“You never told me if you wanted his actual head or not,” I reminded him. “I usually go with photos because my carving skills are a little subpar. I tend to make a mess, but it’s your choice.”
Gavino took a slight step back.
“Pictures are fine,” he said.
I held in a laugh as I shooed them all out of the room. From the window, I watched them cross the street and head back to the bar. I shoved the AR and the SIG into a duffel bag before I left the room, locking it behind me. I used the roof access to check out the scene from there, was pretty happy with the view, and then made my way down and out the back of the building where Gavino and his crew would have less of a chance of seeing me leave.
I’d been gone too long and wanted to check on Lia as quickly as I could.
I walked, took a bus, got on the L for a few stops, and then took a bus back to the Loop. I loved riding on Chicago’s mass transit systems anyway, so covering my routes wasn’t a chore for me usually. This time, though, when I had Lia waiting for me, I had to force myself to make sure I wasn’t being followed. The desire to both keep her safe and get back to her as quickly as I could was in conflict.
I traveled up north, then back down south, and finally got on a bus that would take me to the new apartment. It was rush hour, and the bus was overcrowded, so I stood and hung onto one of the bars for a while until there was a free seat. More people packed on, and I tried to stop the claustrophobia from getting to me.
It was a bit too much like the bus I rode just after killing Terry and Bridgett, and I was tense and agitated as people crowded around me. At that time, I had been without sleep for days and had nearly pulled out my gun and started shooting. I wasn’t in the same state this time, but I was still feeling quite off.
I tried looking out the window for a while in hopes that the open space outside would help. It did—for a while.
Then I saw him.
It was the same kid in the same sand-covered clothes. He was standing on the corner of the street right by the bus stop with his arms out at his sides. There was something in his hand, and I was fairly sure it was a detonator wired to the explosives underneath his shirt.
I pushed my way off the bus and ran to the corner, but he was go
ne.
With my fingers curled into fists, I looked up and down the street to see if I could locate him again, but there was no sign of him.
“That’s because he isn’t fucking there.”
I cringed at the sound of my own voice directed at nothing and no one but myself. I squeezed my eyes shut, opened them, and took one last look around before boarding the next bus.
When I finally arrived at the apartment, Lia was in the kitchen, putting things away from one of the last of the boxes, and Odin was snuffling around in the corners, still unsure about his new surroundings. After putting my newly acquired weapons in the front closet, I kissed Lia’s cheek, which she seemed to find amusing, and played fetch with Odin for a bit.
I relaxed pretty quickly, even in the less-than-familiar surroundings. The stuff and the company were all familiar, which seemed to help.
It felt all too comfortable, and as I sat back on the couch and observed Lia make dinner, it started to concern me a bit. It felt great—no doubt about it—but it also felt wrong somehow. Maybe because of who I was and what I had done, I just didn’t feel like I deserved it all, but I wasn’t sure. Even after my little episode on the bus, I was happy. It wasn’t a feeling I was used to experiencing.
Complacency is a bad thing.
My mind moved into itself.
“Got a spare smoke, sir?”
“Sure.” I pull one out and hand it over to the private, who lights it quickly before leaning back against the wall next to me.”
“I’m heading back to the infantry unit in about an hour,” he says. “I’ll report back all the intel you gave me. Any chance they’ve discovered our position?”
“We've been here two weeks, private,” I say. “If we were going to be found, we would have been found already.”
“Evan?”
“Huh?” I glanced up at Lia who was looking at me with questions in her eyes.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I rubbed my face and felt annoyed with the stubble.
“I asked you if chicken was all right for the stir-fry. There’s also beef.”