She pictured Van Sciver wheeling around in the driver’s seat, his hand clamping her larynx, squeezing the air passage shut. But no, he remained where he was, a large immovable force, his eyes drilling her in the mirror.
“He’s an extension of me,” Van Sciver said. “He’s a scope.”
“And scopes have their use,” she said. “But we’re talking strategy. It’s a surgical operation. We want clean margins. What is unnecessary brings with it unnecessary complications. We X out Evan, we leave no trace. We kill a sixteen-year-old girl, that makes a bigger ripple in the pond. Which means unforeseen ramifications. Then who do we have to kill to take care of those?”
That blown pupil in the rearview seemed to pull her in. She found herself leaning back to avoid tumbling down the rabbit hole.
“I don’t care,” Van Sciver said.
“But the man in charge might.”
For the first time, Van Sciver looked away. His trapezius muscles tensed, flanking the neck. She was certain he was going to explode, but instead he gave a little nod. Then he gestured at Thornhill, who was waiting patiently at the curb. Thornhill climbed back in, started up the nav on his phone, and both Tahoes pulled out in unison.
The two-SUV convoy headed for Los Angeles.
69
A Drool Not of Saliva
By the time they returned to Castle Heights, Evan and Joey were ragged from the drive and the detour to switch vehicles. Evan pulled his trusty Ford pickup into his spot on the subterranean parking level, and they climbed out. He took a moment to stretch his lower back before heading in.
They heard the voice before they stepped through the door to the lobby.
“—just saying you should go easy on the carbs at your age. I mean, have you seen you? You could stand to tighten up.”
As Evan and Joey came around the corner, Lorilee and her boyfriend came into view standing before the bank of mail slots. Her head was lowered, her cat eyes swollen. The boyfriend swept his long hair off his face with a practiced flick of his head and continued flipping through the stack of mail in his hands.
“And where’s my new credit card?” he continued. “I thought you said you ordered it already.”
As Evan came up on them, Lorilee wouldn’t meet his gaze. Evan thought about what Joey had just confronted on that porch in Phoenix and how an argument like this would sound to her ears. He felt bone-tired and angry.
Lorilee’s reply was soft, the voice of a little girl. “I did.”
“Yeah, well, then is it magic that it’s still not—”
Evan’s elbow moved before he told it to, knocking the boyfriend’s arm and dumping the sheaf of mail onto the floor.
“Oops,” Evan said. “Didn’t see you.”
He crouched down to gather the envelopes, reading the boyfriend’s shadowy reflection on the polished tiles.
“No worries, man,” the boyfriend said, leaning to help.
Evan rose abruptly, shattering the guy’s nose with the back of his head.
The boyfriend reeled back, leaning against the mail slots, hand to his face. Bright red blood streamed down his forearm.
“Oh, jeez,” Evan said, “I’m so sorry.”
Behind him Joey coughed into a fist. He saw something in Lorilee’s eyes, something like a smile.
Evan gave an apologetic nod, patted the guy on the back, and started for the elevator. “Keep pressure on that and send me the bill.”
Inside the Vault, Evan fed Vera II an ice cube. He hadn’t watered her in a while, and the tips of her spikes were browning. Then he crossed to the gun locker, unclipped his holstered ARES from his waistband, and put it away.
Sitting on the sheet-metal desk, Joey watched him disarm. “This is so stupid. It’s way too dangerous.”
He removed the spare magazines from the hidden pockets of his cargo pants and set them aside as well. “Yes.”
“You’re just gonna walk in there? Confront the entire gang?”
“Yes.”
They’d been having this argument for hours, and it was showing no sign of abating.
“You cannot go into that church unarmed,” Joey said.
“I told them I was coming back to kill them all,” Evan said. “There’s no way they let me in with a weapon. Not this time.”
He smoothed down his shirt, checked his Victorinox watch fob. It was almost time.
“If every single thing doesn’t go exactly right—”
“Joey,” he said. “I know.”
“Why don’t you wait until we figure out a better plan?”
“I told Freeway twenty-four hours. A guy like him will get restless if I don’t show, start asking questions, exerting pressure. If he finds out Xavier’s behind it, he’ll kill him.”
“You’re really gonna do this? For some guy you barely even know?”
“Yes.”
Unarmed, he started out.
She slid off the desk, put her palm on his chest. Her yellow-flecked green eyes were fierce. “Why?”
“Because he needs help. And I’m the only one who can give him this kind of help.”
She implored him with her eyes.
“Joey,” he said. “This is what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. Nothing’s changed.”
“I guess… I guess I have.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once you realize you want a life,” she said, “it’s a lot harder to risk it.”
He thought of Jack stepping out of that Black Hawk, riding the slipstream, spinning through darkness.
He moved her hand off his chest and walked out.
The Mara Salvatrucha contingent outside the church had been beefed up, no doubt in anticipation of Evan’s return. At 9:59 P.M. he emerged from the shadows and walked up to the crew of waiting men.
The handguns came out quickly, ten barrels aimed at Evan’s face. He halted a few steps from the doors.
Devil Horns said, “Spread your arms. We need to make sure you ain’t jacketed up like some Mohammed motherfucker.”
Evan obeyed.
Two younger MS-13 members came forward and patted him down roughly from his ankles to his neck. Puzzled, they looked back at the others and shrugged. “He’s clean.”
Devil Horns smiled, shaking his head as he reached for the reinforced door. “You play one crazy-ass fool.”
The hinges squealed as the door swung open. It seemed the rest of the gang was waiting inside, scattered among the overturned pews. Only a dim altar lamp illuminated the interior, falling across Freeway’s shoulders, backlighting him.
Dozens of tattooed faces swiveled to chart Evan’s progress through the nave. He didn’t bother to look for Xavier; he’d contacted him earlier and told him to make sure he wasn’t on site.
Xavier would not survive what was about to happen.
Evan reached the center of the church and paused. Freeway pressed one fist into the other palm, the knuckles popping one at a time.
“Twenty-four hours,” Freeway said.
“That’s right.”
Freeway curled his lower lip, the piercings clinking on his teeth. “And now you’ve come to kill us all.”
“That’s right.”
A few of the men laughed.
“How you gonna do that?” Freeway asked.
“With this.” Evan reached for his cargo pocket. In the shadows countless submachine guns rose and countless slides clanked.
Freeway held up his arms for his men to calm down. Then he nodded at Evan to proceed.
The Velcro patch on Evan’s pocket flap gave way with a tearing noise that sounded unreasonably loud in the quiet church. Evan stuck his hand in the pocket and came out with a Snickers bar.