Page 94 of Into the Fire

“Hmm.” The syllable conveyed a moment of genuine reflection. And then, “You can keep killing them. But I can keep sending them.”

“I’ve dealt with mob bosses before.”

“A mob boss? No, nothing so glamorous. I’m just a businessman.”

“For a businessman you have an appetite for assassinations.”

“I suppose,” he said, sounding rueful. “Or maybe I’m just honest. I’ve distilled business down to its essential elements. Profit. And loss. I have responsibilities. I protect my bottom line.”

“Then it looks like you and I will have to have a face-to-face,” Evan said. “Like I did with Nuñez. And with Brust.”

“Good luck with that,” the man said.

“Don’t worry,” Evan said. “I’m sure I can arrange it.”

“No, Mr. Nowhere Man. Even you can’t arrange this.”

The line went dead.

Evan’s mouth had gone sour, sweat cooling across the back of his neck. He’d nearly forgotten he was in the room with Joey.

She was facing away, but he could see her hand pulsing around the elaborate mouse, rolling the sensor ball and clicking. “Good news,” she said. “We’re downtown. Close cell towers, so I should be able to peg him pretty closely, and—”

She froze, as still as death in her chair, her hands floating above the keys. The abrupt cessation of noise was unsettling. Across the room in his nest of dirty laundry, Dog raised his head, sniffing the shift in the air.

Joey laughed a hard, ugly laugh. “Oh, boy,” she said.

“What?” Evan said. “Where is he?”

At last she turned to look at him, and her face was more serious than he’d ever seen it. “Twin Towers Jail.”

Evan rubbed his eyes.

He said, “Fuck.”

39

No Margin for Error

Evan blew through the lobby of Castle Heights, Joey hustling to keep up, Dog the dog prancing along beside her, his collar jangling against the leash. The empty expanse had an early-morning sheen, pink light spilling across the dated marble, the smell of coffee emanating from a stately silver urn on a side table. The mission loomed large in his mind, impassable and impossible, a towering wall of stone. He had only the roughest shape of a plan, just a few handholds he hoped might get him up the cliff face.

Evan was talking hard, his voice low. “I need everything, understand? Procedures, schedules, security measures, equipment, guard shifts. I need names, heights, weights, and profiles for prisoners. I need to know gang affiliations—what they’re in for, who’s in which cell block, when they’re being released. I need security-camera positions, surveillance gaps, what you can alter, delete, control. I need to know—”

“Jesus, X.” A sheen of perspiration sparkled at Joey’s hairline. “You can’t do this. Not with your head the way it is.”

He pivoted to face her, walking backward without breaking stride. “Joey. I have to.”

She shriveled a bit beneath his glare, and he realized that the intensity of his tone had scared her.

“Chillax, okay?” Her voice sounded small, intimidated, and he hated himself for it. “I got you.”

“There is no margin for error.”

“I understand, okay?” She held up her palms, a rare show of submission. “What’s the plan?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “I’ve never done anything like this.”

As they reached the elevator doors, Joaquin called out from behind the security desk. “Hey, Mr. Smoak. And Ms.… Janie, right?”