Page 74 of Hellbent

He picked up the keys to the Enclave from a dish on the kitchen counter. He’d left his Ford F-150 in a long-term parking lot at Burbank Airport; he’d do one last vehicle swap before going home. “Get into that laptop.”

“Okay,” she said. “And when I do?”

He headed for the garage. “Then I follow the trail.”

“No—I mean, what happens to me?”

He spun the keys around a finger once and caught them in his fist. He started out. “Just crack it, Joey.”

“So what? We’ll just figure out me later?”

“This isn’t about you, Joey. It’s about Van Sciver. You understand what I need to do here. That’s my only concern.”

He held her eye contact. She gave a little nod.

And he left her.

32

Cleaning Agent

Home.

Evan nudged the big Ford pickup into his spot between two concrete pillars, killed the engine, and released a sigh. Castle Heights’ subterranean parking level was vast and gloomy and more pristine than any garage had a right to be. A pleasing whiff of oil and gasoline lingered beneath the aggressive lemon scent of environmentally friendly floor cleaner. The cleaning agent, part of the HOA’s “go green” initiative, had passed by a narrow margin after a heated debate at the monthly meeting, a debate that Evan—as the resident industrial-cleaning-supply expert—had been roped into. His tie-breaking vote for the more expensive ecological product had drawn the ire of some of the older, fixed-income residents.

That was life in the big bad city.

At times he found the inner workings of Castle Heights—the rivalries, squabbles, and bureaucratic maneuverings—to be more exhausting than eluding teams of hit men.

He stayed in the truck. It was so quiet here in the garage.

He took a moment to inventory his body. His broken nose looked passable but still ached across the bridge. The cut in his gums from the exploded windshield had mostly healed, but it gave an angry throb when he ran his tongue across it. Lower back, still stiff from the collisions with police cruisers on the road outside Hillsboro. A sharp pain under his armpit, maybe a cracked rib. His hands, scuffed from swinging off the metal overhang on the train platform. His shoulder injury, exacerbated by the recoil of the Benelli shotgun. All of which he could cover up.

But his eyes were still sufficiently bruised to elicit inquiries.

Turning on the dome light, he took out the concealer wand and dabbed a bit of beige makeup on his lower eyelids. As he smudged it with his fingertip, he couldn’t help but grin a bit.

He’d let down his guard and a sixteen-year-old had broken his nose. Joey had played him perfectly. Crouched against the wall to hide her combat knife, that wounded-bird glance over her shoulder. Can you help me?

He got out of the truck and climbed the steps to the lobby. As he passed the mail slots and headed to the elevators, he spotted Lorilee outside in the porte cochere, waiting for the valet to bring around her car. She was arguing with her boyfriend, a fit man with long hair who looked to be in his late forties. He grasped her biceps, making a point. Evan’s focus narrowed to the fingers curled around Lorilee’s arm. He didn’t like the laying on of hands in a dispute.

But this was none of his business.

Joaquin sat cocked back in an Aeron at his security desk. He was pretending to monitor the bank of security screens, but his eyes were glazed and Evan saw that he had one earbud in, hidden beneath his cap.

Evan said, “Twenty-one, please, Joaquin.”

The guard bounced forward in his chair, tapping the control to summon the elevator and specify its destination, an old-timey Castle Heights security convention. “Got you, Mr. Smoak. How was your business trip?”

“Another day, another airport lounge. But I got a lot done.”

“That’s good.”

“What’s the score?”

Joaquin colored slightly. “Twenty-six–fourteen. Golden State.”

“Sorry.”