A few more residents piled in, crowding Evan against the rear wall. His skin prickled; his blood hummed with impatience. Theaters of war and high-threat zones focused his composure, but Castle Heights small talk left him utterly devoid of bearings. Mia glanced up from the muffin she was picking at and gave him an eye roll.
“We haven’t heard much from you lately, Mr. Smoak,” Hugh said with a practiced air of superciliousness. Probing eyes stared out from behind black-framed glasses so old-fashioned they were trendy again. “Would you like to weigh in on the morning-beverage measure?”
Evan cleared his throat. “I don’t have a strong need for kombucha.”
“Maybe if you worked out once in a while instead of playing with spreadsheets all day,” Johnny stage-whispered, the dig bringing a titter from Lorilee and glares of condemnation from others.
Fighting for patience, Evan glanced down, watching the stain on his sleeve slowly spread. Casually, he crossed his arms, covering the blood.
“Your sweatshirt,” Mia whispered. She leaned toward him, bringing with her the pleasing scent of lemongrass lotion. “It’s wet.”
“I spilled something on it in the car,” Evan said. Her eyes remained on the sleeve, so he added, “Grape juice.”
“Grape juice?”
The elevator lurched abruptly to a stop.
“Whoa,” Lorilee said. “What happened?”
Mrs. Rosenbaum said, “Maybe your augmented lips hit the emergency stop button.”
The residents stirred and milled about, livestock crammed in a pen. A blur at Evan’s side drew his attention — Peter crouching, his little fingers closing on Evan’s pant cuff, lifting it to reveal the curiously bare ankle. Evan pulled his foot away, accidentally knocking over the grocery bag. One of the pistol suppressors rolled free, the metal tube rattling on the floor.
Peter’s eyes flared wide, and then he snatched up the suppressor and shoved it back into Evan’s bag.
“Peter,” Mia said. “Get up. We don’t crawl on the floor. What are you thinking?”
He rose shyly, twisting one hand in the other.
“I dropped something,” Evan said. “He was just getting it for me.”
“The hell was that thing?” Johnny asked.
Evan elected to let the question pass as rhetorical.
Johnny finally unstuck the red lever, and the elevator continued up. When they reached the tenth floor, Hugh held the doors open. He looked from Peter to Mia. “I take it you didn’t arrange child care?”
The eight or so women in proximity bristled.
“I’m a single mom,” Mia said.
“HOA guidelines expressly specify that no children are allowed during committee meetings.”
“Fair enough, Hugh.” Mia flashed a radiant smile. “You’re the one who’s gonna lose the swing vote on the hanging begonias in the pool area.”
Hugh frowned and moved on with the others into the hall. Evan tried to stay behind with Mia and Peter, but Mrs. Rosenbaum reached back and fastened her hand over his forearm again, cracking the developing scabs beneath the sweatshirt. “Come on now,” she said. “If you live in this building, you’ll do your part like everyone else.”
“I’m sorry,” Evan said. “I have to get back to those spreadsheets.”
He loosened Mrs. Rosenbaum’s hand. Her pruned finger pads were smeared with his blood. He gave her hand a formal little pat, using the gesture as cover to wipe her fingers clean with his other palm as he withdrew his arm into the elevator.
The doors closed. Mia folded the remains of her poppy-seed muffin in the paper wrapper, jammed it into her purse, and shot a sigh at the ceiling. They rode the elevator up in silence, Evan holding the paper bag, the top crumpled down to cover the stain. He kept his sockless foot and bloody sleeve facing the wall on the far side of Mia and Peter.
Peter held his gaze dead ahead. They reached the twelfth floor, and Mia said good-bye and stepped out, Peter trailing her. The doors started to close behind them, but then a tiny hand snaked through the bumpers and they jerked and retracted.
Peter’s face appeared, his solemn expression undermined by Gonzo staring out from the Band-Aid on his forehead. “Thanks for covering for me,” he said.
Before Evan could respond, the doors had slid shut once again.
2
Fortress of Solitude
The façade of 21A’s front door matched the others in the building precisely, adhering to HOA regs and passing unnoticed before the eagle eye of Hugh Walters on his monthly floor inspections. What Hugh didn’t know was that the thin wood laminate concealed a steel door fire-rated at six hours, immune to battering rams, and effective in repelling hinge-area breaching charges.
Arriving at his place at last, Evan slid his key into the ordinary-looking dead bolt. When he turned the key, a concealed network of security bars inside the door released with a sturdier-than-normal clank.
He stepped inside, locked the door behind him, deactivated the alarm, dropped the bloody grocery bag on a glass accent table, and exhaled.
Home.
Or at least his version of it.
Copious windows and balconies maximized the corner penthouse panorama. Twelve miles to the east, the downtown skyline glittered jaggedly, and Century City rose to the south.
The condo’s layout was largely open, gunmetal gray concrete floors split by a freestanding central fireplace, numerous pillars, and a steel staircase that spiraled up to a rarely used loft Evan had converted to a reading room. The kitchen featured poured-concrete counters, stainless-steel appliances, brushed-nickel fixtures, and a backsplash of mirrored subway tiles. The broad island overlooked a spacious, sparse plain broken by training mats, various workout stations, and the occasional sitting area.
The windows and sliding glass doors were made of Lexan, a bullet-resistant polycarbonate thermoplastic resin, and the retractable sunscreens added a second layer of discreet armoring. Built of tiny interlocking rings like chain mail, the woven metal was composed of a rare titanium variation. The screens could stop most sniper rounds that might penetrate the bullet-resistant panes. They added an additional protective shield from explosive devices while obscuring the sight line of would-be trackers or assassins.
And they provided excellent shade from the sun.
Even the walls themselves had been reinforced. Evan had undertaken these upgrades slowly over the years, using different suppliers each time, shipping the equipment piecemeal to various addresses, assembling much of the gear off-site. When he needed to hire installers, he ensured that they never knew precisely what they were installing. With meticulous planning and patience, he had built a fortress of solitude without anyone’s taking notice.
He had great affection for the world he’d created behind the door to 21A. And yet he was prepared to abandon it at a moment’s notice.
He crossed now to the kitchen, his shoes tapping on the polished concrete. The one flare of whimsy and color came in the form of the so-called living wall installed beside the stove. A vertical garden fed by a drip system, it grew everything from mint and chamomile for fresh tea to cilantro, parsley, sage, basil, and peppers for omelets. Though it was December, the chamomile was flourishing within the carefully controlled environment of the penthouse.
On occasion it gave Evan pause that the only living thing with which he shared his life was a wall.
But he had the Commandments, and the Commandments were everything.
Reaching the Sub-Zero, he pulled from the freezer drawer a frost-clouded bottle of U’Luvka, a Polish vodka named for a style of crystal glass. He poured several ounces into a shaker over distilled ice, rattled it until his palms adhered to the frozen metal, then tilted the contents into a chilled martini glass. He drank, letting the cool burn move past his lips, closing his eyes into the pleasure of it.