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Ghost is waiting on me.

He knows I won’t send anyone to capture or kill him. And that’s not an agreement between killers, but rather a hostage situation, and knowledge is the hostage. He knows who killed Murphy. Therefore, I must protect him.

For now.

I screenshot the number he contacted me on and consider texting it to Tic Tac to research, but think better. Ghost will cover his ass and do it well, and if anyone figures out Ghost is waiting on me, they’ll send in the cavalry, and the cavalry will end up dead.

Damn it , I think before I text Ghost: I’ll be there in an hour and a half.

So slow, he replie s. I’m not sure what to make of that, Agent Mendez.

He’s throwing my new name in my face, accusing me of using it to hide. I don’t hide. Saving lives takes longer than taking them. You’re a little too fast for your own good. I bet you made a mistake I can extort, and, of course, I will.

You have no idea how much time I put into a perfect kill. I’ll show you if you want. There’s a flirty, threatening tone to the message before he adds, Should we meet here, or for strawberry pie?

I tilt my head at the question. How the fuck does he know about the pie? He follows me, I conclude. Of course he follows me, but what pisses me off is that I didn’t know that until this moment when he wanted me to know. That’s dangerous. He’s dangerous. I reply with: I only eat pie with people I like.

You like me. And I like you, too. It’s why you’re still alive.

As if, I think and respond with: Big egos make big targets.

Which one of us are you warning?

I’ll pick up a pie on my way there. We can share it, and I’ll know it’s not poisonous, but you won’t. It’s not like I have to hurry. We both know Mark is dead. I needed him, asshole.

I told you I’d take care of this for you. See you soon, Lilah.

Lilah.

Not Agent Mendez.

What kind of fuckery is this?

I curse and check my messages to find nothing. No one has shit for me right now, but Ghost does. The pilot climbs onto the chopper, and I thrum my fingers on my seat, almost immune to the noise vibrating around me—I take this flight so often. Ghost is a cat playing with his prey, and I’m the prey; only I’m not prey. I’m the one who finally kills him. After I’m done with him. If he thinks otherwise, good. I can make that work for me. I’m better underestimated.

Enrique is already in the seat next to me, strapping in. I text him to avoid yelling over the rage of the engine. Have someone pick up a pie to take with me to Mark Walker’s.

I watch him respond to the ping of his phone, and he snaps it from his pocket, reads the message, and scowls at me. “What?” he mouths.

“Just fucking do it,” I mouth right back. “And no pie for you.” I sink back into my cushion before closing my eyes, certain that bringing Ghost a pie is the way to win over an assassin. And as a bonus, we need a knife to cut it.