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The teacher, a mousy woman with a tremulous voice, proclaimed, “And now we dice the Vidalia onions!”
Candy reached to grab her onion and lobbed it back to herself in the direction of the cutting board. Before it could reperch in her other palm, it was intercepted by one of the neighboring men, his gym-swollen arm trespassing into her space. “Can’t help but notice you need a hand. I always cook when I have girls over. Happy to show you some of my tricks.” A broad smile displayed perfect orthodontic work. “Kitchenorbedroom.”
Finally she met his eyes. Clear blue, dull, and empty like a swimming pool that no one used.
Without turning her head, she reached for the chef’s knife, flipped it into a triple somersault, caught it by the handle, and jabbed the tip sideways in a single brusque motion at his hand.
His fingers flared wide, matching his eyes. His gaze lowered to check that his palm was still intact.
It was.
But the onion was skewered straight through at the midline.
She flipped the impaled onion free of the blade, pinned it beneath the heel of her hand on the cutting board. Her hands moved in a blur, the knife rat-a-tat-tatting against the butcher block like a tommy gun until there was no onion left, just a small mound of cubed perfection.
It had taken her three seconds, maybe four.
Now she gave him her stare again, the one that could meltdiamonds. “Listen”—her gaze dropped to his name tag—“Tanner. You’re arrogant. And you think that’s charming. But all it really means is that you’ve never had the balls to attempt something dangerous enough to humble you. Your bro-hole routine might work on meek little club girls with baby purses and selfie duck lips. But I’m not a girl. I’m a woman. And if you were ever blessed enough to reach the altar of my mattress to try to engage me with your ‘bedroom tricks,’ the ride would tear you to fucking pieces.”
Tanner’s lips had popped apart, forming a near-perfect O, and he was leaning away from her as if to avoid a good scorching.
Before Candy could continue, her burner phone emitted its notification alert from the wide front pocket of her apron: wild girl Cherie Currie rock-screaming to the world,I’m your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!
“’Scuse me a moment,” she said, reaching for her phone.
Still dazed, Tanner took the opportunity to step back.
When Candy saw who the texts were from, an arrow of adrenaline struck her right in the chest.
The only person alive who could still spike her heart rate. Another human weapon on the lam from the government that created them. They’d been enemies first. An early run-in with him had left her back mottled and ruinous, swirled with scar tissue that still seethed and burned when the weather changed. But that had been her fault as much as his.
They weren’t friends, really. They were occasional allies. And something like lovers who hadn’t yet bothered with sex.
She read the series of short texts, spelling out the ground truth.
Holy shit.
But also? Fun fun fun.
At last.
Already she was spinning a plan in her head. She was a hundred-twenty-minute drive to Los Angeles, but given the groundwork she’d need to lay once she got there, she might do better to grab a plane and save a precious sixty. On the way in, she’d passed the Bermuda Dunes Airport, spotting a few Cessnas. She wasn’t current on her private-pilot cert, but she could figure her way around a single engine and the odds of an FAA ramp check were low.Besides, it gave her an opportunity to liberate an aircraft, set it down in Santa Monica Airport, and hightail it with a purloined car before anyone figured out she’d faked her call sign.
She peeled the apron off and dropped it on her work counter.
The class had come to a standstill, all eyes on her. But she no longer cared about the class, or soufflés, or continuing Tanner’s chiropractic attitude adjustment.
She had a damoiseau in distress to rescue.
13
Tensed-Sphincter Tone
Chip hunched into the makeshift nerve center, staring at various hard-cased laptops, across which danced sound waves and surveillance images, RF, Bluetooth, and wireless packet captures. Behind him Paddy lounged on the jasmine-silver, tufted-velvet sofa with the room-service tray on his not insubstantial belly, dragging steak fry after steak fry through a hillock of ketchup. Three large monitors mapped a mosaic of Evan from every conceivable angle. He reclined on his bed, legs crossed, hands tucked at the nape of his neck—Huck Finn at rest as rendered by Duchamp.
A sheen of sweat turned Chip’s forehead reflective. “He sent five texts.”
Paddy used another fry as a delivery vehicle for ketchup, plopped it into his mouth, and reached for a bottle of Pellegrino. “So you’ve mentioned.”
