“Yeah, but I obviously overreacted. I mean, there was blood everywhere, and the tip of the finger is pretty much pulp, but they said it’ll heal and I might not even have that bad of a scar.”
“Oh, that’s good. I hope it heals up soon.”
He grins at me, his blue eyes twinkling. “Thanks, me too.”
I smile back and am about to continue down the hallway when he says, “Hey, Sara…”
I cringe internally at the hesitant expression on his face. “Yes?” I hope he’s not about to—
“I was going to call you, but since I ran into you… What are you doing this Friday?” he asks, confirming my suspicion. “Because there’s this really great art exhibit downtown, and—”
“I’m sorry. I can’t.” The refusal is automatic, and it’s only when I see the crestfallen look on Joe’s face that I realize how rude I’m being. Feeling terrible, I backtrack. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but I might be on call on Friday, and I don’t know if—”
“It’s okay. No worries.” He puts on a smile that I instantly recognize as fake. I often wear one just like it when covering up emotional turmoil.
Shit. He must like me more than I realized.
“Do you want to do something else instead?” I offer before I can think better of it. “Not Friday, but maybe in a couple of weeks?”
Joe’s smile turns genuine, his eyes crinkling attractively at the corners. “Sure. How about dinner the weekend after this one? I know this little Italian place that makes the best lasagna.”
“That sounds good,” I say, already regretting the impulse. What if I don’t manage to resolve my stalker situation by then? It’s too late to back out now, though, so I say, “How about we nail down the day and time closer to then? My schedule changes all the time, and—”
“Say no more. I completely understand.” He gives me a big grin. “I have your number, so I’ll just give you a call next week, and you let me know what time works best for you, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you then,” I say and hurry down the hallway before I can stick my foot in my mouth again.
I have one last patient to see, and then I can carry out my mission.
If all goes well, by tomorrow, I’ll be free.
25
Peter
* * *
“Are you going to see her again tonight?” Anton asks in Russian, looking up from the laptop as I enter the living room. As usual, the former pilot is dressed in black from head to toe and armed to the teeth, even though our suburban hideout is as safe as it gets. Like the rest of my crew, he’s a lethal motherfucker, and though we often rib him about his hipster-ish long hair and thick black beard, he looks exactly like what he is: a former Spetsnaz assassin.
“Of course,” I reply, also speaking Russian.
Stopping by the coffee table next to the couch where Anton is sitting, I take off my leather jacket and remove the arsenal of weapons attached to my vest. When I go see Sara, I only bring one gun and a couple of knives with me, all strategically hidden in the inner pockets of my jacket so she doesn’t spot them when I’m dressing or undressing. I don’t want to scare her or remind her of what I am; she’s too intimately acquainted with my skills as is. Besides, I’d be an idiot to trust her around real weapons.
Even a novice can fire a gun and score a lucky shot.
“Yan will be taking the first shift tonight,” Anton says, turning his attention back to the computer on his lap. “I have to work out some of the logistics for this Mexico job.”
I frown as I remove my bulletproof vest. “I thought we had everything ready.”
“Yeah, I thought so too, but it seems Velazquez got into a little altercation with your old buddy Esguerra, and he’s beefing up security like crazy. I think he’s expecting an attack from Esguerra. Has nothing to do with us, obviously, but still. Complicates matters.”
“Fuck.” Julian Esguerra’s involvement, however indirect, definitely complicates matters, and not just because he inadvertently spooked our target. The Colombian arms dealer holds a serious grudge against me. Though I saved the bastard’s life, I endangered his wife in the process, and that’s not something he’ll ever forgive. He’s not actively hunting me down, but if he catches word that I’m in Mexico, so close to his turf, he might make good on his promise to kill me.
Come to think of it, I’m close to his turf here in Illinois, too. His wife’s parents live in Oak Lawn, not too far from Sara’s place in Homer Glen. I doubt he’ll visit here anytime soon, but if he does, and our paths cross somehow, I may have no choice but to deal with him.