STAR ACADEMY

CHAPTER ONE

Carter walked Manhattan for hours. His phone was dying, his feet hurt and the October cold had seeped through his jacket into his bones. But going back to his apartment meant facing the reality of his overdue rent and a sad, lonely life.

Stealing wouldn't be the right thing to do. He knew that. But righteousness did not pay bills or put food in his stomach. His last meal had been a bodega sandwich at lunch, and his stomach was starting to remind him of that fact with increasing urgency.

He found himself in Midtown around ten at night. The streets were still busy with theatergoers and tourists and people whose lives were not falling apart. Carter watched them pass, these people with their nice clothes and easy laughter, and felt like he was observing a different species. He was about to head to the subway when his phone vibrated again. Another text from Elena. This time it was not words. Just a photo.

Eli, asleep in bed, clutching the superhero drawing he had made. Even in sleep, the kid looked happy.

Carter stared at the photo until his phone screen went dark. Then he made a decision.

The diner was three blocks away, a 24-hour place with cracked vinyl booths and coffee that tasted like burnt rubber. Carter ordered the cheapest thing on the menu, scrambled eggs and toast, and nursed it for an hour while he thought.

Some years ago, he had made Elena a promise. No more cons. No more schemes. No more living in the gray areas of the law. He would go straight, get a legitimate job, be someone Eli could admire. And he had kept that promise. Through four firings and a dozen rejections and the slow erosion of his savings, he had stayed clean.

But clean was not working. Clean got him fired by men like Dante who cared more about nepotism than competence. Clean left him broke and desperate while people who cheated and lied and cut corners prospered.

Maybe Marcus was right. Maybe the problem was not the world. Maybe the problem was Carter, thinking he could play by the rules in a game where nobody else did.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. Most of them were from the old days. People he had run jobs with. Fences who bought stolen goods. Forgers who could create documents clean enough to pass scrutiny. Hackers who could break into anything for the right price. He had not spoken to any of them in a long time.

His thumb hovered over a name. Danny Cho. Old friend, or as close to a friend as you could have in that world. Danny ran credit card scams, identity theft, insurance fraud. Clean work, as those things went. No violence, no drugs, just separating corporations and rich people from money they would not miss.

Carter almost called him. Then he thought of Eli's drawing. The superhero. The good guy.

He locked his phone and paid for his eggs.

The walk back toward the subway took him through Herald Square. Even at this hour, the area was alive with activity. Street performers. Late-night shoppers. A few homeless people camped under scaffolding, their belongings piled around them in shopping carts. Carter had been closer to that life than he liked to admit. If things continued to go this way, in a few months that could be him.

He was cutting through the plaza when he saw the man.

Late forties, maybe early fifties. Silver hair combed back neatly. And an elegant suit that looked like it was worth millions. The man was on his phone, speaking in a clipped British accent that carried across the square despite the loud noise.

"No, I specifically said the document needed to be ready by Monday. I don't care if it's the weekend. Make it happen," said the man.

Carter's instincts kicked in automatically. After years of running cons, he had developed a sixth sense for reading people. This man had money. Old money. The way he moved, the way he spoke, even the way he ignored the people around him. Everything about him screamed wealth and privilege.

The man ended his call and walked toward Fifth Avenue. Carter found himself following. Not consciously deciding to, just moving. His feet carrying him forward while his brain tried to catch up.

He watched the man enter a high-end menswear store. Through the window, Carter saw him browse casually, without even looking at price tags. Just selecting items with the confidence of someone who never had to worry about money.

The man chose a cashmere coat. Camel colored, probably five thousand dollars or more. The sales associate treated him with the deference reserved for serious customers. The man pulled out his wallet to pay.

Carter saw the flash of black plastic. A black card. Amex Centurion, probably, or one of the other invitation-only cards that required spending in the seven figures annually. The man paid without signing, just a casual tap of the card against the reader. The transaction processed instantly.

The man left with his purchase. Carter continued following, staying about twenty feet back. He was not sure what he was doing. The rational part of his brain was screaming at him to stop, to go home, to not throw away several years of staying clean for a stupid impulse. But another part of him, the part that had kept him fed and housed during the worst times, was running calculations.

Black cards had high limits. Sometimes no limits at all. A man who dropped five grand on a coat without blinking would not notice a few hundred dollars missing. Maybe not even a few thousand. And if Carter was careful, if he did this right, he could take enough to get him through the next few months. Enough to hold him over until he found another job.

The man stopped at a crosswalk and Carter closed the distance. The light changed. The crowd surged forward. This was the moment. Now or never.

Carter bumped into the man at the exact moment a taxi blared its horn. The perfect cover of city chaos. His hand dipped into the man's coat pocket, felt the leather of the wallet, extracted it in one smooth motion. The entire interaction took less than two seconds.

"Sorry, excuse me." Carter kept moving, putting distance between himself and the mark.

The man did not even turn around. Just continued walking, completely unaware.

Carter's heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. He walked three more blocks before ducking into an alley to examine his prize.

The wallet was beautiful. Italian leather, probably custom-made. Inside he found twelve hundred dollars in cash. The black card, just as he had expected. And an ID card. The name on the ID card was Reginald Thorne. The name meant nothing to Carter. The address listed was in Connecticut, some wealthy suburb he had never heard of. But the card was what mattered. High limit, tap-to-pay enabled, probably would not be reported stolen for hours or even days. Rich people rarely checked their accounts constantly. They did not have to.

Carter pocketed the cash and stared at the card. He could feel the weight of the decision. Once he used this, there was no going back. He would officially be a thief again. All those promises to Elena, all those attempts at going straight, would be for nothing.

He thought about Marcus's words. ‘You think the world owes you something.’

Maybe it did not. Maybe the world did not owe him anything. But he owed Elena. He owed Eli. And he owed himself one last chance to get things right.

Carter pulled out his phone and started researching. Electronics stores that did not ask too many questions, and the logistics of turning a stolen credit card into clean cash. It had been several years but the knowledge was still there, buried in his brain like muscle memory.

He found what he was looking for. A big box electronics store in Midtown, open until midnight. They would not scrutinize a well-dressed customer making a large purchase. He could buy high-end laptops, phones, cameras. Items that held their value and moved quickly on the resale market. Then he could fence them through Danny Cho or one of the other buyers he used to work with. Turn ten thousand dollars in merchandise into six or seven thousand in cash.

Enough to pay his rent. Enough to help Elena without her knowing where the money came from. Enough to buy himself time to find another legitimate job.

One last job. Then he was done. For real this time.

Carter left the alley and headed for the electronics store. The walk took fifteen minutes. With each block, he rehearsed his cover story: he was a business owner who wanted to buy some equipment for new employees. He needed everything tonight because the office opened Monday.

Keep it casual. Keep it confident. Nobody questioned a confident man with a black card.

The store was nearly empty at this hour. Just a few exhausted employees and a handful of late-night shoppers. Carter walked to the computer section with the easy stride of someone who belonged there. He selected three MacBook Pros, top-of-the-line models. Added two iPhones and a professional camera. The cart was getting heavy.

At the checkout, a young clerk with bad skin and tired eyes scanned the items without comment. The total came to just under fifteen thousand dollars. Carter did not blink. Just pulled out the black card like this was routine.

"Big purchase," the clerk said, trying to make conversation while processing the payment.

"Business expenses. You know how it is," Carter replied, keeping his voice light.

The clerk swiped the card. The machine processed. Carter's heart was hammering so hard he was sure the clerk could hear it. Any second now, the transaction would be declined. Or flagged for fraud. Or the system would alert security. Any second.

The machine beeped. "Approved."

The clerk bagged the items and said, "Have a good night, sir."

"You too." Carter walked out with three large bags full of electronics and a sense of disbelief. He had actually done it. The con had worked. The card had not been flagged. He was free and clear.

He walked two blocks, turned a corner, and started planning his next move. Danny Cho would be awake, he always was. Carter could call him, arrange a meeting tonight, turn this merchandise into cash by morning. By tomorrow afternoon, he could have Elena's heating fixed and Eli's new shoes bought and his own rent paid. By next week, he could be applying for jobs again, starting fresh with a little cushion to fall back on.

One last job. He had actually pulled it off.

He was smiling when a van suddenly pulled up in front of him.

It happened so fast Carter did not have time to react. The vehicle mounted the curb and blocked his path. Doors flew open. Men poured out, four of them, all wearing dark suits.

They surrounded him before he could run.

"Where is it?" The closest one, a bald man with a scar running through his left eyebrow, grabbed Carter's jacket.

Carter's mind raced. "Where's what? I don't know what you're talking about."

The punch came without warning. Fist straight into his stomach, direct and brutal. Carter doubled over, gasping. The bags fell from his hands, electronics spilling across the sidewalk.

"The card." Scarface's voice was flat. Bored. Like this was routine. "Where's the card?"

Carter could not breathe. Could not think. He fumbled in his pocket with shaking hands and pulled out the black card. Scarface snatched it, examined it, and nodded to the others.

They were going to kill him. Carter knew it with absolute certainty. You did not send four professional thugs to recover a stolen credit card unless you planned to make an example of the thief.

Scarface grabbed Carter by the hair, preparing to drag him toward the van. Carter's vision blurred with pain and fear. So this was how his life would end. In a random Manhattan street over a stupid con that he should never have attempted.

Then a voice cut through the chaos. Calm. "Stop."

The grip on Carter's hair loosened. He collapsed forward onto his hands and knees, gasping.

A second car had pulled up behind the van. This new car was sleek and clean in a way that made the van look cheap by comparison. A door opened, and Carter stole a quick glance through watering eyes, keeping his head bowed. Reginald Thorne stood over him. The man from the store. He was perfectly composed, hands clasped behind his back, examining Carter with the detached interest of someone inspecting a broken appliance.

"You're a fool, boy." Reginald said. "That card has a built-in tracker. GPS enabled. I've been tracking you since the moment you lifted my wallet."

Carter's stomach dropped through the pavement.

Reginald circled him slowly, like a predator assessing wounded prey. "Pickpocketing is crude and detestable. Though I'll admit, your technique was clean. And you may have gotten away with it." He stopped directly in front of Carter. "But it's a shame you chose the wrong target."

Scarface stepped forward, eager. He said, "Want us to break his legs, sir? Send a message?"

Reginald did not answer immediately. He continued studying Carter with an intensity that made Carter's skin crawl. Several seconds passed in silence. Then Reginald made a small gesture with his hand.

"Pull back his hood," Reginald said.

Scarface grabbed the fabric and yanked it down roughly. Carter's face was fully exposed now, lit by the bright streetlights.

Reginald went still. Completely, utterly still.

The cold look had vanished from his face, replaced by pure shock.

The men noticed. They exchanged uncertain glances. Scarface's grip on the hood loosened slightly. "Sir?" Scarface's voice carried a note of confusion.

But Reginald did not respond. He was staring at Carter like he had seen a ghost. He took a step closer. Then another. His eyes roamed across Carter's face, like he was absorbing all his features. Reginald's hand started trembling. Just slightly, but Carter saw it.

The other men saw it too. They shifted uncomfortably, waiting for orders that did not come.

Reginald crouched down until he was at eye level with Carter. His breathing had changed.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible. "Young master?"

The words hung in the night air.

Carter blinked. His brain tried to process what he had just heard and came up empty. "What?"

But Reginald was not listening. He reached out slowly, as if afraid Carter might disappear, and tilted Carter's face toward the light. His fingers were cold against Carter's jaw.

Scarface spoke again, more urgently this time. "Sir? What's going on?"

Reginald stood abruptly. His hand went to his pocket and pulled out his phone with fingers that shook visibly now.

He typed something. Waited. Typed again. The screen's glow reflected in his eyes.

The other men watched in confused silence. Carter remained on his knees, too bewildered and terrified to move. Reginald stared at his phone screen for a long moment. Then at Carter. Then back at the screen.

"Impossible," he muttered. "Absolutely impossible."