Into the Fire(50)

The six bodyguards who formed Petro’s inner cadre were a gruesome lot, rapists and child abusers who’d been implicated in multiple murders but—thanks to the selfsame superb legal representation—had skipped free each time. Reviewing some of the evidence later deemed inadmissible, Evan found himself wishing he’d slammed the bodyguard’s forehead into the sink with a bit more emphasis.

A quick glance at Google Maps showed that Petro’s mansion, perched atop a hill in a gated Oak Park community, had been turned into a guarded compound. Security stations, spiked fences, armed patrols—the setup was worthy of a cartel leader or a high-value terrorist. Getting in wasn’t merely a serious-risk venture; it would require weeks of planning. Evan pondered detonating Petro in his armored Town Car, but the possibility of collateral damage was unacceptable.

Especially when there was a better option.

To get it done, he’d need the help of a friend who could bring—quite literally—a unique perspective to the challenge.



* * *



The South Central apartment building was run-down, the carpet worn, the paint peeling around the doorframes, the numbers rusting.

But one door had recently been sanded and painted. The buffed brass numeral was precisely centered beneath the peephole. A literal welcome mat—a mat reading WELCOME—covered the frayed carpet edges.

All this precision made Evan feel at home.

He was holding a pizza. More precisely, a pizza with pineapple and yellow bell peppers and pepperoni.

He rang, and a voice called out, “Who is it?”

“Pizza delivery.”

The peephole darkened. “No, it’s not. It’s you with a pizza.”

“Right,” Evan said. “It’s a joke.”

Trevon Gaines opened the door. “I did what you said and found somebody else and gave him your phone number.”

“Yes, you did.” Evan looked up the hall. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, shoot. Kiara told me good hosts are supposed to ask. Hang on.”

Trevon closed the door. Evan stood there, the pizza box warming his palm. An instant later the door opened again.

“Hi, um, um, would you like to come in?”

“I would. Thank you, Trevon.”

He entered. Trevon’s cat, a slender tabby who hated Evan with motiveless malignancy, arched her back like a Halloween cutout.

Evan hesitated. “Is that thing gonna…?”

“Don’t worry,” Trevon said. “She’s just saying hi.”

The cat hissed at Evan with the terrifying savagery of her jungle superiors and darted down the hall toward Trevon’s room. Exhaling, Evan set the pizza on the round kitchen table and flipped up the lid with theatrical aplomb. “Here you go. Only yellow and orange food groups per your vehement preference.”

“Um, um. Pepperoni’s a darkish red.”

“I put it more in a rich orange category.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay,” Evan said. “If I pick it off, will you eat the pizza?”

“No,” Trevon said. “I can’t. I’m sorry. And thank you. I…” He pressed his flat palm to the side of his head. “Would you mind getting it off my table?”

Evan closed the box, carried it to the kitchen, and shoved it into the trash can. Then he faced Trevon across the counter, stocked with bananas, mac-and-cheese boxes, Cap’n Crunch’s Orange Creampop Crunch, Cheerios, and a bowl of clementines.

Trevon had been Evan’s previous client. Just like Max, he’d run into the wrong kind of men. They had destroyed his family and done their best to destroy him, too, but Evan had intervened. He normally made a point of staying away from prior clients, but Trevon was special in more ways than one, and Evan checked in on him from time to time.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m good. I miss Mama, but I see Kiara twice a week ’cuz she’s family and family takes care of you. I’m, um, um, I’m dating a girl.” An embarrassed smile sprang up, and he covered it with his hand, dipped his head. “She’s five-two and a hundred forty-seven pounds but it’s not nice to say so because that’s not a good social cue ’cuz a lady never says her weight but it’s obvious and I don’t see what the big deal is anyways but ladies are confusing.”

Trevon was like that. A human tape measure and digital scale. He saw the world as if through a set of binoculars with stadiametric rangefinding.

“She’s high-functioning like me but she doesn’t like sand or wind or 3-D movies so it makes it tricky to go out on dates.”

“Then you’d better raise your game. A yellow-and-orange picnic.”

Trevon checked his watch. “Are you gonna be here long? ’Cuz small talk gives me a headache and I’m supposed to shower.”

“I need a favor.”

Trevon checked his watch again, cleared his throat uncomfortably. “What favor?”

Evan pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and rested it on the counter. “I need you to take yourself to lunch.”

Trevon stared at the bill. “Um. Why?”

“I can’t show my face at this particular café again. So I need you to go in my stead.”

“And do what?”