Into the Fire(15)

“Hello?”

“Walk down to Cahuenga and get on the first northbound bus.”

“Wait— What? We’re not meeting here?”

“Keep your phone on. Further directions to come.”

Evan hung up but stayed put. Over the next half hour, he called Max at intervals, routing him through Studio City in a rambling loop that wound up where he’d started. Then, slipping off the roof, he told Max to cross the street and get on the Metro, taking the Red Line toward downtown.

Now Max sat on the molded white plastic seat cushioned with paint-spatter fabric straight out of the eighties. His hands were laced, his head hanging low, doubling his chin. His blinks were long and sluggish, and his face had the washed-out pallor of someone short on calories and high on cortisol.

This mission felt distinct to Evan because he didn’t know who he was targeting. He had no sense of who the Terror was or what other enemies might be arrayed against him. How could he fight an invisible threat? How could he kill something without a face?

By giving it a face.

And then introducing that face to the notion of consequence.

The Metro car was humid and smelled of someone’s overly exuberant application of musk body spray.

Evan cut through the midday crowd.

His ARES 1911 was a ghost gun, engineered by his armorer from a solid forging of aluminum. Eight 230-grain Speer Gold Dot hollow points in the mag, one in the spout. Though Evan was a lefty, he shot equally well with either hand, so he preferred an ambidextrous thumb safety. Simonich gunner grips practically adhered the weapon to his hand once drawn, and the front-frame checkering was an ambitious eighteen lines per inch. The high-profile straight-eight sights were designed for clear target acquisition even when a suppressor was screwed into the threaded barrel.

The pistol rode in a Kydex high-guard holster clipped to the belt of his cargo pants in the appendix carry position. Appendix carry had multiple advantages. Better for semi-deep concealment, it guarded against the bump-frisk, aided weapon retention during ground fighting or grappling, and made the weapon demonstrably faster to present.

His Woolrich shirt, too, had been selected for tactical considerations. Despite its dummy buttons, the front of the shirt was held together by magnets that parted easily, which meant that he could draw the pistol straight through his clothes, a shortest-distance-between-two-points movement of the hand that would have been useful in the Wild West and was occasionally useful now.

But to everyone else on the Metro car, Evan looked like an average commuter.

He sat down next to Max.

Max stayed hunched over, his hands joined in a float between his knees. His knuckles were white. He was, Evan realized, trying to keep his fingers from shaking.

The train juddered along. The background noise would be sufficient to drown out a hushed conversation.

Max rocked with the movement of the subway, oblivious to Evan. His face was lined not so much from age, it seemed, but from defeat. Deep grooves like scaffolding propped up dark brown eyes. Beneath the wear and tear were ruggedly handsome features that seemed to be waiting to reemerge.

He checked his phone wearily, awaiting the next instruction.

So Evan gave it to him. “Hand me the envelope.”

Max did a double take. Then he looked around at the folks hanging from the poles. A family clustered by the doors, the boys taking turns kicking each other’s shins while the parents tapped at their phones.

“Wait,” Max said. “You’re—”

Evan held out his hand.

Max took the envelope from his pocket. Just as he’d described, bright yellow with that scrawl—DO NOT OPEN.

“I’ve been super careful with it,” Max said. “Wanting to respect Grant’s wishes, like I said. I figure whatever’s in there is too dangerous for me to—”

Evan tore the envelope open and tilted it into his palm.

“Hey!” Max hissed through his teeth. “What the hell!”

A key slid out, attached to a slender Swiss Army knife key chain.

Max had turned away, averting his eyes. “I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know anything.”

“Seems they don’t care whether you know anything or not,” Evan said. “They don’t seem willing to take the risk. They want to kill you regardless.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Evan turned the key over. Shiny gold, larger than a house key, the cuts oddly symmetrical. It seemed like a prop—a secret key that led to a doomsday cache or a treasure trove of hazardous materials.

Max was pinching the bridge of his nose. “Tell me when we get to the ‘helping me’ part.”

“The first part of helping you is making you face reality.”

Max lowered his hand from his eyes. Then he looked at the key resting on Evan’s palm.

“What—” Max’s voice cracked. “What reality?”

“Your fingerprints and DNA put you at Lorraine Lennox’s house. With her corpse. Earlier in the evening, you showed up at Grant’s place in Beverly Hills behaving erratically, got into a confrontation with his wife. Your apartment is torn up, which would lead any reasonable detective to conclude that you’re into illicit business with bad people.”

Max’s lips looked cracked. His eyes were wide, bloodshot. “Well,” he said. “If you frame it that way…”