A chorus of complaints erupted. Pat Johnson clutched his chest as if to contain a bout of angina.
Hugh rapped his empty coffee mug on the fine-grained tabletop a few times to restore order. “I know,” he said. “Hear me out. Hear me out, people.…”
Evan watched Mia, the only one not responding. Her gaze was low, aimed beneath the lip of the table, presumably fixed on the iPhone in her lap. She chewed her lip anxiously.
The muscles of Mia’s face tensed, and then, faintly over the commotion, Evan heard the theme from Jaws. Mia held the phone to her face silently, her expression implacable, then slipped it secretively back into her purse, pushed away from the table, and rose to leave.
Evan stood as well, following her out.
He caught her at the elevator, waiting for the car, drumming her hands impatiently on her thighs.
“You okay?” he asked. “Rushing out of there?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”
He watched her eyes and knew her to be lying. “Where you headed?”
“My brother’s,” she said. “He just called. I have to pick up Peter.”
Her brother’s ringtone was Peanuts, not Jaws.
She pulled a tangle of curls off her forehead, exposing that birthmark on her temple. Her faint freckles were barely visible across her nose.
“You know,” he said, “if something’s wrong or you need help…”
Her gaze darted back to the illuminated floor numbers. “Thanks, Evan. But this isn’t the kind of problem you can solve.”
He thumbed the UP button and waited silently at her side.
The down car arrived first, and he let the doors close behind her.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Katrin. The mission. Upstairs.
He thought of Peter’s husky voice, that sloppy Gonzo Band-Aid on his forehead. Thanks for covering for me.
Goddamn it, kid.
Evan jogged for the service elevator. It arrived promptly, and he rode it down to the parking level.
It let out near the trash bins, and he stepped unseen onto the dim floor. He heard Mia’s footsteps before he saw her. A clipped, fast walk to her car, the iPhone out again and at her cheek.
Moving toward his truck, he cut behind the trunks of various German sedans, holding parallel to her across the parking level. She climbed into her Acura, pulling out fast enough that the tires chirped on the slick concrete. He emerged from cover, reaching for his driver’s door, when he heard heavy breathing behind him.
Slowly, he half turned, Johnny Middleton coming visible in the shadows to his side. Brass knuckles laced one of his fists; the other held a T-handled fighting knife. He stepped toward Evan, his face flushed, his stocky form wrapped in that martial-arts sweat suit.
“I’m sorry, Evan,” he said.
41
Emotional Centers
Evan squared up in the narrow space between vehicles as Johnny shuffled forward. His eyes were bloodshot; one lid throbbed spasmodically. Evan’s own eyes stayed on the fighting knife, waiting for it to rise, but Johnny held it low at his belly. Only secondarily did it strike Evan that he’d brought nothing but fists to a knife fight.
He gauged the angle to collapse Johnny’s throat with a finger-thrust strike, but then Johnny’s arms went loose at his sides. Unexpectedly, he started to cry. “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”
Johnny’s parking space was two slots over, the trunk of his BMW open. He hadn’t been lying in wait, Evan realized, but he’d been interrupted from something.
“What happened?” Evan asked.
“It was in the combat-training room last week,” he said. “I broke a guy’s nose. It might have been after the whistle. He’s got older brothers. They’re serious fighters. Grew up with it, I mean. It’s a bad fucking scene. I thought we were cool, but I showed up today for belt testing and they were waiting. All three of them. I took off, but they followed me back here. I don’t want my dad to know. Jesus — if he found out…”
Evan exhaled, frustration seeping in. First he’d made a quick exception to help Mia, and now here Johnny was, whining like a slapped bully. Maybe that’s what real life was, one problem bleeding into the next. How had Mia put it? Life would be boring if we didn’t have other people around complicating everything. He had Mia to worry about now in addition to Katrin. The last thing he could do was add Johnny to the mix.
“Listen,” Evan said. “I have to get back to work.”
Johnny lowered his head and began sobbing.
Evan looked at the ceiling.
Fuck.
“Where are they?” he asked. “These guys.”
Johnny pointed up the ramp. “Outside. Just waiting.”
“Put the knife away.”
“Look, man.” Johnny wiped at his cheeks. “This is seriously dangerous, street-level shit. Be grateful you don’t deal with this kind of stuff.” The flush had crept up his face, turning his forehead shiny, making the hair plugs stand out. “I’m not really a tough guy. If I don’t bluff ’em down, they’ll fuck me up bad.”
“Call the cops.”
“I can’t do that. That’s a pussy move.”
“You’re gonna talk yourself right into a body bag.”
“You don’t understand these guys, Evan. They’ll just wait. They’ll just wait and come back for me later.”
Evan took a breath. Exhaled through clenched teeth. “Then I’ll go with you. To talk to them.”
Johnny’s laugh turned to another sob halfway through. “Evan. This isn’t some … some business dispute like whatever you’re used to. These guys are savages.”
Already Evan was walking toward the slope. Johnny followed him up, still pleading with him. Evan waved his foot in front of the sensor, and the gate rattled open.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Johnny said. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”
They emerged into the midday sun. Up on the sidewalk, three men in their twenties waited, wearing sleeveless shirts despite the cool weather. Wiry builds, compact muscles, gelled hair. They looked to be of Indonesian descent. The smallest wore a protective nose splint.
Evan gestured to the loading-dock area behind the building, and the brothers drifted in that direction, keeping a good distance ahead, disappearing around the corner.
“You don’t want to do that,” Johnny said. “You really don’t want to go back there where no one can see us.”
They stepped around the corner. Midway down the rear façade of the building, the brothers had assembled. Arms crossed, matching scowls, like something out of a bad import rap video.
As Evan approached, Johnny lost a half step, edging behind him. The men stood in formation, stone-faced.
Evan said, “I understand my friend here screwed up.”
The oldest-looking brother’s lips pursed, anger piercing the mask. “He broke Reza’s fucking nose. I’d say that qualifies as screwing up.”
Reza, his lips twisted in a scowl, lifted a hand to the splint, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the thin shirt. His shoulders were glossed with perspiration.
Evan looked from brother to brother, taking his time. “You’re hoping for fight or flight,” he said. “But there are other options here, and to be honest, I don’t have time for this right now. Let’s find an easier solution.”
A vein pulsed in the middle brother’s arm. “We’re not here to fucking talk.”
Johnny’s voice, husky with fear, came from behind Evan’s shoulder. “I told you.”
Evan stared at the oldest brother. “I know you think you’ve got this under control. But you’re breathing hard. Your heart rates are up right now. Blood pressure, too. You’re sweating, all three of you. The emotional centers of your brains are going haywire. Your stomachs are tightening as we speak, all those stress hormones coursing through you.” He stepped forward. “You’re not in control as much as you think you are. If a fight breaks out, you won’t be happy with the result. You’ve got numbers, yes, and you’re hoping I’m as nervous as you are, that I’ll fight rashly, that I’ll make mistakes. But I want you to look at me. And tell me: Do I look scared?”