BOOK TWO: HUNTING HIS JEWEL

It was chilly for September. Even for Chicago.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, bracing himself against the crisp wind that blew in off the lake. A couple of blocks away, someone was leaning on their car horn. The street he was on was quiet, though. Asleep. The only sounds were the rustle of dead leaves blowing across the sidewalk and the tread of his boots against the cement.

He was breathing too fast. If he wanted to ...