger can find me, I have to face the fact that there are others like him, possibly many others, who can end me in an instant. There is no safe place to run and hide. That's an unsettling and unpleasant thought. So, I reason, why not hide in the open and enjoy all life has to offer? That's the thought that sustains me.

"Not even going to ask?" I mumbled.

"I don't care what you're doing here," he said dismissively. "We need to talk."

His attitude was casual, as if letting himself into a fifty-third floor luxury suite inside a Defense Department contractor's covert high-rise was as easy as ringing the doorbell. I didn't live there. I was just visiting. In fact, if the company were to become aware of our presence in the building, we'd both be dead.

"Just keeping my skills sharp," I explained. "And the accommodations are top notch," I said.

Leaning back, I stared up at the few stars visible through the soaring glass ceiling of this three-story penthouse, and then turned my head to gaze out across the brightly lit New York skyline. We were on top of the world.

"Good," he answered without enthusiasm.

I took a sip of the coffee. It was gourmet and expensive, and I assumed it had been brewed in the kitchen, which was even more unsettling. Ranger had been here long enough to make coffee. Great.

"What kind of coffee is this?" I asked, taking another sip.

"Kopi Luwak."

I spit the coffee back into the cup and sat bolt upright. I'm not drinking anything that has passed through the digestive system of a caged civet. I don't care how rare and expensive it is.

Ranger almost smiled. "St. Helena," he said, taking a sip.

"Bastard," I growled. I should have known.

He took the seat opposite me. Something was preying on his mind. Ranger was good at compartmentalizing and could usually sort out his own mental issues. True to form, he sat silently sipping coffee without speaking while my mind wandered.

I had no idea what Ranger was about to confess, but I suspected he was unable to get someone to do something he wanted using coercion. Or else, he'd done something awful and was coming to me for absolution or advice.

To pass the time, I reflected on the words of Marcus Aurelius in his famous Meditations. As a veteran warrior and ruler, he seemed well qualified as a source of wisdom. He listed nine rules. One, alpha dogs rule. Of course, I'm paraphrasing. Marcus Aurelius said it better, but I find it's best not to wax poetic in the company of soldiers and ex-cons. Two, know your enemy. Three, pity the evil-doer, because he is ignorant. Not sure this rule always applies. Sometimes the enemy is decidedly evil. But it's something to consider. Four, there but by the grace of God go I. Five, be careful how you judge. Things are not always as they seem. Six, life is short, and death is sure. Consider your legacy carefully. Seven, it is not the acts of others that disturb us as much as our own feelings about those actions, and it is necessary to divorce the two when meting out justice. Eight, consider how much more pain, anger, and violence may result from a poor reaction to an evil deed. In other words, keep a cool head and think dispassionately before acting. Much easier said than done. Yet, much easier than cleaning up the mess if you don't. And, to sum it all up, number nine, "a good disposition is invincible, if it be genuine."

Laugh if you will. I always enjoy a good laugh. My quick wit and reassuring smile have won the confidence of the hardest of business men, not to mention their ladies. Fortunately for me, very few of those dark souls have caused me personal injury as a result. In fact, it's unusual for my mark to put two and two together. People like me, and they don't want to admit to themselves they were being manipulated. They don't want to believe it, so they find reasons not to see the truth. And it's easy for them to believe I was genuine, because I genuinely enjoy people. The time I spend with my marks is never wasted time. I like to think we both get something we want.

My name is Lester Santos. I'm one-fourth black, a fourth Irish, and half Cuban. I may be a mixed breed mutt, but I got the best features of each of my parents. At six-foot-two, I'm quick on my feet and gifted with muscular perfection. I have Caucasian features, full lips, permanently tanned skin, sultry green eyes lined with thick dark lashes, and silky dark-brown hair. With practice in front of a mirror, I taught myself how to express emotion in many different languages. I can become the embodiment of Latin heat, fiery Irish insolence, or menacing street thug. I can almost pull off being black if I spend a week in a tanning bed and wear colored contacts, but I can pull off "not-white" anytime. For me to pass as Caucasian away from the beach is usually more trouble than I'm willing to commit to, but it can be done. I did some of my best work in Quebec. I can control my accent in English, Spanish, French, and Portuguese to indicate my origin is anywhere from the tip of South America to Canada to Spain. But it's my smile that really wows the ladies. I've been many things. Football player. Homecoming King. Cabana boy. College Student. Bartender. Grunt. Special Forces Intelligence Sergeant. Bounty hunter. Lazy slacker. Womanizer. As a natural born con-man, I've pretended to be everything from doctor to lawyer to Indian Chief. There are many in the intelligence community who argue that F3EAD is an obsolete concept. I have always seen "Find, Fix, Finish, Exploit, Analyze, and Disseminate" to be nothing more than a re-enactment of the age-old art of grifting. And there's nothing more satisfying that grifting the grifter, conning the con, and spying on other spies. Shakespeare himself would have been proud to record some of my finer exploits. But alas, the world will never know, because I like my skin in the shape it's in.

My cousin, Ranger, as in once-was-an-Army-Ranger, is more than capable of looking after himself. Being a couple years older, he has always considered himself the Alpha-alpha male between the two of us. In deference to the Marcus Aurelius' rules above, I find it wise to let him continue in that role. It means he takes responsibility off my shoulders in many situations, expects less of me than of himself, and that he cuts me more slack than he probably should. This works to my benefit, so why should I insult his pride?

For example, to the unwitting eye, I work for my cousin at his private security company, Rangeman, due to Ranger's generous act of nepotism towards a wayward slacker. Do I actually work for Ranger? No. I'm a partner. Ranger, Tank, Bobby and I each own a quarter share. We have a business manager, an accountant, an insurance man, and an attorney to take care of the most difficult and tiresome paperwork. Ranger takes a personal interest in discipline, scheduling, and payroll. Tank is his second in command, then Bobby, and lastly, me. Which leaves me in a superior position. After all, isn't it the company president who puts in the most time on the golf course, not the CEO?

I'm too content with my lot to argue over semantics. I've earned a satisfactory amount of respect from my peers over the years. No one messes with me. And I'm free as a bird to follow more enjoyable pursuits in my down-time. Relaxed and laid back. That's me.

Ranger, on the other hand, is over-worked by choice. And since Stephanie Plum landed on the scene, over-stimulated as well. That girl's trouble with a capital T, and everyone knows it, including the Trenton Times. It's literally front page news. So, it's no surprise to me that Ranger's lying on my couch asking for advice right now.

"Abruzzi?" I asked, voicing my best guess.

"Yeah," he groaned. "He's threatened to rip her heart out. Twice."

"And not metaphorically, I suppose."

"No. And now he's acting on the threat. He kidnapped Stephanie and her sister earlier today. He intended to torture her for information first. He burned her arm before they escaped. He'll kill her if he catches her again."

"I'm surprised it's taken a man like Abruzzi this long. What's it been? A week?"

"He's been distracted."

I knew this because I was the one who informed Ranger that Abruzzi, a local loan shark and general nut job, had lost one of his prized military medals, the one that used to belong to Napoleon.

"Fill me in on the rest."

Ranger ran it down. Stephanie found Abruzzi's minion, Steven Soder, cut in half, sitting on her living room sofa. Abruzzi probably suspected Soder of taking the medal, but got nothing out of him. Now, Soder's little girl, Annie, was Abruzzi's prime suspect. Ranger and Stephanie found drawings the girl left behind at the apartment depicting a grisly shooting. Ranger thought Annie witnessed Soder's murder, and her mom took off with her. They were moving around, hiding. Abruzzi knew Stephanie was trying to locate them, and since she'd returned to Trenton and appeared to have stopped searching, he assumed Stephanie knew where they were. And to top it off, Stephanie's mother actually committed vehicular homicide rescuing Stephanie from an earlier kidnapping attempt. Leo Klug, Abruzzi's main enforcer, was on ice with the ME.

Ranger was afraid of losing Stephanie, and he was letting it show. This was something I treasured. Not his fear. His trust. It was nearly impossible to earn Ranger's confidence. But I'd always had it. We were family. Blood. Anything that scared Ranger scared me. Anything that hurt Ranger hurt me. I wasn't in love with Stephanie, and the thought of her demise didn't exactly gnaw at my insides, but the thought of what it would do to Ranger did. If I didn't give my best effort to help him now, he'd never forget it.

I took a deep breath, and Ranger did the same. We were quiet for a few minutes, the familiar calm of planning a mission washing over us.

"Abruzzi's got to go," I said, simply.

Ranger nodded, without emotion.

"And you can't be the one to do it," I told him.

"Morelli will assume."

"Morelli will be wrong."

"I should do it," he said, as if we were batting a tennis ball back and forth between us.

"You can't. You have motive and opportunity."

"You can't leave any trace," he reminded me.

"I won't need to," I assured him.

"You just going to talk him into it?" he asked, not surprised.

"Why not? What's he got to live for?"

"Nothing. Not anymore." Ranger sat up slowly.

I stood, offering him my hand. Our fists hooked by the thumbs as I hauled him up in a very manly gesture. His tight squeeze was conveying emotion, and we held there for a long moment. Then, before it became embarrassing, we bumped fists a few times like best friends and Ranger left without another word.

So, once again, I was the one Ranger counted on when the chips were down. Didn't this make me the Alpha-alpha in this instance? I certainly thought so. I was the one who for years had whispered into Ranger's ear, gave unconscious direction to both the man and the monster, and was wise enough not to point it out, no matter how heated the exchange. That took cool, calm, and restraint. Even more restraint than Ranger could muster.

In this area, I ruled.