Theaella

26

Matthew cinched his finger around the trigger and kept tugging, the rounds going in the same place but catching different parts of the shooter—knee, hip, gut, chest—as he collapsed.

Matthew couldn’t see the man beyond his feet, but he listened carefully and knew him to be dead.

No onlookers, no police sirens, no one drawn by the shots. Any second that would change.

“Get up,” he told himself. His voice came out slurred.

He rolled onto all fours and stayed that way for a few deep breaths before heaving himself to his feet. Moving through a fog, he staggered to the car. The grouping of shots in the door panel had been tight enough to result in a single crater that resembled a collision more than bullet holes.

He collapsed into the driver’s seat, risked a peek in the rearview, and saw what he’d feared—his right pupil, blown wide. Big and dark, it seemed to consume the entire eye.

Hunched over the wheel, focusing carefully on the blurry road, he drove away.

He got four blocks before he screeched over, flung open the door, and vomited into the gutter. He leaned half in the car and half out, the pain behind his eyes so intense that he heard himself laughing dryly.

He’d had plenty of concussions.

None this bad.

A blow this severe actually changed the chemical levels in the brain. Usually it took a week for him to stabilize. He didn’t have a week. He needed rest. He wouldn’t get that either. Not with Unidentified Caller out there.

The fog would thicken at every exertion and stress. He’d have to protect his head at all costs. Second-impact syndrome—getting another concussion before the first had healed—could be fatal.

Maybe the rest of this mission wouldn’t have any exertion or stress or blows to the head.

There it was again, that dry laugh, barely audible over the sustained ringing.

The guy who’d done this to him wasn’t better than anyone else Matthew had faced.

He hadn’t been damaged by a top-tier operator. He’d been damaged by statistics. Being one of the best assaulters in the world meant a 99-percent success rate. Matthew had done over a hundred missions. His number had come up. If he kept this up, someday, maybe even someday soon, he’d draw an even worse number.

Wouldn’t that fit the cliché, taken down as he coasted toward the finish line?

Wiping his mouth, he gathered himself, breathing until his vision regained some semblance of normality, until the glare of the streetlight overhead no longer felt like a needle through the eye.

Then he tugged the car back into gear and headed to Jack.

* * *

Matthew parked up the block from the Lincoln Heights house and changed his clothes. He kept an extra set in a black duffel bag stored in the trunk but had neglected to pack backup boots.

The stripped-off rags reeked of blood and wet dog. No wonder the vet had mistaken him for a homeless person. He shoved them through a curb drain and moved along a sidewalk that tree roots had rubbled to post-earthquake effect. He was still having trouble with his balance, and the uneven concrete didn’t help.

Duffel slung over his shoulder, he tapped twice on the front door. Jack opened it. “I thought you weren’t coming for another day.”

“Let’s go inside,” Matthew said.

Jack’s eyes widened, beads of sweat suddenly visible at his hairline. They drifted inside. The lack of lighting in here was a godsend, backing Matthew’s headache off the red line.

The air hung heavy in the main room, the trash bag taped over the broken window sagging lifelessly. The standing water in the backyard stank. Matthew could see up the hall through an open doorway into the bedroom where Jack’s possessions were neatly stacked against one wall. It reminded him of a prison cell.

His face drawn and blanched, Jack looked Matthew over. “You’re missing a boot,” he observed.

Matthew said, “Really.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Someone else emerged. One of his men shot up my car.”

Jack’s lips quavered, the strain of the past three days breaking through. “Who?”

Matthew could still taste bile in the back of his throat. “I’ll find out,” he said.

“I thought it was just this one problem and we were done.”

“Now there’s a second problem.”

“Okay.” Jack nodded a few times too many. Trying to settle himself. “Thank you. I appreciate it. I appreciate your sticking with me.”

“I’m here until it’s finished. That’s the deal.”

Jack crossed to the kitchen counter, where a few take-out containers rested. He’d closed them back up and lined them against the wall. Taking a bit of pride in looking after his space, even here.

Matthew watched him in the dim light. Jack picked at the edge of one of the containers, his head bent. Moonlight glowed through the fiberglass patchwork on the rear wall, turning his skin amber. A few days’ stubble darkened his face, with some gray flecked in, adding a touch of rakish charm to his hangdog features.

“Think about what Grant did,” Jack said quietly. “I mean, he had colleagues and brothers and kids. But he gave the thumb drive to me.”

A few blocks away, a car horn bleated. The house felt small and safe and glum, a carved-out hiding space in a city of four million.

“You’re saying he trusted you?” Matthew asked.

“I’m saying I’m the only person he knew who didn’t matter. Who no one would miss.”

Matthew thought back two-thirds of a lifetime to an East Baltimore boys’ home. Pent-up energy and quashed dreams, the smell of a dozen boys in close quarters. Bunk beds lined the room like racks on a submarine. As the smallest, Matthew slept on a mattress on the floor between the bunks. Most mornings started with one of the kids sliding out of bed, accidentally stepping on him.