Page 84 of Into the Fire

“Excellent, Mr. Merriweather,” Detective Nuñez said. “Why don’t you follow us back right this way?”

35

Into the Lion’s Mouth

Evan rocketed up Sunset Boulevard in his reinforced Ford F-150, bulling sports cars out of his way. His latex-gloved hands alternated between gripping the steering wheel and wiring an electric cap and detonator into the Nokia in his lap. Because they published their circuits in their manuals, Nokias made for quick and easy receiver phones.

Miraculously, he managed to prep the bang while not T-boning any Porsches—and he got across the city in nineteen minutes flat.

Despite all that, he feared he was already too late.

Having crushed Max’s last burner phone and ordered him to preserve the new one until after his meeting with the cops, he had no way to warn Max that he’d delivered him into the lion’s mouth.

Which meant he had to intercept him.

He was going to raid a police station.

He’d have none of the benefits that generally gave him an operational advantage—no advance scouting of the target location, no analysis of the building’s blueprints, no disabling of security equipment.

He’d like his odds a lot better if he wasn’t largely making up the plan as he went along.

He’d been caught flat-footed when the second problem, Petro, had led to a third problem.

It was becoming a pattern.

Evan whipped into a parking space a block away and jogged for the police station, winding an ACE bandage around his head. Feigning injury was the only way he could thwart surveillance and mask himself without drawing suspicion—or drawing fire.

Once his face was sufficiently mummified, he tucked the wrap in the back and affected a fragile, stumbling walk. He peered out through the slit in the bandages, noting the security cameras positioned at intervals around the building. Then he hovered his hands over his cheeks as if he were in great pain. Given his perennial headache, it wasn’t a terrible stretch.

He hesitated at the side of the station.

He’d carried out his share of improbable missions. But even for the Nowhere Man, this was a bit much.

He ran through the few contingencies he’d anticipated, the few supplies he’d brought. He didn’t have a gun because he’d be unable to smuggle it past the metal detectors. He’d have to get it done with the hastily rigged flashbang in his pocket, a wad of medical gauze pads in a Baggie, and more luck than he liked to count on. A wing and a prayer and not much more.

Last chance to back out.

His own words from the garage echoed in his head like a bad memory: I protect them.

Without limitation? Mia had asked. You’ll go anywhere? Do anything?

Yes, he’d replied, like a virtue-drunk imbecile.

He’d made his pledge—to Max, to Mia, to himself. Now he had to back it up.

If he still had time.

Staggering forward, he leaned against a dumpster and doubled over in ostensible agony. He used the pretense of gripping the side to drop the flashbang in. The duct-taped package—Nokia and grenade—struck the inside of the metal box with a hollow clang, signaling that the dumpster was empty. When the time came, that would help the amplification.

Nearing the entrance, he took a series of rapid breaths, his best impromptu simulation of hyperventilating. He wanted his breathing to sound fast and panicked when he entered. It sent his light-headedness into overdrive, and he pulled back a bit, careful not to overdo it and trigger his other symptoms.

He moved through the door, shuffled to the desk officer. “Officer, I’m … I’m—” He cut off, bending at the waist, floating his palms trembling again above his bandage-wrapped face.

The desk officer found her feet, leaning toward the bullet-resistant screen. “What? What happened?”

“My girlfriend threw burning water on my face. She lost her … fuck … lost her fucking mind—”

“Have you sought medical attention?”