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“It’s gotta be cold by now and it tastes like shit, but I didn’t put anything in it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Al lifted the cup and took a long swallow, then returned the cup to the table. “You’re right. It is cold and it does taste like shit.” He took another long drink. “But I need the caffeine, and frankly, I’ve had worse.”
They didn’t talk for a moment, as a young employee walked by—too close—and cleaned the booth directly behind Al. When the kid returned to the counter Al asked, his voice low,
“Is she listening?”
“Yes.”
“Am I going to make it to my car alive?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know. If I was in her shoes, I’m not sure I’d be able to say the same. We did what had to be done, all of us …” Al shook his head and took another long drink of the cold, crappy coffee. “But that’s not why I’m here. The information I’ve shared with you puts us on even terms, as I see it. I hope you see things the same way.”
“I’m surprised,” Xavier said softly. Not surprised that Al had killed Felice, but that he’d trust the evidence in anyone else’s hands. She might have just disappeared. That would have left him and Lizzy looking over their shoulders for the rest of their lives, but Al would have been a lot safer if no one knew.
Perhaps. None of them was truly safe, and they never would be.
“Mind if an old man gives you some advice?” Al asked, his voice gruff but a lot more relaxed than it had been when he’d first sat down.
“Can’t promise I’ll take it, but sure. Shoot.”
“Get a new job.”
Not what he’d expected to hear. “A job?”
“I’m sure you have some sort of marketable skills.”
He’d hear about that line later, when Al was gone and he met up with Lizzy. She was listening in; she was watching his back. She was probably laughing her ass off, right about now. No—she’d laugh later. Right now, she was looking down a barrel at the back of Al’s head.
“Disappear,” Al said quietly. “Change your name, change her name, move to Bora Bora, or Paris, or fucking Omaha, for all I care. Open a bakery or a tackle store, or hell, I don’t know. A driving school, maybe.” That made him smile. “Well, maybe not a driving school. Stay in one place for a while, make a few babies. Live, like a normal person.”
“This advice from a man who’s been married … how many times?”
Al shrugged his shoulders. “I could’ve made it work with the second ex-wife if I’d lived in Omaha and run a bookstore or a doughnut shop.” His eyes darkened, deepened. “Get out. That’s my last bit of advice to you. Just walk away. Live your life.”
And with that he took his own advice. Al Forge stood and walked away without looking back.
Epilogue
Almost a year later, with the hot Texas summer sun scorching her skin, Lizzy braced herself on the shooting range of their security-training firm and sighted down the barrel of the big Glock in her hand. She wore ear protectors, which she hated because they added another level of heat to the already almost unbearable temperatures, and steadily pulled the trigger until the clip was empty. Then she reloaded and did it again.
Suddenly her heart began beating with a slow, heavy rhythm.
The hot, seared landscape blurred, and images began forming in her mind.
For the past year she’d been recovering bits and snippets, here and there, but never the central event itself. Most of what she’d remembered had centered around Xavier, the giddy delirium of their relationship and the uncertainty that had plagued her because he was—well, he was Xavier, skilled and lethal to an incredible degree, dark and sexy and sometimes scary, but always exciting. She’d have died rather than admit it, but on a professional level she’d felt completely out of her league with him, while in their personal relationship she’d demanded they meet as equals. In the end, though, when she was dealing with the shock and grief at what she’d done, it was his personal commitment that she’d doubted.
He was right. She’d been a mess. If the situation had been less dire, if they’d been able to give her a month to come to grips with everything, maybe the whole situation could have been avoided.
Xavier didn’t think so. He thought that, no matter what, Felice would eventually have turned on them all. Maybe he was right. They’d never know, because beyond a doubt it was Lizzy beginning to recover her memory that had pushed Felice over the edge.
She did remember some things about Felice, and part of her mourned for the woman she’d known while they were training.
Now, perhaps because of the familiar weight of the pistol, the way it bucked in her hand, even the smell of burnt gunpowder, the protective curtain came down.
She remembered the high-heeled shoes she’d worn, the blue-gray suit with the darker blue silk blouse, an exact match of Natalie Thorndike’s clothes that day.
