Chapter 1. Flee. I like women like my cars: expensive and dangerous. But the brunette hammering on the inside of the trunk lid of my 2015 Mustang GT was in a different class on both counts. Seemed like she was trying to outgun the pistons that raged a few feet ahead of me as I swerved around a beaten-up Nissan and cut back in front, tires squealing, wipers on overdrive. Collateral is such an ugly term, and I felt terrible...

Chapter 5. Reframe. Until now, I’d never needed to watch my own house for signs of someone trying to kill me. How things change in the space of a few hours. I stared hard through the windshield, eyes watering between blinks, keeping low in the luxurious Recaros. My normally blood red Mustang glowed muddy orange beneath the sodium-vapor hue of a streetlamp. A few hundred feet ahead of me, the suburban box I soon wouldn’t b...

Chapter 9. Wheels. I’m as choosy about wheels as women these days. Wasn’t always that way. While I can drive pretty much anything with an engine, I’ve found I only truly enjoy that thunder beneath the hood. The rush when pedal meets floor, beating through every bone in my body. Something only the raw horsepower of a V8 delivers. And if it’s a dependable American hunk with a short shift ratio and high-quality tires, all th...