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“Beaks.” I’ve never heard Agent Tan speak before. Shout, sure, but not speak. His deep voice sounds cultured, nearly English. I suspect he watched too much Doctor Who as a kid, or maybe British murder mysteries. He keeps his hands loose at his sides. Doesn’t offer to shake.
Which is best, because I wouldn’t accept his hand.
The FBI will never lay hands on me.
Worse, despite the sun pounding down and the torrid heat radiating up from the potholed black asphalt under his feet, he doesn’t seem to be sweating at all.
My heart pounds with a different kind of tension. Tan was at the Dallas depository robbery I’d barely escaped. (Yes, with the contents of the safe deposit box, thank you very much.) He’d seen me at the Heisenbug gig in New York City, and I still didn’t know how the FBI unc
