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“You want me to complete a mission for you. It’s one of the tools I require for that mission.”
“So you’ll help us?”
“I won’t do anything for you. But I will make a good-faith effort to see if your mission aligns with something I consider worth doing.”
The Sixth Commandment, one he’d not had occasion to recall in years:Question orders.
“That’s not good enough,” Naomi said.
“You told me you won’t lie to me. I won’t lie to you either. So let me be clear: That’s the only agreement you’re gonna get from me. Ever. Call your boss. Call the director of the Service. Call the president. Tell them to meet my terms. Or throw me in prison. Or kill me.”
She leaned against the table once more and studied him. He could hear boots in the corridor outside, the steady hum of the air conditioner overhead. Naomi might have blinked, but he missed it.
“A covert multiagency ops team is being assembled, flying intomorrow,” she finally said. “They will join you for briefing and transport.Ifyour conditions are met—and that’s a big-assif—they will be with you all the time.”
“We’ll see about that,” Evan said.
“You’ll have access to all our databases, weapons, and matériel, fly on private transport. You’re not gonna do better than that.”
Evan flared his hands, letting the cuffs slough from his wrists, along with the stainless-steel rod connecting them. The pen he’d liberated from Naomi’s pocket clattered to the floor next, but he kept the slender silver clip he’d snapped off. It would fit the ankle cuffs just as nicely in case the bozos in the hall took too long with the master key. He rubbed one wrist and then the other, noticed Naomi looking at him.
Her mouth was slightly ajar, but she looked less alarmed than resigned. Her last claim still hung in the air:You’re not gonna do better than that.
He gave her a cordial nod. “You’d be surprised.”
11
The Big Bad Orphan
The Beverly Hills Hotel, perched on a rise above Sunset Boulevard, was a classic Hollywood take on a palatial mansion, its domes and verandas rendered in kitschy peach. From the sprawling gardens to the bungalows nestled behind banana plants and hibiscus to the main building embellished with deco furnishings, Evan knew it well.
That’s why he’d chosen it.
The Third Commandment:Master your surroundings.
He was dressed in his own clothes, blissfully diaper-free. With extreme caution Naomi released him from the restraint chair at the valet, resecuring his wrists behind him with zip-ties. LAPD had lent a few units who lingered at the periphery of the literal red-carpet entrance, trying to hide their excitement.
To the consternation of leisurewear-appareled guests, Evan was frogwalked in by a cadre of agents, past the perennially burning fireplace in the lobby, up the elevator to the fourth and top floor,and into a suite with a balcony and a Jacuzzi, the interior a haze of apricot, cream, and green.
The agents had changed into tactical-discreet garb so they’d look merely intimidating rather than terrifying. Their conceal-carry pistols and rifles weren’t nearly as inconspicuous as they seemed to believe.
Now that they were in the room, Paddy lifted the SR-16 from where he’d tucked it beneath his coat. At a ten-foot standoff, he aimed it at Evan’s head. Chip followed suit. The others formed a horseshoe around Evan and the bed, showing him 270 degrees of rifle bores. Naomi was the only one willing to stand within reach of him. She held a Pelican pistol case at her side.
Jumping up and tucking his knees to his chest, Evan swung his zip-tied wrists beneath his boots to bring his bound hands in front of him. He brought them to his mouth, bit hard on the protruding strip of plastic, and yanked the cuffs even tighter. Then he raised his hands and slammed the union of his wrists down against his hip. The zip-ties popped open.
In concert all the men thumbed their safeties to off, a single compounded metallic click immediately followed by fainter clicks as they took slack out of their triggers.
Evan sat on the pristinely made king-size bed, sinking luxuriously into the sea-green comforter. “I see we still have trust issues.”
“About that.” Naomi set down the Pelican case on a preposterously overscale coffee table and snapped the catches. From the foam interior, she drew a thick, rubber-coated ankle bracelet with a sinister-looking steel locking mechanism. “Tamperproof, GPS, shock- and impact-resistant. This will accompany you until tomorrow’s briefing.”
At her gesture Paddy stepped forward. Turning the bracelet, Naomi pressed a sensor square on its side to his thumb, and the unit snapped open with a low thrum like a lion’s cage door releasing.
“My men’ll be in the connecting room,” Naomi said, nodding toward an internal door. She removed a metal disk the size of a hockey puck from the Pelican case. “We’ve arranged for these to be implanted all around the suite’s perimeter—in the hallway,next door, in the vents, on the ceiling, outside the windows, beneath the balcony—”
Evan said, “And if I cross them, they play the refrain from Beethoven’s Fifth.”
“Not just that.” She moved to him cautiously, knelt before him. The men looked twitchy, but she’d gained confidence around Evan. Or was it trust?
