Page 14 of The Damage Man

And Ivan tells him everything.

Back in Ivan’s private changing room, Evan sits on the teak bench, puts his socks and boots back on, and rolls down his wet cuffs. The hatch to the deprivation tank is secured once more. Ivan is floating inside in perfect darkness, flex-cuffs binding his ankles and broken wrists. Evan imagines he is making all kinds of noise in there.

The poster across, a match for the one in the last changing room, reminds him: LIFE ALWAYS OFFERS YOU A SECOND CHANCE. IT’S CALLED TOMORROW. The golden sunrise holds all sorts of cheap promise.

Evan’s RoamZone chimes with an alert.

A text from the burner, presumably from Rusty: Blake is losing his shit. Says he’s gonna make a run for it but needs his phone back.

Evan texts back: Coming.

Next he dials the front desk.

“Hiya, Inner Tides, it’s Destiny. Wanna come float with us?”

Evan roughens up his voice a bit. “Destiny, it’s Ivan in tank five. I’d like to extend my session.”

“No prob. Sometimes we need more time on our journeys. Take however long you want and we’ll settle up when you’re out.”

He hangs up.

Before he calls the prosecutor’s office, he puts on a proper voice filter.

When the assistant answers, he asks to be put through to District Attorney Hall regarding an urgent matter.

His downstairs neighbor, Mia Hall, is one of the most competent people he knows. Though she is aware of his extracurricular activities, she does not condone them. If his missions were ever made overt to her, she would have to arrest him, so a certain amount of don’t ask, don’t tell is required for them to keep the lanes clear.

Further complicating matters is the electricity of their attraction to each other, which has often ended them up at variance or in bed.

“Mia Hall.”

Evan’s new voice says, “You’ll find a loan-shark enforcer and wet-work specialist in tank five of the Inner Tide float-therapy spa on Pico.”

A long pause. He can imagine the wheels turning in her powerful mind. “Dead?”

“Incapacitated. His cell phone will be waiting for you in the changing room, password all zeroes.”

“Who’s he work for?”

“That’s our next phone call.”

Another long pause.

If they try to trace the RoamZone, they’ll find themselves lost within a dozen VPN tunnels on various continents.

“And when I ask who you are,” Mia muses, “you’re going to say you can’t tell me.”

“Correct.”

“Middle name ‘Danger’?”

An inside joke, her version of a wink.

“I can neither confirm nor deny.”

Grinning, he hangs up.

His clothes still drying, Evan parks at the curb, the Ford pickup shuddering to a rest. On the seat beside him rests a Peking Palace takeout tinfoil swan from which wafts the delicious scent of hoisin sauce.