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Johnny had been an unreasonably handsome kid with kind, affable features—a rare combination.
The raindrops had grown so tiny they felt aerosoled against Evan’s cheeks, his neck, his hands. He thought of the Cirrus Vision Jet awaiting him, how his friend had ensured that the cabin was stocked with the proper caliber of vodka. He thought about the needle going into his shoulder,the burn of the tranquilizing agent,the way the choke chain had pinched his windpipe, and how little he wanted to tread back into the web the government had spun to ensnare him.
He thumbed back to Ruby’s final plea:No one will help us.
He muttered, “Goddamn it.”
The doorman cleared his throat pointedly. It was time for Evan to move on. When he glanced up, he noticed the man he’d seen dozing beneath a thermal blanket next door to Echo’s place. But he’d moved over to another building with a less sheltered stoop, one with a better sight line to Evan. He stretched languidly and yawned, the shiny blanket shifting to give Evan a clear look at his face.
Bram Folgore, one of Derek Tenpenny’s crew of six charged with the private security of Luke Devine.
Joey’s dossier had included a photo of Folgore snoozing amid civilian bodies stacked like firewood in the village near Kandahar. While his squadmates had vamped for the camera, Folgore had lain in the dirt, head resting on one corpse, armored helmet tipped over his eyes. His boots, crossed at the shins, were propped up on the chest of a teenage boy. To him they were a pillow, a footrest.
Of all the poses in the trophy photos, Folgore’s had been the most grotesque. Devoid of bloodlust or excitement. The situation not significant enough for him to keep his eyes open.
Reclining lazily on the stoop across the way, Folgore laced his hands, flipped them inside out to stretch his shoulders. He looked over at Evan as if to say,Let’s get to it.
Evan grimaced, dreams of jetliner leisure evanescing in the hard gray air.
With a nod to the doorman, he stepped out from beneath the porte cochere. Folgore shed his space blanket and rose, pawing to cover another yawn.
They made and broke eye contact once more.
Evan walked past the brimming trash cans into the dark alley.
Folgore followed him.
23
This Should Be Easy
Dumpsters and trash cans. The abandoned skeleton of a pram, perforated nylon stretched across the frame like rotted skin. Mist from pipes, a sewer-line reek, the clang and clamor of a back kitchen lurking invisibly behind a pollution-opaque high-set window.
That was good. There was stuff around. To hide behind, to throw, to bounce someone’s skull off should the need present itself.
Evan stepped across a caterpillar-bunched sleeping bag. A puddle provided a rain-tapped reflection of the narrow slice above—towering stone walls, fire escape, heaped clouds pellet-shot with moonlight.
He could hear Folgore behind him, the plodding of footsteps, the splash of a puddle. He kept near the trash-lined wall so as not to offer a clearly silhouetted target.
Nearing the depth of the alley, he paused. Way up ahead traffic flashed by, headlights boring through cones of flurried rain. To his left, bloated foam spilled intestinally from an incised futon. A parasol-less umbrella lay scrunched like a dead cellar spider,its once-proud wooden handle thrusting up, a hand from a grave. His wet cargo pants gripped his legs; his socks felt soggy.
The footsteps neither quickened nor paused for Folgore to take aim.
Evan half turned, offering him a slim profile.
Rubbing the nape of his neck, Folgore stopped about five feet away and swept back his jacket like an old-time sheriff showing off a wheel gun beneath a duster. On his hip was a coyote-tan M17 9-millimeter, preferred service pistol of the Corps.
“You here for Echo?” Evan asked.
“Don’t give a shit about her.” Folgore looked bored. “I’m here for you.”
“How’d you know I was coming?”
Folgore shrugged. “Devine knows everything.”
“He sent you?”
“I didn’t say that. I said he knows everything. Which meansweknow everything.” Folgore muffled a yawn, lips closed, one shoulder screwing up toward his ear. He chinned at Evan lazily. “You got a gun?”
