Page 34 of Lone Wolf

She flicked her head at Evan: Approach.

He did.

She grabbed an empty rocks glass and slid it across the fine-grain wood. He caught it with a cupped hand. The bottle followed, purring along the surface. He caught that, too, poured himself a splash of FAIR vodka, and shot it down.

Silky smooth, vanilla and citrus. A fresh green aftertaste reminiscent of jicama lingered for a few delightful seconds.

He set the glass back down. “Thank you.” The side of his head throbbed; he’d cracked it on the floor when he landed the Greco-Roman suplex. “May I have some ice for my eye, please?”

She ducked down out of view for a few moments and then rose with a baggie of ice. Sweat glistened at her collarbone and she smelled of floral deodorant, whiskey, and Havana leaf.

Pressing the bag to his head, he took a moment to catch his breath. The rising sounds outside made him less than eager to step out of cover and back onto the streets, but he’d have to soon enough.

He pointed beside the jukebox at a dim corridor burrowing into darkness. “Exit that way?”

The bartender nodded.

He tipped an imaginary hat to her and strolled out, the men watching him go.

The narrow hall smelled of beer and urine cakes, its walls clad with framed photos of old Hollywood—Sophia Loren side-eyeing Jayne Mansfield’s cleavage, Bruce Lee’s chest puffed up like a cobra hood, Veronica Lake sprawled on a divan playing peekaboo behind a wave of platinum. The corridor tunneled the length of the building and then rose in a flight of stairs.

Pausing at the fluted-glass door at the top, Evan dug into a cargo pocket, pulled out the slab of the Wolf’s ear, nestled it into the ice bag, and shoved the whole thing back in. Gauzy daylight filtered through the pane, along with the Sturm und Drang of a militarized police force spreading through the surrounding blocks. Shadows flitted by, bodies in motion, and vehicles were still moving on the street beyond, a good sign that the roadblock hadn’t reached here yet.

He drew in a deep breath. Exhaled. Waited for a break in the foot traffic. And stepped out onto the sidewalk.

To his right just beyond the purview of the glass door were a full dozen SWAT officers clustered around a parked Lenco BearCat personnel carrier, an old-fashioned paper map unfurled across the armored hood. The sergeant’s Oakley Blades shined like a wedge of volcanic glass, his gloved finger stabbed down onto the map. The other men were goggled and helmeted, chin-strapped and geared-up, a war force swathed in darkest blue. There were M4 carbines and Kimber .45s, body armor and ballistic shields with POLICE block-lettered in white, battering rams and breaching sledgehammers, and a few Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns for good measure.

All twelve heads swiveled up at the same time. In the blue mirror arc of the sergeant’s shades, Evan saw his own reflection, woefully small.

He cleared his throat. “Howdy, Officers,” he said.

20

The Roiling Midst

The SWAT team stared at Evan.

Evan stared at the SWAT team.

The sergeant grinned. “Easy,” he said, lifting his gloved hand from the map. “Eaasy.”

Evan stood perfectly still. They all did, too. The wind caught the map and whisked it up into a loop the loop as it neared Evan. For a frozen moment, it floated above the street, trembling in the breeze like a hawk on a thermal.

And then a hole punched through it with a faint pock that sounded like a flicked ear.

Before Evan could register the sound, a sniper round burned across the top of his shoulder, fraying the fabric, scorching his skin, and blowing out the fluted glass behind him.

SWAT hit the deck, the men tumbling over one another to take cover behind the BearCat, muzzles lifting to return fire. Their rounds chewed the roof edge of the neighboring four-story, powdering brick.

Evan bolted.

The block was in chaos, every car alarm blaring, headlights flashing. The percussion of the big guns returning fire pursued him, wobbling the store windows in their frames and making the world jiggle. Evan threaded behind a deserted lowrider, tucking in tight to the four-story, taking him out of the Wolf’s scope. Radio crackled after him—“suspect heading northbound”— and then was lost beneath more gunfire.

He blasted through a florist shop, knocking over buckets of orange carnations, sliding across a counter slick with cellophane bouquet wrap. Punching out the back door, booking up the neighboring streets. Ford Police Interceptor SUVs and sedans crowded the road with no regard for lanes.

Cops were screaming into radio units and out of loudspeakers. Several faces oriented to him, vehicles peeling out in pursuit. He vaulted a row of hedges, sprinted up the sidewalk, cutting through a park to aim for the tent city beyond.

Ford Interceptors roared after him, tracing the park’s perimeter parallel to him at either side speeding to reach the street ahead, their tinted windows dark and menacing. As they cut hard turns and rocketed in like closing curtains, he hurdled a park bench, flew through the narrowing gap of their screeching bumpers, and buried himself in the sea of humanity.