Page 33 of Lone Wolf

Keeping his eyes on them, he slowly raised the shirt in front of his bare torso, adversarial pattern facing out, and eased toward the opposite alley wall to diminish profile. His boot hit a patch of wet stone.

And then he was tumbling down a brief flight of subterranean stairs, banging through a metal door flecked with patina, spilling onto a sawdust-sprinkled floor. A hydraulic closer cranked the door shut behind him, ratcheting out the natural light and the rising sounds of sirens and officers deploying. A moment later, his shirt floated down to cover his face like a shroud.

He pulled it off.

The place was air-conditioned and mood-lit, cool blue LEDs underlying rows of booze on shelves. A few day drinkers arrayed at a long wooden slab, a female bartender with an unlit cigar in her mouth, a slender bottle of vodka set before her. Just above Evan’s head hovered a pair of enormous military boots, the heels hooked on the footrail of a stool.

With a groan, Evan pulled himself to a sitting position.

The bouncer rose from his perch. And kept rising.

His shaved head caught the yellow-orange sheen of the speakeasy’s Edison bulbs. At least six foot four, he wore a sleeveless denim shirt that barely accommodated the brawn of his chest and arms. It looked like it would burst Hulk-like from his body if he sneezed.

Evan shoved himself to his feet, drew in a deep breath.

All sets of eyes were on him. No one moved or spoke. Over at the bar, a biker type stared, PBR bottle frozen halfway to his mouth. The jukebox turned over, the opening riff of “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” gaining momentum from partially blown speakers.

Imbibing an excess of Cîroc and getting bounced down a set of stairs by a venerable lady with a cane had left Evan a fraction of a second behind on his reactions. Which might have gone unnoticed had he not found himself targeted by a trained assassin and a colossal manhunt. But that was precisely what he had to be prepared for. Always. That was the responsibility of being who he was, the reason for the perennial roar of the Second Commandment in his head. As Orphan X, he could never afford to be off peak.

He took a moment to reset himself.

The bouncer seemed unwilling to give him much more than that.

The important thing wasn’t how Evan got here, shirtless and blood-spattered in an underground bar, nor why he had half a human ear in his pocket, nor why the heavily perspiring bald bouncer proportioned like the Farnese Atlas seemed determined to twist Evan’s head off his torso. The important thing, given the size of the manhunt massing for him on the streets outside, was what he did with the precious next few seconds.

19

Howdy, Officers

On the small landing at the base of the stairs, Evan edged around the bouncer. The big man circled, holding him in view, keeping within swinging distance.

The guy had no bulletproof vest, an abundance of fighting confidence, and superior reach. Evan ran a quick calculus; he could clear leather before the bouncer took a swing, but given the tight quarters he couldn’t risk being pressed to fire.

“Can I have a second to put my shirt on?” Evan asked.

The guy nodded. Staying alert, Evan tugged the shirt on. The clap of the magnetic buttons was comforting, the fabric sealing around him. The bouncer wore no watch, but Evan noticed that his fingernails were cut more smoothly on the right than the left so: southpaw.

The jukebox run ended, the semi-quiet broken only by the muted sounds of the police response outside. The half dozen patrons watched breathlessly, a panorama of flannel shirts, work boots, and frayed denim.

Evan squared his shoulders, released a breath, gave a faint nod. Let’s go.

The bouncer reached for him and Evan almost engaged. But the catcher’s-mitt hand set down gently on his shoulder.

“You okay, little man?” the bouncer asked. “Do you need my help?”

Evan stared up at him for a full two seconds. Then felt his muscles shudder loose with an exhalation. He wanted to laugh but couldn’t muster the energy.

“Sure,” Evan said. “Yes.”

“What do you need? Medical?”

“No, thanks,” Evan said. “Just a back exit out of here.” His gaze snagged on the bartender, the slender bottle set before her. FAIR vodka—made from organic quinoa nurtured by small farmers in volcanic soil high in the Andes Mountains and distilled in Cognac. “Shot of vodka might be beneficial.”

The bouncer’s laugh sounded like a rumbling concrete mixer. He swung his mighty head toward the bartender. “One pour for the little man.”

The man sipping PBR nodded at the bartender. “Put it on my tab, Charlie.”

The bartender studied Evan, cigar adhered to her lower lip. Violet eyes bright enough to be contacts, an excess of eyeliner making them pop, a wind chime’s worth of thin metal pendants clustered at the hollow of her throat.