Zig started to move, then stopped himself. Walk away, avoid her problems. But when it came to someone in trouble, and especially when it came to Nola, he could never just walk away.
In a burst, Zig darted up the hallway on his side of the gym and reached for the knife in his pocket. Dammit dammit dammit, he thought, knowing full well that he’d regret this.
5
Running now, his knees already aching, Zig followed the hallway around to the right. He passed a janitor’s closet, a half-empty trophy case, and even the driver of the hearse—a young private with a moon-shaped chin—who was waiting in the hallway, ready to take the coffin to the cemetery.
“Mr. Zigarowski, is everything . . . ?”
“You see anyone run this way?” Zig yelled.
“Mr. Zigarowski, are you . . . ?”
Zig blew past him, picking up speed. Nola and Flat Nose couldn’t have gotten f— Turning the final corner, Zig was moving so fast, he nearly stepped on a coat that was on the floor. He jumped, hurdling over it. But it wasn’t a coat. It was a man—Flat Nose—facedown on the gray-and-white linoleum, his arms and legs splayed outward, his body motionless.
Mothertrucker. If she killed him . . .
Zig slid on his knees, even dropped his knife as he felt for a pulse.
Thank God. Still breathing.
On Flat Nose’s forehead were two red welts, one on each temple. Zig had seen those before, from Nola’s favorite weapon—a homemade insulated glove with metal pins, just a centimeter long, at the thumb and pinkie. When she pressed the pins into your temple, your body vibrated with more electricity than a military-grade stun gun. Whoever Flat Nose was, he didn’t have a chance.
“Okay, big man, don’t vomit on me,” Zig said, tugging Flat Nose onto his side, into the fetal position. He tilted the man’s head just right, to open his airway and make sure he wouldn’t choke if he threw up.
“Nola, you still here!?” Zig called out, rummaging through Flat Nose’s jacket, searching for ID. Better to know who he was—or at least who he worked for.
Nothing. The ID was gone. So were his wallet, gun, even his radio. Nola had picked him clean.
So what the hell does this have to do with Colonel Mint? Zig wondered, putting away his knife and remembering the Dover report. Two nights ago, during what seemed like a home invasion, a robber had shot Archie Mint in the face, and murdered a valet named Anthony Wojowicz. Did Nola come here for Mint . . . or did she know the valet? Mint seemed more likely—he and Nola were both military.
But as Zig rolled the facts through his brain, he couldn’t shake the feeling that if the government was sending armed agents to a funeral—and hiding Mint’s real assignment from his own wife—this was about far more than a petty robbery.
So what was Nola’s stake? Zig took another look around. On this side of the gym, the long hallway was empty. Straight ahead was a doorway that led outside; on his left was a staircase that led upstairs.
Wherever she went, Nola was gone.
Of course she is, Zig thought, still reeling from the sheer coincidence of— Wait.
Zig closed his eyes, replaying it again.
God. How could he be so blind? For Nola to be here at the exact same time, in the exact same spot that Zig was . . .
No way was this all a coincidence.
Pulling out his phone and stepping over Flat Nose to give himself some space, Zig clicked to Recent Calls. Dover Air Force Base. He gave it a tap. It rang twice.
“Mortuary Branch Chief,” Wil-with-one-L answered. “How can I—？”
“You think I’m a damn moron?”