Page 93 of Into the Fire

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit. Why are you dizzy?” She was on her feet. “Wait a minute. Your right pupil looks like a fucking shark eye.”

The contact had been drying his eye, so he’d left it out to take a break, a choice he now regretted. “Language.”

“Do you have a concussion? How long have you had this?”

“I don’t know. A couple days.”

“A couple days?” She appeared to be livid, though he had no idea why. “Do you have any idea what Jack would say? ‘Take care of your equipment.’ Now, I know your brain’s your least valuable piece of gear, but still. I mean, look at that thing.” She grabbed both of his cheeks and angled his head down, but he pulled away. “You know the cure for a concussion? Rest. Do the last coupla days look like rest to you?”

“I’ve been fine. I’ve been feeling steadily better. Plus, I haven’t hit my head again—”

“Well, bravo, X. That gets you a bronze in the Dipshit Olympics. You know what you’re supposed to do. And what you’re supposed to not do. You and I both had the same lectures from Jack. No stress, no exertion. Avoid shit that’s physically and emotionally demanding. Like, you know, every single thing you’ve been doing.”

He lifted the Turing Phone. “Are you going to help me do this or not?”

She glared at him, her jaw sawing back and forth. She looked like she wanted to give him a secondary concussion herself.

“Fine.” She plopped down in her chair. “But when you do get your head bonked, don’t except me to be a pallbearer at the funeral.”

“I’m not planning on having a—”

“It’s a figure of speech!”

She stayed facing away, focused on the monitor, hands on the keyboard. Ignoring him.

He thumbed the Turing to that sole outgoing call. Stared at the 213 number. Somewhere—nestled in a pocket, resting on a nightstand, plugged into a dashboard—a phone waited.

And a shot caller sufficiently powerful to order two LAPD detectives to execute an innocent man inside a police station.

Evan pictured Max, his head lowered in that hangdog manner of his, wiping at his cheeks. I can’t see a way out anymore.

He tapped the number.

It was the dead of night, but the man answered after the first ring. “Nuñez?” He sounded wide awake.

Evan said, “Nuñez can’t come to the phone right now.”

The puff of an exhalation fuzzed the line. And then another. In the background Evan heard a metallic clang.

“And why is that?”

“Because I killed him.”

“Ah,” the man said. “May I ask who you are?”

The voice carried the hint of an accent like the others’. But the man—the shot caller—projected utter placidity. There was none of Terzian’s rage, none of Petro’s slickness or theatrical arrogance. He seemed not merely composed but unflappable, a man burnished by tough negotiations and tougher choices. A man too self-assured to raise his voice or resort to rudeness.

Each rung of the operation Evan scaled seemed to bring with it an upgrade in professionalism. Under different circumstances, he might even have admired a man like this.

Another clang came audible, one heavy object striking another, perhaps, or machinery flexing its muscle. Was the man in a factory? A plant? A junkyard?

Evan said, “The Nowhere Man.”

“I see,” the man said. “It had occurred to me when I heard the manner in which my efforts were being interfered with. Can I inquire after Detective Brust?”

“I killed him, too. And I’ll kill anyone else you send after Max Merriweather.”