Page 67 of Antihero

The soft whirring in the background was distracting. Almost as much as Manny Llorente’s muffled pleas. “God, please. Please, just wait. Hang on—hang on!” A choked scream.

But sitting on Manny’s sleek modern couch, Evan wasn’t paying attention to him. He was focused on talking to Joey over the RoamZone.

“I need you to locate Deputy Assistant Director in Charge Naomi Templeton,” he said. “Right now in real time.”

“Templeton?” Joey sounded breathless, a rare occurrence.

Evan’s and Templeton’s paths had crossed many times over the years. She was a top-notch agent, ordained for the Secret Service as if for the priesthood. Her father had run the “big show,” Presidential Protective Detail, and she’d earned her way up the chain with an impeccable work ethic and unimpeachable principles. She had hunted Evan through the years, seeking to bring him down for his vigilantism. But they spoke each other’s language and their respective codes had found resonance, flip sides of the same coin.

They were enemies. She was devoted to his capture. And yet he trusted her.

Years ago, he’d managed to steal the encryption keys to her Boeing Black smartphone and had kept a back door open to it. This would be useful for pinning down her location. With Devine’s resources and Joey’s brain, everything else could be speedily arranged from there.

“Yes,” Evan said. And told Joey what he needed.

He’d shut off the projector to enjoy the relative quiet of the loft. But the background whirring kept on, reaching a different pitch as it neared its goal.

“—please please just—don’t. I told you everything. I ta-ta—” The rest was smothered.

Joey said, “Even with Devine’s resources, that’ll take some doing.”

“—bro, just one second, I ca-ca-can’t—”

“That’s okay.” Evan leaned back on the low couch, relaxing into the lumbar bolster. “I’m not in a rush.”

Naomi Templeton ran her hand across her father’s grave marker, reading the etched markings with her fingertips like braille. Two dates, a name, beloved husband and father. No mention of his legendary status within the Service. In the end that’s all there is, she thought. A brief span of time and what we are to those we loved.

She already had the first date, of course. She had the name, too, prominent in D.C. As for the third slot, what would they carve on her tombstone? Daughter? Sister? Though in her early thirties, she was perennially single. Men seemed balky around her, unsure of her broad shoulders, her bluntly cut straw-blond hair, her hard, pretty features unenhanced by makeup. Mascara made her eyes water, screwed up her target acquisition. When it came to work, she was as confident as she was competent, could field-strip a SIG Sauer blindfolded and choke out a suspect nine different ways. They could read it in her, today’s boy-men, and that rarely primed them for the demure banter over cocktails they seemed to prefer.

Her rise through the Service had been meteoric. Her early professional years had brought predictable grumblings about nepotism, but at this point no one could deny her accomplishments and exemplary service. Given her usual closeness with the president, Naomi had found herself elevated into a new role. Technically her new title was deputy assistant director of strategic intelligence, though she had significant overlap with the Office of Professional Responsibility as well, guiding policies around compliance, integrity, and accountability. She was a beneficiary of an anomaly allowed at the highest reaches of government to those who showed great talent: her pay grade remained firmly set but her responsibilities ranged freely. One of her key purviews was quarterbacking investigations that drew the president’s personal interest and contending with all matters pertaining to Orphan X, who continued to draw more resources than any individual deserved.

She was trusted. And rightly so.

Rising, she drew in the cold February air. D.C. was stark in winter, the trees forked and bare, charcoal trunks against banks of melting snow. Breath clouding, she walked out of the cemetery. Her new Jeep Wrangler waited at the curb, hardtop on, snow dusted across the amusingly named Sting Gray clear coat.

As she neared the driver’s door, a bike messenger pedaled at her, wheels improbably holding on the icy sidewalk. She watched his eyes lock on her, mentally charted the draw from her hip holster, position of cover across the hood, angle to his critical mass. But as he skidded to a stop on the sidewalk, he addressed her nonthreateningly, his voice cracking adolescently: “Ms. Templeton?”

“Deputy Assistant Director Templeton,” she said, because he’d put her on alert and she was feeling bitchy.

She stayed tense as he reached into his bag, withdrew a heart-shaped box of chocolates.

He proffered it across the Jeep’s hood, wisely keeping some distance. “You have a Valentine’s admirer.”

She said, flatly, “It’s only the eighth.”

“Looks like he’s planning ahead.” The young man’s cheeks were flushed from the cold. He hesitated, taking in her squared position behind the Wrangler. “Or she.”

“It would be a ‘he,’” she said. “Not all straight women look like Bambi.”

He licked his chapped lips nervously. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to imply … Everyone’s just touchy these days, so, you know.”

He shook the box in his gloved hand.

Embossed on the arterial-red cover was a naked woman with flowing hair astride a horse, Lady Godiva riding her stallion through town to bring justice to the overtaxed masses.

A pulse quickened low in Naomi’s stomach, one part alarm, one part excitement.

She took the box, popped the cover. Nestled in among the chocolates, a flat, featureless phone sans logo. Her gaze lifted but already the messenger was biking off, dodging parking meters.