Exit Strategy (Nadia Stafford 1)

"Don't doubt that. What was it?"

When I didn't answer, he pointed at the glove box. "Can you grab--?"

I had it open before he finished. A box of American cigarettes nearly fell in my lap. When he nodded, I opened the pack and handed him one. Even lit the match for him. He nodded his thanks, took the first drag and made a face, lips curving in a silent oath.

I arched my brows. "Not your normal brand, I take it."

"Does it smell like it?"

"No, but I wasn't about to assume that what you normally smoke at the lodge is your normal brand." When he gave me a look, I shrugged. "Hey, if you smoked something different, trying to throw me off track, I wouldn't blame you."

"I don't pull that shit, Nadia. Not with you." He lifted the cigarette. "This? Just while I'm on a job. Other's too..."

"Distinctive?"

He nodded. "'Course, if I had any brains? Quit altogether. Worst habit a pro can have. Started quitting ten years ago. Got down to maybe one a day. Then...stuck."

Another drag. He shook his head and reached for the ashtray then stopped and held the cigarette out to me. I shook my head and he stubbed it out.

"About Evelyn," he said. "Whatever happened? Like to know."

He wasn't going to let that

slide, so I told him about Evelyn's stunt in the parking lot, then said, "So what was that about? Testing me or trying to go after the guy herself ?"

"Probably both. You spot her trick? You pass. You both go. You fail?" He shrugged. "Better to leave you behind."

He passed a transport, then turned back to the slow lane before speaking again.

"Either way? Fucking waste of time. You're pissed? Got a right to be."

"She likes games, doesn't she?"

"All there is. This investigation? A big game. That hitman? Smaller game. Testing you? Tiny game in that one. Like fucking nesting dolls. She pulls that shit again? Walk away."

* * *

TWENTY-FIVE

The nurse behind the desk worried her identification badge, the surface dulled from handling. She looked no more than twenty-one. From the way she flinched every time a patient walked by, this was the only job she'd been able to find, and she was counting the days until she could transfer.

"Mr. Moreland doesn't get many visitors."

"But he is allowed to have them, correct?" I said.

She shot a nervous glance around. I couldn't see the cause of her discomfort. There were no drooling, ranting, half-naked lunatics wandering the halls. The ID badges were the only way I could see to tell the patients from the staff.

"Mr. Moreland is permitted visitors, is he not?"

"Umm, right."

"And your evening visiting hours are 7 to 9 p.m., correct?"

A nod.

"Then forget this"--I gestured to my business card on the counter--"and consider me a visitor."

"Do you need a special room?" she asked.