A Reagan Keeter Box Set: Three page-turning thrillers that will leave you wondering who you can trus Reagan Keeter (most difficult books to read TXT) 📖

birth. (He was five-ten and of average weight. His oval face was neither particularly handsome nor ugly. His nose was straight and without defect. His eyes were a murky blue bordering on brown.)

But most of it was by design. He kept his blond hair short, had no piercings or tattoos, even though he wanted them, and shopped at stores like The Gap, buying their most nondescript items.

Jacob liked being forgettable.

People who were forgettable were hard to find. Even if anybody did remember what he looked like, a description to the police would be so generic as to be useless.

The tuxedo vest and bowtie he wore when dealing cards at Ava’s were too distinct to meet his standards. Before heading home, he changed into an olive sweater, a wool coat with no distinguishing characteristics, and a pair of blue jeans. He packed his work clothes into a backpack, then took a bus north and made his way down West Bourbon, hands in his pockets and dodging pedestrians.

This was a popular area with college students and young professionals. Both sides of the street were lined with greasy restaurants, cheap bars, and hip boutiques like Wag-A-Lot and Berg’s Apothecary.

Jacob had started his career in crime as a pickpocket. It was something he still did occasionally, mostly as a way of staying sharp. Over time, he’d worked his way up through a series of increasingly complex cons and from there into the world of cybercrime. These days, he did a little of both.

He watched how the men and women around him moved, whether they staggered along in a zigzag or walked steadily forward. He noticed what they were wearing, if their coats were open or closed, if their hands were in their pockets, if the women wore their purses across their chests or over their shoulders.

Jacob didn’t plan on stealing from anyone tonight. He was working something big, something involving Liam, and didn’t see any good reason to take the risk. Still, he couldn’t help looking for opportunities. It had become second nature.

He stepped to the right to avoid a couple holding hands, to the left to avoid a pack of college kids. Then Jacob saw a man exit a bar at the corner of Belmont and West Bourbon. He was built like a boxer and “dressed for show,” as Jacob’s mom used to say. His tailored suit was probably Armani, his patent-leather shoes most likely Corthay.

Jacob recognized him immediately. This man had been one of the first marks he and his partner had targeted. They’d worked a scam on him called The Ring. He’d caught on to it, though, and instead of simply taking off like so many others would, he’d beaten Jacob until he was just this side of unconscious and punched Jacob’s partner hard, leaning into the swing and connecting with her right eye before pushing her to the ground. That had pissed Jacob off, but there wasn’t much he could do about it at the time.

The man turned in Jacob’s direction. The distance between them began evaporating quickly. Jacob’s fingers flexed the way they did sometimes when he was getting ready to slip his hand into a stranger’s pocket. He thought of himself as a man in control. He reminded himself that this chance encounter changed nothing. This probably wasn’t the first time he’d passed a mark on the street. The smart thing to do was leave him alone. Still, his fingers flexed.

Jacob imagined waving the wallet in his partner’s face and saying, “Look what I got,” certain she would take as much joy from the theft as he would. He imagined this man going home, finding his wallet gone, and having nobody to punch but himself.

Jacob looked to his right, pretending to be distracted. He had to do it, he decided. It would be justice—or, at least, justice of a sort. He stepped into the stranger’s path and they collided. “Oh, Christ, man. I’m sorry,” Jacob said, putting one hand on the man’s chest in a way that looked like he was trying to stabilize himself while at the same time reaching around to the man’s back pocket.

The man pushed him away. “Idiot. Watch where you’re going.”

“Sorry,” Jacob said again. He had his head down to make sure the man couldn’t get a good look at him. His hands were now in the pockets of his wool coat.

Grumbling, the man went on his way. Jacob watched him as he charged into the distance, putting five feet between them, then ten. He felt a rush of adrenaline as he fingered the wallet. He wondered what he’d find inside. Cash, hopefully. Credit cards, for sure. Probably a license and an insurance card. But sometimes there were other things too. Once he’d found a punch-out card for Al’s Beef that got him a free sandwich and another time he found a twenty-dollar gift card for Starbucks. He’d also found bus passes, dry cleaning tickets, and family photos.

Jacob thought of those photos as little treasures, glimpses into a life that could have been his if he’d gone a different way. He’d keep them for a while, carrying them around in the pocket of his jeans until they were worn out and cracked, pulling them out every so often to wonder what might have been and, perhaps one day, what might be.

The man was twenty feet away when he stopped, felt for his wallet, and spun around. “You little shit!” His square face was screwed up tight and his hands were curled into fists. He pointed at Jacob. “You think you can steal from me?”

Everyone within earshot turned to look. Upon seeing the man, some checked the traffic and scurried across the street.

Jacob broke into a sprint and the man came after him, moving just as fast. Jacob was slight and agile. He gracefully dodged pedestrians like a running back headed for the end zone. The mark, who might be able to stare down a bear if he had to, simply shouldered people out