He slid the gun into his waistband, pulled a bright orange cap from a pocket and tugged it on. Time to disappear.
“Not very covert, is it?” she said, and he almost laughed.
“That’s the point, lady. Looking like you don’t care if you stand out is a great way to blend in.” He turned and started down the street, but she lunged out in front of him again, blocking the way.
“Are you going to find my sister?” she asked, and it was all he could do not to laugh. Or maybe cry.
“No.” Sawyer shook his head. It was a relief to finally admit, “If Alex doesn’t want to be found, I probably won’t.”
“But—”
“Look,” he cut her off, too cold and too tired to pretend. “I’ve had one lead in the last week and she’s right in front of me. You were my big break. But, lady, you were nothing but a waste of time and ammunition, so if you’ll excuse me . . .”
He was almost free—he was almost gone—when a small voice came floating to him on the wind. “What’s the drive?” He froze. “Those men . . . they said something about a drive, but I don’t have it. I don’t even know what it is. So . . . What is it?”
Sawyer took a deep breath. He really didn’t have time for this. But for some reason he turned around anyway. “It’s a flash drive.”
“They want it. They think my sister has it. Why?”
“Because she has it!” On the other side of the street a man started shoveling the sidewalk, so Sawyer lowered his voice and pulled her into a darkened doorway. “Listen. Alex was a very bad girl.”
“So you say.”
“So everyone says. You know your friends from a while ago? The ones whose . . .” He trailed off as he looked down, noticing . . . “Oh hey. Their blood is literally on my hands. They work for Kozlov.”
“Who’s that?”
“Who’s that?” He’d honestly forgotten there were people who didn’t know. “You ever heard of the Russian mob? Evil oligarchs? How about gunrunners? Drug smugglers? Maybe a little human traffic—”
“I get the picture.”
“Oh, I don’t think you do. And I don’t think you want to, but that’s fine. Because he’s not your job. He’s mine. And up until a few days ago he was Alex’s. She and I were this close to taking him down, but then your precious sister went rogue and decided to download his little black book onto a flash drive—blow up the original—and disappear.” He let out a frustrated breath. “Alone.”
“What’s on it . . . this book?”
“Everything. Names. Contacts. Bank accounts. A veritable who’s who of evil. The holy f—” Glare. “—freaking grail.”
“What’s it worth?”
He looked at her, cold. Impatient. And so fucking tired he could cry. “Her head.” She gulped. “And I mean that literally. There’s a whole John the Baptist component going on here.”
“So a head that looks like . . .” She pointed to herself.
“Yup. That’ll do.”
He must have looked like he was trying to decide if it would be easier to transport her head on or off her body because she started slowly backing away, and with every dainty step he wanted to laugh.
“You just realized I can claim the prize and not kill your sister, didn’t you?”
“I did indeed.” Her voice cracked. “So, thanks for your help, but . . .”
“Stay right where you are, lady. I haven’t told you the bad part yet.”
Her throat worked while she gulped down a breath of icy air. “What’s . . . the bad part?”
“Your sister was supposed to steal the black book and give it to her other bosses.” It went against his training and his orders and about a dozen laws, so he couldn’t actually tell her . . . Then he told her anyway. “At the CIA.”
Something like triumph crossed her face, like she was on a game show and had just won a brand-new car. “So she is a spy!”
“No shit.” He was running out of patience. And time. “But Alex didn’t turn the drive over to the good guys, so now they’re after her. And she pissed off the bad guys. Who are also after her. Basically, everyone with a gun in Western Europe is after her.”
He took a deep breath and a long look at Alex’s face and Alex’s mouth and Alex’s eyes, and he knew what the world would see: a fugitive. A target. A sitting-fucking-duck. So he had to admit, “And, I guess, you.”