Page 148 of Into the Fire

“They had Peter,” she said. “They had Peter, and there were laws and oaths and procedures, and I didn’t care about any of them.” Now her cheeks were wet. “They had my son. And that made it different. What I wanted to happen. What I would have been willing to do. It was different.”

“Yeah, it is,” Evan said. “Every time.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Anything.”

She went up on her toes and kissed him. Deeply. She tugged at his lower lip with her mouth, then let it go and stayed close, her forehead pressed to his. They were both breathing hard. She was curled into him, her hands on the sides of his face, and he was inhaling her, the scent of her, and one of his hands cupped the back of her neck, and it was so warm, so fragile.

She pulled herself away.

“I have to get back to Peter,” she said.

She took another reluctant step up the hall, and it was as though she were fighting herself away from him, fighting gravity. He felt the same pull but stayed in the doorway. He could still feel the wetness of her mouth on his lips.

“I know you now,” she said. “I really know you.”

He watched her walk away.

63

Tipping Point

In the dead of night, Evan waited in Tommy’s truck beneath the freeway overpass. A half hour passed before Tommy drifted up in Evan’s F-150. The windows had been replaced, and the bullet holes were gone. The body work was superb, the truck as good as new—a whole lot of ordinary wrapped around an exceptional core.

Evan could see Max sitting in the passenger seat, but Tommy mumbled something to him before he got out and Max stayed put.

Tommy ambled over to Evan and opened the door of his dually. “Scoot yer ass over,” he said, and Evan climbed over the center console into the passenger seat. Tommy hoisted himself up with a groan. “Got my money?”

Evan handed him a wad of hundreds, which Tommy thumbed through. He smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and wintergreen tobacco. He gave a nod. “Taggant-free Detasheet ain’t cheap,” he said. “Hope it was worth it.”

“It was worth it.”

“How do you like your Ballista?”

“It was great.”

Tommy cocked his head. “Why the past tense?”

Evan told him.

“Come again, motherfucker?” Tommy said. “You did what to my gun? Bleach? In a garbage bag? Down a trash chute?” He shook his head. “What’d I expect from a mouth-breathing trigger-puller like you. Pearls before swine.” He rubbed his eyes. “Aw, hell. I think I need a drink.”

Evan said, “I could use one, too.”

“There’s a flask of Smirnoff in the glove box.”

Evan laughed and then saw Tommy was serious.

Evan’s head felt significantly better, the worst of the concussion behind him. It seemed that taking a respite from crushing life-or-death stakes hastened one’s recovery. After everything he’d been through, he figured he could risk a sip or two.

He retrieved the bottle, unscrewed it, and took a sniff, doing his best not to recoil. Tommy dug two paper coffee cups out of the console and slapped one against Evan’s chest.

Evan shrugged. “What the hell.”

He poured two shots.