He appeared after the slipwalk, and clapped his hands to turn the light on. At first, he thought Nagorski wasn’t there and he started to panic, but no, there he was, huddled up at the top of the stairs. Awake, too: When the lights came on he covered his eyes and used language Grandma would have rapped Donovan’s knuckles for.
Donovan took his time going up the stairs. He smelled urine.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to keep you here so long. Let’s go get you cleaned up. You can use my shower, and I have a spare bathrobe.”
Donovan took his arm—Nagorski didn’t seem inclined to resist. The door had unlocked when Donovan had turned on the lights. He checked the peephole to make sure the laundry room was empty, then turned the handle, opening up the door and the wall behind it.
He guided Nagorski carefully around the folding table—his eyes had obviously not adjusted yet. Donovan led him to the elevator. They did not, fortunately, run into anyone on the way to Donovan’s apartment.
By the time they got there, Nagorski was obviously seeing better. Donovan pointed him toward the bathroom. “Towel and bathrobe hanging on the door. Take your time; the one nice thing about this place is that there’s plenty of hot water, though the water pressure kinda sucks. I’m going to cook us something. Do you eat meat?”
Nagorski nodded and stumbled into the bathroom, shut the door.
Donovan had some hamburger defrosted, so he cooked it up along with some tomato sauce and a few spices, then turned the heat down and boiled some macaroni.
Nagorski came out of the bathroom and stood there while Donovan drained the pasta, put it on some plates, poured the hamburger over it, and added some Parmesan cheese. “There,” he said. “Noodles Donovan. Want a beer?”
He nodded and Donovan got them each one.
“Donovan,” he said. “That’s your name?”
“Yeah, and if you call me Mellow Yellow I’ll hit you again.”
They sat at the kitchen table. The day before, it had been him and Marci and Susan.
Susan.
Shit.
Nagorski was pretty hungry, so Donovan just let him eat, and then realized that he was, too. He got them each seconds, and another beer. He had three bottles left from the case. Always keep track of how much beer you have.
When they’d both gotten some food down, Donovan went off and grabbed a pair of old coveralls. “Not what you’d call stylin’,” he said, “but you should be able to fit into them, and they don’t smell like piss.”
Nagorski nodded, then went off to change. When he came back, Donovan didn’t make any remarks about what Nagorski looked like in them. Instead he said, “So, tell me something—”
“Is this the interrogation?”
“Yeah. If you don’t answer, I might torture you by making you get the next beer. I just want to know, for my own curiosity, how it started.”
“How it started? Jesus. I got a job, and I got married. What the fuck. How it started. I don’t know.”
He was tired, Donovan could see that. No, not tired, weary. A bone-deep kind of weariness, where you feel like you’ll never be truly rested again.
“Nick—can I call you Nick?”
“Yeah.”
“Nick, I’m not about torture, or putting pressure on you, or whatever. But my friend is dead, and I’m sort of a little ripped up about it. So if you don’t want to talk about shit, then okay, don’t. But if you start getting sarcastic with me, I’m going lose it all over your face. Feel me?”
Nick nodded.
“So, yeah. I’m curious about what happened. Like I said, you don’t have to tell me. But you seem like a nice guy. Like someone who wouldn’t do that stuff I know you did. I just wonder why.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.
“All right. That’s cool. I’m pretty sure I know most of it anyway.”
They continued eating.
After about five minutes, Donovan said, “Except there’s this one piece I just can’t figure out.”
“What’s that?”
“The time-stop.”
“What about it?”
“That was your heavy artillery, man. That was the one you could have been saving for an emergency. Why blow it so early?”
“Charlie’s idea. He—you know about Charlie?”
“Your supplier? Yeah.”
“He needed me to be convinced. I mean, in magic. We couldn’t do anything more if I didn’t know, all the way into my bones, that it was real. And, man, when I clicked that thing, and walked through that restaurant full of, like, statues. It was weird. It was creepy. I mean, if you ever want someone to know for sure that this shit is real, have him cast that.”
“I get it,” said Donovan. “Makes sense.”
They went back to eating.
A little later, Nagorski said, “I had a list, you know.”
Donovan kept eating.
“It was—I had to—it was supposed to work out different.”
Donovan nodded.
“It was in order of how fucked up they were. Charlie gave me the details about them. He said he had his own thing going, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was, just that he’d help me with Whittier, if I’d help him with the others. There was a whole plan.”
“I know,” said Donovan. Under the table, he started his cell phone recording.
“The first one on the list,” said Nagorski, “was Georgio Byrne Lawton-Smythe.”
* * *
Marci wheeled herself back to her room, took a long, slow breath, then made a call. It was answered at once. “Sweetie! Where are you?”
“I’m all right, love. I got banged up a little, but nothing serious.”
“Jesus, honey! What does ‘banged up’ mean?”
“My legs hurt, but that’s all.”
“What happened?”
“An accident.”
There was a long pause from the other end. Then, “I hate this.”
“I know.”
There was another long pause. “All right. What do you need me to do?”
Marci felt herself smiling, and felt tears at the same time. “Feed the goldfish?” she said.
“We don’t have a goldfish.”
“Oh, right.” She sniffed. “Okay, never mind that then.”
“Are you okay? You sound like—”
“I’m fine. You’re just making me fall in love with you all over again, and it isn’t fair.”
“Ha,” he said. “My fiendish plan works.” He sounded like he was crying, too.
“I’ll be home in a couple of days. I may need crutches for a while, to be safe—”
“Crutches!”
“I promise, it’s nothing serious.”
“All right.”
“Should we get a goldfish?”
“Maybe. It’ll give me something to do when you get banged up.”
“We’ll talk about it. I’ll see you soon.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
* * *
Nick had gotten Donovan up to the point where he was about to use magic to murder a California State Senator when the buzzer rang. Nick stopped talking and looked at him. Donovan shrugged. “I’m not expecting anyone.”
He got up and pushed the intercom button. “Hello?”
“Hey, Donovan. Can I come up?”
Matt. Well, son of a bitch.
“I can’t think of anyone in the world I’d rather see. Uh, are you armed?”
“Yes.”
Well, fuck. Donovan thought about it, then said, “Do you have beer?”
“No.”
“Go get some, then come back.”
“Sam Adams all right?”
“In that case, hurry back.”
“All right.”
Donovan sat down again.
“Who’s that?” said Nick.
“Someone who wants to be a good guy.”
“Yeah, don’t we all.”
Nick went back to his story as if there’d never been an interruption. Half an hour later the buzzer sounded again. Donovan buzzed Matt in, and opened the door when he knocked. He stood there, wearing a coat that was a bit too big for him—something of an accomplishment. Donovan took the case of Sam Adams and went into the kitchen, sticking all of it in the refrigerator. He brought Matt one.
“Well,” said Donovan. “I assume you’re here to get your cell phone back? Bad news about that. It’s kind of in pieces.”
“Oh, you found it?”
“Well, you know, it wasn’t like you hid it all that well.”
“Yeah.”
“This is Nick. Nick, meet Matt. Nick worked for the guy who hired you to kill us.”
“I didn’t work for him,” snapped Nick.
“Right. Sorry. He was working with the guy who hired you to kill us.”
They sat down, Matt on the other side of the couch from Nick.
“I’m checking those cushions this time when you leave,” said Donovan.
“How are things?”
“Susan is dead.”
Matt stared at him. “How—”
“We ran an operation. Things went bad.”
“I’m sorry. Shit. Was that in Connecticut?”
“How the fuck—”
“I got a call from a guy named Becker, who wanted me to show up there. I missed my flight and by the time I got there it was all over except the flashing lights.”
“Mother fuck,” said Donovan.
“I’m sorry.”
Donovan nodded, and focused on his kitchen window for a while. Then he said, “Nick was just telling the story of his life. Want to listen?”
“Sure.”
“Carry on, Nick. He’ll get to hear about all the excitement he missed.”
Nick nodded and continued his story.
* * *
Manuel Becker sat down at his computer. He typed in the password: a random set of numbers, letters, and symbols that he memorized anew every week when he changed it. He opened the file called “Personnel” and let his mouse hover over “Kouris, Susan Dionisia.” He clicked it. He checked the box marked “Deceased.” When another screen opened up, he checked the box marked “Line of duty.” He meticulously filled out the other fields that would see to it that death benefits and funeral costs would be released, then clicked “Close.”
With her file still open, he clicked on “Next of kin.”
It read: “Father: Andras Lyric: South Barrington, Illinois, USA. Mother: Dionisia Kasia: South Barrington, Illinois, USA.” It gave a single phone number for both of them.
Becker picked up the phone and started to punch in the number, stopped, and stared at the hand holding the phone. He tried to think of the last time his hands had trembled. He couldn’t remember.
He punched in the number.
* * *
Nick spoke about waking up in the narrow stairwell, reciting it almost in a monotone up to the point where he fell asleep. Then he stopped and looked down at the remains of his food.
Donovan got up and cleared the plates, put them in the sink.
“Well,” said Donovan. “Okay. That gives me some stuff to play with.”
Nick nodded. “Now what?”
“Now what? What do you mean?”
“What happens to me now?”
“Oh. Now you finish your beer.”
“Then what?”
“Then I make a call to a guy named Becker, and he comes and picks you up.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“Talk to you.”
“Is that all?”
Donovan shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. And, you know, I don’t care all that much.”
“I—”
“Shut up. I got some sympathy for you. Some. You went through bad shit. I get that. But you know, you’re a fucking psychopath. How many people have you killed in two weeks? A lot of people had their lives fucked up, they didn’t go on a magic murder spree. So shut your hole, and finish your beer.”
Nick finished his beer. Donovan felt Matt looking at him, but didn’t look back.
Donovan turned to his computer and brought up Skype. “Mr. Becker,” he said when the pale bald guy came on. “I have Nicholas Nagorski here for you. You want to come fetch him?”
Becker gave no indication that there was anything surprising in the call. “Can you deliver him to your slipwalk room? We’ll pick him up from there.”
“Sure. Five minutes.” Then he looked at Nick. “Let’s go. You can keep the coveralls.”
Ten minutes later, Donovan let himself back into his apartment. He got himself a beer, drank some, nodded to Matt. “That’s done,” he said.
“Now it’s my turn,” said Matt. “What’s next?”
“You want to help?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
He picked up his phone, and punched in a number.
“Hey, Marci. How you feeling?”
“I’m okay. I still can’t walk.”
“Still in the infirmary?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Hang tight. We’re going to get this taken care of.”
“I know.”
“You remember Matt.”
“Sure.”
“He’s working with us now.”
“You trust him?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“When can you be here, Marci?”
“The casts come off tomorrow, but I’ll be on crutches. If you don’t mind, I don’t.”
“I don’t. I need you here. We got to deal with this.”
“Yes,” said Marci. “We do. And we will. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“What about your boyfriend?”
“I’ll talk to him. It’s all right. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“See you then.”
He disconnected and said, “Matt, do me a favor and take a walk, all right? I need to make a couple of calls, and I’d rather do it alone. Give me an hour.”
“See you in an hour,” said Matt.
When he was gone, Donovan brought up Skype and punched in a number.
“Mr. Longfellow.”
“Mr. Becker. I need contact information for Susan’s next of kin.”
“I’ve made that call already, Mr. Longfellow, so you don’t need to.”
“I don’t give a fl—” Donovan closed his eyes, opened them again. “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Becker, I would like to call as well.”
Becker hesitated. “I need to tell you the cover story.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Mr. Longfellow, this is not a negotiable matter.”
“Mr. Becker, I have no intention of telling them how she died, or anything related to her death beyond hearing that it happened. Yeah, I’m going to lie to them. I’ll leave it to your imagination how much I like doing that. But I’m going to. I knew her; I worked with her; I cared about her. I would like to call and express my sympathies to her family even if I have to lie to do it. But I’m not going to play your game. Please provide me with the contact information.”
There was a short pause, then, “One moment, Mr. Longfellow. There. It should arrive in your email shortly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Becker.”
While he was waiting to make the unpleasant phone call, he made an unpleasant Skype call.
“Well, this is a surprise, Chumpy. You forget about me for almost a year, and now two calls within a week.”
“It’s not good, Grampa.”
“Oh. What happened?”
Donovan’s mouth felt dry. He was suddenly afraid that if he didn’t say it Croshack would guess, and that would be worse, so he blurted it: “Susan is dead.”
He watched on the screen as the old man’s head drooped. The silence went on for a long time, until finally Grampa looked up and said, “Oh, Chumpy. I’m so sorry. Was it the thing you called me about?”
“Yeah. A rogue sorcerer backed by a couple of foot soldiers and a guy with an artifact that strips magical defenses. It was a mess.”
“And you’re blaming yourself, aren’t you?”
Donovan laughed in spite of himself. “Sure. And Marci is blaming herself. A guy you’ve never met who isn’t even part of this is blaming himself. Even Becker is blaming himself. We got a whole thing going down here. Gonna get T-shirts.”
“Well, don’t leave me out of it.”
“Huh. I think you’re the one person who’s got no reason to beat himself up over this.”
“More reason than the rest of you, Chumpy. I’m sorry.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Shut up and let me talk. It’s the least I can do.”
“I … all right, I’m listening.”
“Years ago I was ordered to keep a secret. I kept it. I shouldn’t have. Hang on a minute. I need a glass of water. No. I need a whiskey. Be right back.”
Donovan got up and poured himself a horseradish-infused vodka on the rocks. When he returned to the screen, Crosheck was already there. He gestured toward the drink in Donovan’s hand and said, “Good choice,” then had a drink himself. He didn’t sip it; Donovan watched as the old man tossed it down, then poured himself another, which he set somewhere out of sight of the camera.
“The secret,” he said. “I was on the team that caught Becker and stripped him of his sorcerous ability.”
“Fuck,” said Donovan. Then, “That’s a lot to take in, old man. For one thing, it means Becker’s been lying a lot. Or misleading. He keeps claiming not to know how sorcery works.”
“Yeah, he knows. He has many faults, has our Mr. Becker, but excessive trust has never been among them.”
“Fuck. Okay, you’d better tell me about it.”
“He—Becker—used to be with the Mystici. He was a sorcerer in their R and D division, which is considerably bigger and better funded than ours. And mostly, their R and D department works on good things, or at worst harmless. It’s all the other stuff the Mystici do that got to him.”
“I know about some of that. There’s probably a lot I don’t know.”
“Yeah, me too. So Becker and another guy got pissed off at all the bad things the Mystici were doing, or allowing to happen, and just started going after the worst of them. Near as we could tell, one or the other of them had a brother or sister or mother or father or wife who was killed by a sorcerer. The sorcerer was protected by the Mystici, so they weren’t allowed to take any action.”
“You never learned the details?”
“Neither of them would talk about it. And to tell the truth, once we caught them, we didn’t need it. It was a hell of a hunt, Chumpy. Three continents, four teams. They killed nine people before we got to them, and did a lot of other damage. And those were nine tough sons of bitches, too.”
“Them,” said Donovan. “Who was the other guy?”
“His name is Charles Leong.”
“Charlie,” said Donovan. “Motherfucking son of a bitch.”
“I’m sorry, Chumpy. If I’d told you this before, maybe things would have been different.”
“I don’t see how. I knew about Leong, I just didn’t know Becker was involved. I don’t see how it plays out if any different if I knew that.”
“Maybe.”
“And if it was anyone’s job to tell me, it was Becker’s.”
After a moment, the old man said, “Maybe so. Or maybe it was his boss’s. I don’t know. Following orders, keeping secrets, doing the right thing. All sorts of decisions, and they’re never easy, Chumpy.”
“Sometimes they are.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, Grampa. Thanks for the information. I’ll put it to good use.”
“I know you will, son.”
Donovan clicked off, then checked the time. Then he placed the call to Susan’s family.
When Matt returned, Donovan was so engrossed in staring at the mountains of British Columbia that he wasn’t sure how long Matt had been buzzing. He got up, let him in, and returned to the computer. Matt got himself a beer and came over to the kitchen table, sat down.
Donovan looked up.
“All right. Enough fucking around. We need to find Charlie,” he said.
* * *
Marci showed up around 9:00 AM Eastern. Donovan gave her time to set her crutches against the wall before wrapping her in a hug. It went on a long time. Then she took her crutches again and made her way to the couch.
“Already walking,” said Donovan. “They do good work.”
“They tell me I’ll be done with the crutches in a week.”
Marci and Matt exchanged nods.
Donovan plugged in his speakers. “All right,” he said. “Matt’s heard a little of this already, but you should both hear the whole thing. Sorry about the sound quality. I recorded it on my cell holding it under the table.”
He started the recording. When it was done, he said, “That was a little harder to listen to again than I’d expected. I don’t mean the sound quality.”
Marci nodded. “I’m all cried out for now,” she said.
“Me too,” said Donovan.
He got up and paced a little, then sat down again.
“Anything else?” said Marci. “I need to—I want to dive into this.”
“Yeah, I know. There’s something else. I talked to your predecessor. He had some info. I’ve been holding off on telling Matt until you were both here.”
“Okay.”
He summarized what Grampa had told him, using as few words as possible.
Then he said, “Any questions?”
Marci said, “How do we find Charlie?”
“You should have put a tracker on Nagorski and let him go,” said Matt.
“First of all, I don’t have a tracker. Second, it’s pointless. Charlie isn’t going to come anywhere near him. Third, the last thing I’m gonna do is let that psycho fuck loose on the world. So, here’s the thing: Charlie’s the one who’s had all the artifacts, controlled them all.”
“Sure,” said Marci. “That’s been clear all along.”
“There has to be a way to—hang on,” he finished as his computer informed him of a Skype call. It was Becker. He clicked answer.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Longfellow. This concerns the ‘script’ placed to detect an email from the individual who created the dummy email account.”
“Who we’re assuming is your old friend, Charles Leong; is that correct, Mr. Becker?”
Either Becker didn’t react, or Skype concealed his reaction to Donovan’s your old friend. “That is correct. Half an hour ago, we received what our computer expert called a ‘hit.’”
“And?”
“We have just now confirmed the location.”
“Excellent. Where is he?”
“A city called Atlanta.”
“In a state called Georgia?”
“Yes. Your country, of course.”
“It’s not my country, Mr. Becker. Can we get any more specific than Atlanta? It’s a big place.”
“The neighborhood is called Mechanicsville. That is as close as we could get.”
“Good. That ought to do it. Thank you, Mr. Becker.”
“Good hunting, Mr. Longfellow.”
He disconnected, and turned around.
“Well then,” he said.
“What now?” said Marci.
“Now we head to Georgia. Probably fly instead of slipwalk, but I’ll ask Upstairs. Matt? You look like you got something on your mind.”
Matt nodded. “Yeah, there may be a thing.”
They both looked at him and waited.
“I was in Madrid a few days ago,” he said. “And I might have learned something. If I’m right, I may have an idea on how to get the guy who’s behind it all. Let me run it by you.”
“Is it anything that will make it a bad idea to go to Atlanta?”
“No.”
“Then tell us on the plane. I’ll grab my lighter.”
“Lighter?”
“Never mind. Let me call in about travel arrangements; may as well save Fenwood from apoplexy.”
“I didn’t think people got that anymore,” said Matt.
“Let’s go,” said Marci.
Marci and Matt stood up. Donovan went to the closet, unlocked it, and took his blackjack, a lighter, a knotnot, and the car keys. He closed the closet and started whistling “Marching Through Georgia,” even though he was pretty sure neither of the others would get it.
* * *
Eight hours later, they were in the Atlanta airport, Oversight preferring to pay for three short-notice tickets as opposed to three slipwalks. Donovan wondered if some poor clerk had had to laboriously calculate the costs and come up with a comparison. Probably.
They waited while Matt picked up his suitcase—a suitcase purchased at the airport, because Matt had firearms, and going back and forth through security to get the bag, bring it back, check it, and return had put Matt in such a foul mood that he hadn’t spoken the entire trip until Donovan pointed out that he had information to share. He told them about his visit to Madrid, and they talked over plans. They had things fairly well figured out when they landed in Atlanta. After collecting Matt’s suitcase, they took a shuttle to a Ramada near Mechanicsville that had a vacancy. The desk clerk looked like she still belonged in school, but she gave the three of them a double-double without comment, though she did purse her lips in disapproval. They must learn that early around here, thought Donovan.
Once they got to the room, Marci announced that she would use all of the sorcerous power at her disposal to destroy anyone who tried to beat her to the shower. Donovan tossed his suitcase into the corner and collapsed on one of the beds. Matt shrugged, tossed his suitcase next to Donovan’s, and collapsed on the other.
How they worked it out Donovan didn’t know, because he was asleep before the bathroom door closed.
He felt better the next morning. He stumbled out of bed while Marci and Matt were still asleep in the other. They were still asleep when he was finished in the bathroom. He looked at them, and tried to decide from how they were sleeping if they’d had sex. He couldn’t tell, but it wasn’t any of his business anyway, except in the vague, general sense that Matt was now sort of on his team and protocol had things to say about it. But Donovan wasn’t about to start paying attention to protocol now of all times.
He went downstairs to the restaurant and had a long, slow breakfast. They joined him about halfway through and he still couldn’t tell. He gave himself a firm talking-to for paying so much attention to it.
“So,” said Matt. “Is there a plan?”
“Yes,” said Donovan. “Unfortunately, it’s too complicated to actually work. In general, we find him, we take him, we have a big party.”
“Complicated is bad,” said Matt. “Complicated means everything goes south.”
Donovan nodded. “I’ve been trying to figure out ways to simplify it. I prepare an email, but don’t send it. Marci prepares a spell, but doesn’t cast it. That’s the tricky part, really: If everything goes down the way I think it will, we’ll need Marci to do two things at once, and neither one is easy.”
“I know what the obvious one is,” said Marci. “What’s the other?”
Donovan pulled out the car keys. “This thing needs to penetrate. It needs to get past any protections or defenses, just for a second.”
Marci twirled a finger in her hair, then stopped and put her hands in her lap as if it required an act of will. “Breaking down a shield is a test of strength, whether it’s a protection against magic or physical attacks.”
“And?”
“I’m not confident.”
“Fuck.”
She bit her lower lip. “Unless.”
“Okay,” said Donovan. “I like unless. Let’s go with unless. Unless what?”
“Unless we can prep the room. I mean, if I can set it up ahead of time, like a thing that just happens, I can spend some time putting extra power into it, like an artifact.”
Donovan studied her face; there was something she wasn’t saying. “Is there a downside to that?”
“Well, I’ll need to stuff a lot of power into it. You know what happens when your ability to stuff power into an artifact exceeds your ability to prepare the artifact to contain it?”
“Let me guess—something not good?”
“Right.”
“Well, okay. Um, do the spell thing, but not the too much power thing.”
“Great plan,” said Marci dryly.
They fiddled around with the details as Matt and Marci ate. Or, well, Matt ate; Marci sort of picked at her food.
“So,” said Matt. “Now we’re in the area, and we have a whole plan except how do we find him? We can rent a car and go driving through every neighborhood until we spot him, but that doesn’t sound like such a good idea.”
“We have his picture,” said Donovan. “There are such places as grocery stores, convenience stores, and gas stations.”
“Cover story? I mean, just walking up to people and showing his picture will make them suspicious, right?”
“We won’t need a cover story,” said Marci.
“Oh, right. Yeah.”
“Finish your breakfasts,” said Donovan.
He charged it to the room, which put it in the hands of the Black Hole to deal with, and much joy may it bring Fenwood.
Donovan secured a rental, which took a couple of hours to arrange and acquire. They settled on a blue Ford Fiesta, because Marci said she hated SUVs, though she hadn’t objected in San Diego or Connecticut. She sat in back as punishment and because she was the smallest. They followed the GPS to the Mechanicsville neighborhood and began checking convenience stores. The clerks acted like it was no big deal seeing Donovan walk in with Matt and Marci, and he realized that it didn’t make him nearly as nervous as he’d been with Marci and Susan, and then immediately felt guilty. Fortunately, it didn’t take long. The fourth one they tried, they walked in, Marci did her Jedi mind trick, and they showed the picture.
“Oh yeah,” said a fat clerk who looked like he owned the place. “Yeah. That’s Charlie. Lives down the street. I don’t know which house.”
“Well, damn,” said Matt. “Is it all going to be that easy?”
“I hope so,” said Donovan. “Now, may I suggest that we all take this opportunity to use this nice man’s restroom? And then maybe buy something, on account of he’s such a great guy?”
Matt bought a pack of Camel 99’s, Donovan’s old brand, which Matt promised not to smoke in the car, and Marci got a Snickers bar.
They got back into the car, drove it to the middle of the block, parked, got out, and stood around as if they were having a conversation, all of them scanning the street. Marci did her thing to make them less conspicuous, and they waited.
“There’s a part of this plan we didn’t talk about.”
“Well, shit,” said Donovan. “What is it?”
“When we find him, Marci does something so the guy starts acting drunk, right?”
“Right.”
“And we bring him into his own house, right?”
“Right.”
“What if someone’s there?”
“That’s why we have you, big guy.”
They sat in the car, and Donovan composed the email, just waiting to press send.
At 6:47 in the evening, Charles Leong came out of his house, almost square in front of them, and set off down the street toward the convenience store.
“All right,” said Donovan, trying to sound as if his heart weren’t suddenly hammering. “Let’s take him.”