Page 107 of Antihero

So they’d better clean up the institutions. Root out corruption and capture. They’d better get to it and fast.

But also?

Perhaps Evan had a responsibility to be part of the cleanup.

He did not like that idea. It was not his skill set.

Arms burning, he walked over to the couch where he’d left the RoamZone. With a sweaty finger, he tapped the screen, once more bringing up Joey’s text.

what’d i do wrong?

How pathetic that four words had rendered him incapable of responding. Rolling his wrists, he let his boxing wraps unwind, spiraling free to puddle on the training mat.

He hit the heavy bag.

He hit the heavy bag.

He hit the heavy bag until his knuckles bled.

After a shower, Evan iced his hands and then dressed to see Mia. The usual boots and gray V-necked T-shirt. Black jeans in place of cargo pants, his concession to date night.

The RoamZone rang. A 631 Southampton area code, likely Joey calling from Devine’s estate.

Good. If it was her, they’d keep it to business.

He answered. “Do you need my help?”

Rawlings said, “Yes.”

Evan took a second to reset. The words almost left his mouth: Is Joey okay? But he caught them.

Devine’s chief of staff continued: “We have it from credible sources that the Islamic Republic is back-channeling with Russia through OPEC Plus to cinch off oil supply before the U.S. Consumer Price Index quarterly.”

That was it, then. Joey had stepped back to let Rawlings take point with Evan.

It stung. But he refused to admit it stung.

Evan said, “They’re trying to tank the president’s numbers?”

“Yes. The party in general. Getting a head start on the midterms. We’ve had outreach for Mr. Devine to support increased domestic production as a counterweight. It’ll take some regulatory changes and tax incentives, which requires him making calls to key members of Congress and some leaders in the private sector. Mr. Devine has been resting.”

“Luke? Resting?”

“I know. It’s fucking weird, sir, if you’ll pardon my language. But he’s actually listening to the instructions you laid out. And we don’t know whether to pull him into this.”

Evan went to the closet and extracted the royal shoebox. He sat on the floating bed, rested it across his knees like a Christmas present in a movie. “How’s his mood?”

“Seems like he’s coming down.”

“But he’s not in his right head? Whatever the hell that is?”

“Not fully, no.”

“Is President Donahue-Carr taking countermeasures? Against the oil price-gouging?”

“We have signals that indeed she is.”

Evan raised the lid and stared at those pristine camo brogue boots, yin-yang nestled beneath the flap of blue polishing cloth. “What are they?”