Page 23 of Lone Wolf

The FWIP rolled up to the middle town house and halted. A moment later, a portly middle-aged man wearing wide corduroys, loafers, and a cardigan over a button-up emerged and lumbered down the steps. Erudite face, jet-black sponge curls, woolly beard. A metal chain secured rimless rectangular glasses around his neck.

“Dr. Benjamin Hill,” Joey said.

With a practiced wag of his head, Hill donned his glasses, and then poked at his phone. A secure cargo compartment popped open, and he withdrew a manila document envelope. The door slid shut.

Then the FWIP began to rattle on its six wheels. It looked as if it were suffering from indigestion or contemplating an eruption. Hill stared down at it, mildly horrified. Then another cargo door popped open and Loco came flying out.

The crazed dog turned to attack the FWIP, which promptly fled. Then he pawed the pavement a few times with his back legs, sat down, and vigorously licked his anus, his curlicue tail providing ready access. Rising to all fours, he peered around, terrified and trembling and panting, looking like any other deranged collarless stray.

Benjamin Hill studied him. Then squatted and extended his hand tentatively.

Loco inched forward, sniffed his fingertips.

Then bounded into Hill’s arms.

Holding him with an endearing gentleness, Hill carried him back into the town house, and the door shut behind him.

The screens blinked black, and then all of a sudden Joey was on all of them, surrounding Evan. With grappling-hook fingers, she conveyed the last bite of taco over her maw and lowered it in.

“Is it humanly possible for me to deliver you a more complete win?” Joey asked. “I mean, put a bow on it. Signed, sealed, delivered. Served up like Five Guys fries. So c’mon, X. Give it to me.” Lips pooched out, she nodded and kept nodding, beckoning with four fingers.

Evan sighed. “Joey is the Empress of all Realms Known and Unknown.”

She made some elaborate empressy hand gesture. “Any other questions?”

“Why the hell are there paper clips under my bed?”

“Why the hell are you looking for paper clips under your bed?”

He grimaced. “You win this round, Josephine Morales.”

“If there’s nothing else then.” She bolted forward. “Oh, wait. I forgot to ask you the most important thing.”

“What?”

“’Member that one time you got beat up by an old lady with a cane?”

Evan ended the call.

13

Rough Treatment

Evan was ready.

ARES 1911 snugged in his appendix holster.

Extra mags in the streamlined inner pockets of his tactical-discreet cargo pants.

Strider folding knife in his left front pocket.

Adversarial-patterned shirt with fake show buttons and hidden magnetic catches that gave way in case he needed to quick-draw straight through his shirt.

Original S.W.A.T. boots laced tight, mostly hidden by the cuffs of his pants.

He’d surveilled the neighborhood, checking windows, rooftops, and parked cars. He’d charted multiple escape routes and left his customized Ford F-150 a half mile away on a side street with no parking restrictions.

He’d hacked into City Hall’s land registry and pulled blueprints for the town house—three stories, grand foyer, elevator from a subterranean garage that rose directly to all floors.