Excerpt from Blind Spots by Thomas Mullen, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

He finds the bouncer he's been looking for, yells in the guy's ear. Deafness is a serious occupational hazard here. The bouncer nods, leads Owens to and then through a black door.

Back at the bar, the undercover's lips move. Tells her mike, and therefore Peterson, that Owens is in.

* * *

Owens stands in a large, loftlike living room on the second floor. Surprisingly swank, the furniture somehow both sleek and comfortable. Windows everywhere. As if it's just another rich guy's bachelor pad that happens to have an earthquake roaring beneath it.

Enter the man himself, Slade. Tall, long hair, phony smile. Many tattoos, the raised kind, evidence of a past searing of flesh. He wears a faux-metallic suit that (Owens's vidder informs him) reflects what little light exists in the room. Like everywhere else, the loft doesn't bother with electric lighting, as people don't require it anymore.

Handshake, no how's-life bullshit. Sits down and gets to business.

On the glass coffee table sits a tablet, which Slade picks up. He "reads" the display of numbers thanks to the tiny scanner in his vidder.

Owens sees no one else in the very large room. Which is weird. Either it's a sign of inordinate trust, or Slade has plenty of men just outside.

"It's all transferred into the account, instantaneous," Owens explains. He scans the walls and perceives movement behind one of them. Tries not to be obvious about it.

Slade nods at the numbers, puts down the tablet. "You're good at this."

"Took more than a month to cover my tracks. C'mon, if we're gonna do this, I don't have all night."

Do this meaning move black-market firearms.

"All right, all right. My boy's getting it. Calm down."

Slade gets up to pour a drink. Owens stands, too, though he wasn't offered one.

"Sorry," Owens says. "It's not every night I do this."

"No shit."

Owens scans the walls again. Big dude on the other side of the near one. Not the bouncer from before. Someone new.

"What?" Slade's eyes scream suspicion. Owens was too obvious. His gut muscles constrict.

"Nothing. Lovely place."

Slade's expression like a human polygraph. Awaiting results. "I didn't know any better, I'd think you were looking through the walls."

Fuck.

Owens makes himself laugh. Tries to project calm. "That'd be cool."

Slade's polygraph going beep beep beep.

"Of course," Slade says, dead calm, "the only people who can do that are cops with warrants."

* * *

In the car, Khouri is silently cursing the fact that she forgot to bring her own headset and instead has to sit here dumb and clueless and staring at Peterson's fugly face awaiting signs.

Until Peterson's face falls and he looks sick and says, "He's blown. Let's go."

Car doors are thrown open, sidearms leap out of holsters.

* * *

Owens feigns mere annoyance. Keeps still, like he's prey that a predator won't spot without motion.

He says, "We've had this conversation, man."

Slade puts his glass on the bar. Moves his hands to his hips.

"If you were a cop with a warrant, you'd be able to tell if I had a gun in this jacket."

"Cut the paranoia, okay?"

Yet that's exactly what Owens does. Visually frisks Slade, the layers peeling away X-ray style. And yes, that would be a pistol in Slade's jacket.

They eye each other for a moment. Even though everyone's eyes are now sightless, and visual data is sent to their brains via devices, people still aim their gazes the way they always have, need a place within their visual field to focus their attention. Stare-downs, evil eyes, wicked looks—they all still exist.

Slade makes a motion like he's going to reach into his jacket. Owens backs up instinctively. Slade laughs, not drawing the gun, merely taking his empty hand back out.

Excerpted from Blind Spots by Thomas Mullen. Copyright © 2023 by Thomas Mullen. Excerpted by permission of Minotaur Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.