Page 16 of Lone Wolf

He checked his jaw in the rearview. It was comically red at the hinge, as if he’d been stung by a wasp. His left elbow was bruised, his cargo pants torn at both knees, and his shoulder blades felt as if they’d been massaged with a cheese grater.

He texted Joey the address of the building, information on the IronKlad surveillance cam, and what he needed. A half second later, an incoming video-call request blinked up. He threw the RoamZone at the windshield, where it stuck in place, the antigravity suction case adhering it to the pane. For a few seconds he debated not picking up. Then he knuckled the screen.

Joey’s face appeared. “X! Hold up. I’m on with Tommy. We were just talking about you behind your back.”

“I don’t want—”

But it was too late, her chewed-to-the-quick black-painted fingernails flying beneath the lens. Within an instant, Tommy stared out beside her on the split screen.

Evan said, “No need to talk right now to either of—”

“Wait a minute.” Joey leaned in, her head angled. “What happened to your jaw?”

“Nothing. It’s—”

“Looks like you got coldcocked,” Tommy said. “Who the hell caught you off guard?”

“No one. Can we just—”

“Uh-uh,” Tommy said. “I don’t give a shit if a blind kid with a Wiffle-ball bat beat you like a piñata, there ain’t no room for ego or pride on a mission, no matter how small. There’s just ground truth.”

Joey nodded along vehemently. “That’s right.”

“So cough it out,” Tommy said.

Their faces were frozen in matching expressions of outrage and adamancy, Tommy’s rugged and biker-mustachioed, Josephine’s smooth and feminine. They waited on a response with more intensity than the occasion demanded.

Evan inhaled deeply. “Fine,” he said.

8

Laughing

Joey and Tommy kept laughing.

9

The Man Himself

Finally home in Penthouse 21A, Evan lay supine on a training mat in the spacious great room. He’d tidied up the passive-aggressive mess Joey had left for him but was still finding objects out of place. He’d given up for the time being and worked out on the heavy bag, sweating the alcohol from his system. Now his torso and head were propped up by two yoga blocks, one on the middle height running vertically between his shoulder blades and the other on end supporting the back of his head. Matsyasana helped open up his throat, chest, and abdomen, splaying his rib cage up toward the ceiling and encouraging his shoulders to melt to the floor.

Under Jack’s tutelage, he’d trained himself to relax through the initial discomfort and restlessness until his body recognized that this was a shape it was designed to embody, an arrangement of tendons and fascia and bones that could realign more than merely his physical self.

But aside from when that happened?

Meditation sucked.

As it did now. He felt unsettled, dysregulated, every scrape and bruise a needling distraction. His thoughts spun from Andre and Sofia to Mother and Doris to that ugly-ass dog named Loco. What the hell was he doing?

He’d abandoned his RoamZone.

He’d drunk too much.

He’d disregarded Jack’s Ten Commandments for no good reason.

And in doing so he’d allowed a little old lady to knock him down a flight of stairs.

Ever since he’d entered that prefab in Blessing, Texas, he’d felt disconnected from his training, alienated from himself. He’d left what happened there in the rearview, but it wasn’t receding.