Page 52 of Lone Wolf

She was on her feet now, signing furiously. Her little hands, her little face, and that dancer’s carriage, shoulders back, proud chest. I don’t want you to do this.

“I understand.”

I don’t want to go away somewhere.

“I understand. Get under the bed now.”

No. No. No no no no no no!

He waited. Her motions died down. Her shoulders slumped, rolled forward. She looked broken.

Her hands lifted halfheartedly, lowered, rose again, hesitated tremulously. Will you come back for me? When it’s over?

“Yes.”

And take me home?

“Yes.”

She hung up, turned off the phone, and dropped it into the trash can. Then she lowered herself from view.

He checked for pedestrians below, waited two full seconds, and then put a round through the upper left corner of the pane. The glass exploded, blowing across the floor and waterfalling down to the curb.

Within seconds, police officers flew into the room, shouting into radios.

Evan hopped out of the truck’s bed, slid the sniper rifle home in the vault, and drove away. When he turned out of the parking structure, backup units were already flying up the street, sirens screaming.

As he pulled onto the street, he hesitated, looking up. His eyes snagged on the fifth level, a chill tightening the skin at the back of his neck.

A black-clad form stared down at him from the precise spot from which he’d taken the shot. Balaclava mask, short feminine build, head cocked.

At her side the Wolf held a sniper rifle, its butt resting on the floor. Her vehicle wasn’t visible; it seemed she’d rushed over from another hide.

She’d just missed her shot at Jayla.

They both knew that she wouldn’t have time to raise the rifle and find him in the scope.

Plus, given the incoming torrent of PD, she had to get out of there. Tugging off her balaclava, she shook out her ice-blond hair.

She gave him a little salute, two fingers tapping the forehead. Well done, the gesture seemed to say. See ya around.

He nodded in return and hit the gas.

29

The Full Bezos

When Evan got home, the penthouse was silent, which concerned him.

From the brief foyer, he spotted Dog the dog in a dignified sitting posture, his head cocked. He was staring in the direction of the Velcro wall that Joey had installed against Evan’s will when he’d made the mistake of allowing her to oversee a phase of a remodel.

He turned in to the great room and spotted Joey floating a third of the way up the wall, hanging like a painting. Ballooned slightly by her Velcro suit, she’d adhered herself horizontally, cheek propped pertly on a fist, her other hand clutching one of his Ralph Lauren martini glasses, which—he was relieved to see—was empty. From her fingers wrapped around the crystal stem, an unlit cigarette protruded from a slender Bakelite holder. A sequined shawl was draped across the front of her like an apron so as not to interfere with the hooks and loops, and she’d clamped a flapper wig over her hair, which floated unevenly atop her unruly mane like a bad toupee, completing the Zelda-Fitzgerald-sprawled-across-a-divan tableau.

He had no idea how long she’d been there in her suspended pose, waiting for his arrival.

He paused, taking her in. Her eyes flicked to him, but otherwise she didn’t move. Her mouth twitched, but she did not break. Dog gave a soft whine like a horse whinny.

Evan walked past her, expressionless.