Page 150 of Antihero

“Are they shut down completely?”

“Their home page is closed for repairs. But there’s a notice that they’ll have live streams up by tomorrow. I’ll put on my black hat and get after it but they’ll have a window of operation before Devine takes control of the joystick.”

His holster was empty. He looked for his gun. Couldn’t find it.

His heart rate spiked.

Hanging up, he moved to the door, flinging it open.

Candy was waiting, ARES resting on the flat of her palm. Shiny and polished.

“Cleaned it,” she said. “Given the mud and all. Debris in the barrel, and the extractor channel needed a scrubbing—a pipe cleaner and three Q-tips.”

He took the pistol, locked back the slide, removed the magazine, eyed the chamber, and performed a function check. Every- thing felt like precision ceramic ball bearings running on lightweight silicone oil. Then he reloaded the ARES and spun it through the magnet buttons of his shirt straight into his appendix holster.

Candy would have performed the exact same function checks had their roles been reversed. The act of professional courtesy combined with trust was not lost on either of them.

Giving her a nod, he charged into the bathroom, brushed teeth, threw water over his face, pissed out about a liter of fluid.

As he emerged, Anca came around from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. “Oh. You’re up! Can I make you something to eat?”

“No time.” He hustled to the door. “I got a bead on the location of two of the men.”

Anca looked stricken, the reality dawning. “Two of the men who did that? To me?”

He hadn’t considered the impact the news might have on her. He spun to look at her. Despite the rush, she deserved eye contact. “Yes.”

Anca said, “What will happen to them now?”

“Now?” Candy said. “They are fucked.”

Anca fluttered her hand as if the expletive were still floating in front of her and she had to shoo it away. “So they will be effed,” she said. “But not dead.”

“Not dead,” he said.

“Backup mags?” Candy asked.

He tapped his cargo pants over the discreet pockets, fingertips plinking against steel.

Candy nudged him toward the door. “EDC?”

With a knuckle, he knocked the Strider, his everyday carry, in the left front pocket of his cargo pants.

“Flex-cuffs?”

No.

He held out his hand. She set a tight roll of them in his palm. He reloaded the secondary pouch inside his top thigh pocket.

Nearing the door, he remembered. Bracing himself, he turned back to face Anca. “Your test.”

She grinned. “Negative.”

His exhalation was longer than usual.

Anca held up her hand and Candy skipped back to high-five her. The casual exchange elicited a twist of emotion in him. They were such different women and yet something had grown between them, binding them together.

He took them in, these two women standing in the calm of the apartment. The heater blew warm air with a not-too-strong mustiness that felt vaguely homey. The frayed kilim rug, the wiped-clean dark furniture, the sun-faded floral still life. And that secretary desk tilted on its venerable legs, laden with candles and pictures of Anca’s parents.