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"Patience. What are you, actually twelve?"
Rache pouted at him. "I'm a hundred and eighteen."
"Close enough."
An SUV with an Enterprise rental sticker on the bumper rumbled alongside their car, facing the other direction. Irving leaned out the window, rain glistening on his surfer haircut
.
"Here you go, boss." He handed Fontaine a newly bought Stetson. Fontaine perched it on his head, covering his bald spot, and nodded approvingly at his reflection in the rearview mirror.
"A hat." Rache gaped at him. "We've been sitting here, wasting time, so your agent could go buy you a hat."
Fontaine gestured at the Stetson. "You saw what I was working with here, right? A thoroughly unacceptable lack of follicular grace. It was frankly injurious to my self-esteem."
His phone rang. He answered the call, nodded, then hung up without saying a word. He fired up the Buick's engine.
"Buckle up. Target four just left a bodega, a little south of Eight Mile. I've got his car make and a plate number."
3:43 a.m.
Metal screamed as the minivan veered off the road and slammed into the overpass wall. Fontaine could barely see through the steam pouring from his Buick's radiator, the front end crumpled from a home-run slam. The stolen car rattled and jerked to a stop.
Target four was a portly fortysomething with a bad comb-over. He threw open the minivan door and stumbled out, staggering, one pant leg soaked through with blood. Fontaine followed him, limping from his bad knee. The garrote chain dropped from his sleeve and into his pale hand.
"I'm not going back," the man screamed over his shoulder. "I'm not going back to hell!"
Fontaine limped mechanically, fighting through his injuries. He clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead, gaining on the guy.
"Yeah, you are."
5:49 a.m.
Irving met them at the edge of Campus Martius Park, in the shadow of a granite water wall. The fountain hadn't been turned on yet and stood silent, still smelling faintly of running water and chlorine.
"It's good," Irving said. "The prince's rep verified delivery of all four targets. Excellent work."
"And the pay?" Fontaine asked.
Irving handed him a black velvet pouch. Fontaine tugged it open. A scattering of small stones tumbled into his palm. Rubies, sapphires, a pinpoint diamond or two.
"I already took my ten percent," Irving told him.
"Reckon you did." Fontaine measured the bag, choosing a few choice stones, and offered them to Rache. "Here you go. Fair pay for good work. More where that came from."
"Better be," she said. "What now?"
Fontaine looked to his left. Over by the sleeping fountain, bundled up in her gray flannel hoodie, Ada waited in silence.
"Gimme a minute."
He approached Ada and held out the pouch. Placed it in her open hand.
"It's enough to get you clear," he said. "Clear and far away. Get you a new name, a new face."
"Next time you see me," she told him, "we'll both have different faces."
"Will I?"
