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Her late father had been a legend in the Service, ran the “big show”—the Presidential Protective Detail—for several administrations. Her last name carried an almost hallowed aura within governmental circles. Early on in her career, there’d been whispered claims of nepotism, though her father had in fact lent her scant professional support. She’d made her way up the agency hierarchy on her own undeniable talent, solidifying a lot of good habits in the process of proving herself.
She was indefatigable.
For a time they stared at each other. After so much circling for so many years, it felt surreal to be face-to-face.
Evan broke the silence. “A diaper? Really?”
“Sorry about that,” she said.
“You’re scanning my clothes?”
“Yes. And your vehicle. Explosive-detection dogs hit on it a few blocks from the hospital. Unless of course someone else was driving a truck with a small arsenal locked in vaults in the bed.”
He wasn’t worried. They’d find nothing beyond a forged registration, insurance purchased under a false name, and ordnance, including a reusable, unguided, Russian rocket-propelled grenade launcher he’d recently acquired but had yet to try out. His firstthought—to ask Tommy to supply him with a replacement—was severed by a pang of dread.
He would likely not breathe free air again.
Naomi crossed her arms. She’d taken off her body armor, her ill-fitting starched white shirt still looked nice on her despite her best efforts. A silver pen clip showed at the corner of the front left pocket of her slate-gray ripstop pants. She had no jewelry, no watch, and wore lightweight tactical shoes with paracord laces of a contrasting color, cinched tight to prevent rattle with her footsteps.
“You could have shot me,” she said. “But you didn’t.”
He stared at her.
“You’re an unsanctioned assassin,” she said. “You don’t believe in the law.”
“I don’t believe the law is always sufficient,” Evan said. “But I believe it’s necessary.”
“So you’re there to fill in the gaps? Like some kind of civil disobedience?” she said, her cheeks suddenly flushed. She appeared to notice that she’d drawn closer to him and took a brisk step back, shaking her head. “All these years.”
He said, “All these years.”
“Never once did you leak an intel dump about the Program, scribble out some manifesto.”
“I try not to complain about anything I’m not doing something about. And when I’m actually doing something, I don’t have time to complain.”
Her mouth popped open. Closed again. She wore no makeup, but her lips looked plenty red against her pale complexion. “You live around here, then?”
“I don’t live anywhere.”
“Right. The Nowhere Man. Helping the hopeless, one murder at a time.”
“Not hopeless. Powerless.”
The pressure at his ankles, groin, lap, wrists, shoulders, chest, and neck threatened to tighten him into full-blown claustrophobia. His chin itched, but he resisted the urge to dip his face to rub it against the strap. He would allow his discomfort no toehold.
Naomi leaned back against the table. “Why do you help people?” she asked. “To atone?”
“Nothing so lofty.”
“What then?”
“Because of what you—the government—made me, there’s only one thing I am excellent at. And extremely limited circumstances under which I can do it in ways that are …”
“What? Moral?”
“No.” He contemplated. “Good.”
“Good?”
