Death's Advocate

Chapter 1

DREW DIXON DIDN’T KNOW IT when he woke up that morning, but today is his death day.

As stubborn as Dixon is, he quickly figures out the truth, thanks to the assassin who’s been tailing him for the past half an hour. Two minutes ago, the assassin began shooting at him. Which means for the past two minutes, Dixon has had to face his own mortality. And he’s not liking it one bit.

Blasted advocate, he mutters. Always so secretive, so—

A bullet pings against his side-view mirror.

He twists the steering wheel with more force than necessary, his curses trapped inside his constricted throat. The Porsche skids sideways into the four-way intersection. For a second, Dixon’s convinced it’s about to smash into a pole. Instead, it takes the sharp corner, tires squealing through the quiet, leafy, upmarket suburb.

Can’t tell you your death date, Mr. Dixon, Dixon wheezes in a bad imitation of his stick-to-the-rules lawyer, then sneers as he shouts at the empty road, Oh, no, we can’t do that. Wouldn’t want to break any cosmic laws.

He shifts gears, pushing the accelerator to the floor. "Instead, we’ll let it be a surprise. Because that’s so much better."

He wipes at the sweat dribbling into his eyes, then risks a glance into the rearview mirror. A nondescript sedan glides around the corner, barely slowing down as it speeds after him. The car doesn’t fit in with the expensive SUVs and sports cars typical of the neighborhood. And it certainly doesn’t compare to the racing machine Dixon’s driving.

Then how is that piece of junk keeping up?

A woman leans out of the sedan’s front passenger window, gun in hand.

This better work, Dixon says. After that fee? It better—

The side mirror explodes.

Now he’s really sweating. Dampness seeps through his jacket armpits.

What if it doesn’t work?

For the first time, Dixon questions everything about his life that led to this moment. But he especially questions the promises made to him by Life & Death Legal Services, another den of blood sucking lawyers.

Snarling, he digs his bandaged hand into a pocket, fishing for his phone. He glances at the rearview mirror and forgets about his phone for a second. The sedan is gaining on him.

Dixon shifts gears again, ignoring the engine’s high-pitched whine.

How will I die? Dixon had asked when he’d signed the contract. Heart attack? Cancer? He’d paused and grinned. Hitman?

They don’t give us those details, was his lawyer’s unconcerned response. But statistically, you’re more likely to die by using your phone while driving than by an assassin’s hand.

Guess what, sucker? Dixon thinks. I won that bet.

For once in his life, winning doesn’t make him feel better. He would’ve preferred a painless death. Like dying in his sleep. For the hefty fee he’s paying the lawyer, he deserves the right to choose.

His fingers finally wrap around his phone, and he grips it tightly while steering with one hand. Hey, Siri, call Jayden.

Okay. Calling Jayden, the pleasant female voice informs him.

Pick up, pick up, Dixon mutters.

I’m sorry. Could you please repeat the request? Siri asks.

Not you, he yells. Pick up, blast it!

Swearing is unnecessary.

Dixon clenches his teeth, wishing Siri was a real person, because he’d let her know what’s necessary and what isn’t.

His cocky, know-it-all lawyer answers. This is Jayden—

It’s happenin’, Dixon says. You hear me? I—

"Wright of Life & Death Legal Services, the recording continues. Leave a message, and I’ll call you when I can."

The second he hears a beep, Dixon screams, Answer your phone. It’s happenin’. I’m gonna die right now. Hear me? Call me back now. Blast you to hell!

He shoves the phone in the hands-free set glued to his dashboard and looks in his rearview mirror as the woman assassin aims. Even though it’s definitely not the time for such thoughts, he wonders if she’s young and pretty. A female assassin sounds sexy.

Too bad she’s aiming a gun at his head.

Ah— he begins.

The back window blows up. A cascade of glass sprays against his seat. He slides lower, swerving back and forth across the middle line. A moving target is harder to hit, or at least that’s the theory.

The problem with theories is that eventually, they have to meet reality. Another shot cracks through the air just as he veers around a corner. She misses, and he grins. Maybe today isn’t his time to die. Maybe—

A second bang, this time a tire exploding. The Porsche skids out of control and doesn’t just crash into a streetlight. It wraps around it.

The windshield crumples, and a circle of blood appears on the broken glass.

Dixon’s last coherent thought before he dies is, That blasted lawyer better fix this.

Chapter 2

JAYDEN’S DROWNING.

Not in a metaphorical sense, either. He’s actually literally drowning to death.

And Death — that cold, calculating creature — smiles as she watches him die.

The surface of the lake is almost within reach. If he turns around and stretches his hand far enough, his fingertips might just graze it, possibly even create a small ripple.

He already knows it’s futile, because he’s already dead. Or so close that it doesn’t matter.

But even if he could summon the strength to battle the weight of water above him, no one’s going to see his feeble efforts. Just like no one can hear his silent scream as he sinks deeper into the depths.

Rays of sunlight spear the surface from behind him, but they can’t brighten the darkness below, or the darkness fluttering across his vision.

He sinks deeper, away from the surface, away from light, away from air and life until the glow of daylight fades into shadow.

In the darkness, a glimmer of light sparkles from the darkness of the abyss that will soon claim him. The glimmer grows brighter and larger until it materializes into a feminine form.

Floating upward and toward him is Death herself. Serene, graceful. But still deadly.

He somehow recognizes her, even though he’s never seen her before. He understands what her presence means in the depths of his seven-year-old heart, the heart that is slowly losing the battle to keep him alive.

She’s like an angel, he marvels. The treacherous thought sneaks through his fear, almost vanquishing it.

Her lips curl into a gentle smile. But he intuitively knows what lies behind it. His death.

She’s here to kill me, he understands.

She’s going to take him away from his life before it’s really even begun. Although he’s too young for any meaningful regrets, he still wishes he had more time.

What will happen to Mom if I die?

As if she hears his fear, Death sighs. Does she actually regret what she’s about to do? Isn’t she just doing her job?

She lifts her arms toward him and whispers without moving her mouth, You have nothing to fear, Jayden.

He glances past her at the looming nothingness below. Is that where you’re taking me?

Death is floating in front of him now, or immediately below me. Gravity doesn’t work here, so neither does his sense of direction. She’s close, too close. He tries to flap his arms, kick his legs, and put distance between them. But nothing works. Even his thoughts are slowing down, getting heavy, tugging at him to give up, give in, let go.

Be at peace, she continues to whisper into his mind. Take my hand. Her fingertips brush against his cheek.

A muted scream echoes through the water.

Mom.

He knows he shouldn’t open his mouth, that he should hold his breath as long as possible. He still yells, No!

Bubbles explode around his face and drift upward, but he doesn’t think they’ll ever reach the surface.

Jayden Wright, Death murmurs, as if disappointed by his desire to live, to return to his mom and the world of sunlight and air.

His name ripples through the water in distorted waves. Jayden Wright… Jayden… Wright…

Her arms drift upward and are about to encircle him when something else grabs his hair and—

Chapter 3

MR. WRIGHT, SIR?

I snap my head forward and rub the blurriness out of my eyes. The first thing I see is the framed photo on my desk, the only remotely personal item visible in the room. But it’s not there for personal reasons. Instead, I’d strategically positioned it to highlight one of my more famous success stories.

My breath escapes me in a shaky gasp, not loud enough for the young woman on the other side of my desk to notice.

But I notice.

I take a moment to clear my mind of visions — memories, really — of Death, and of my own near death experience. I distract myself by admiring the gold cufflinks nestled against the silk shirt peaking out from beneath the suit jacket’s expensive wool material.

Yes, I’m that kind of lawyer, the one who flaunts his success by buying only the best. It’s not for my ego, though. My wardrobe, the office decor, everything about my appearance and business? I carefully curated all of it with my ideal client in mind. You need a one hundred percent success rate to work in my profession. Anything less, and you won’t get the clients.

Or you’re already dead.

So I dress