Page 18

Eve considered the rain, steady but thin, another kind of shield. It made bigger idiots out of drivers, but it encouraged the pedestrian population to either hurry on their way or stay indoors.

Feeney parked the van a half block from Chez Robert, and Eve huddled in front of the screens in the back and their various street views.

Watching, watching, she checked in with Lowenbaum.

“We’re in position,” he told her. “All clear.”

“Roger that.”

On-screen, she watched members of her team move toward their positions from various locations, scouting the block as they went.

“Give me a view of Chez Robert. I can’t see him going in there, but.”

As McNab added the angle, Feeney climbed in the back. “Got about fifteen minutes.” Pulling the bag of candied almonds out of his pocket, he offered them around. “If he wants one of those front-row seats?” Feeney nodded toward the sidewalk dining views. “Booking at thirteen hundred’s probable, and we’re sliding past that. Got a few empty tables.”

He shook his head, crunched an almond. “Why people want to eat outside with the traffic noise and rain clogging the air beats me.”

“Urban treat.” Callendar shrugged. “And see, that woman’s got a little dog on her lap. They won’t let you do that inside.”

“I won’t start on eating lunch with a dog on your lap.”

“That guy.” Eve tapped the screen. “Right height range, right weight range. Close in there.”

This time Roarke handled it.

“Nice suit, umbrella. Clean-shaven, appearance closer to sixty, but he’s done that before. Heading into the men’s shop. Baxter, check the man coming in your location.”

“Copy.”

“Got a couple, male, female, getting out of at cab at 186. Can’t get a good angle on them,” McNab told her. “Sharing a big umbrella.”

Eve shifted her focus as Baxter spoke in her ear.

“No go. Assistant manager back from lunch break.”

“Copy.”

She watched the couple go to the residential door, saw the woman take out a swipe, glance up at the man, laugh, and pat his arm as they walked in out of the rain.

Works alone, she thought. But.

She’d seen the lights on in the empty fifth-floor unit. As the privacy screen was off, she’d also seen the ladder, the figures in white coveralls.

Painters.

She kept her eye out for the lights to go on in 3-C.

“Another possible,” Callendar said. “Black suit, black umbrella. Got facial hair.”

“He likes disguises. Jenkinson, coming in at your three o’clock.”

“Got him. Going straight to a table, younger guy already there. Shaking hands.”

“Yeah, I see.” He works alone, she thought again. But, but, but. “Keep an eye on him.”

While Jenkinson kept an eye, and Eve scanned screens, Potter—under the name Jamison Brockstone—stepped out of the elevator on the third floor of 186. The real estate agent, one Brendita—“just call me Dita”—Havanara, continued her pitch.

“As you can see, a well-maintained, secure building in a lovely, active neighborhood. Easy walking to shops, restaurants.”

She led him down to 3-C. “As I told you, apartments here turn over very quickly. I’m sorry your wife couldn’t make it today.”

“So is she.” He lifted his hands. “It’s only the sniffles, but Alice is very cautious.”

“And with this rain. In any case, palm plate, door cam, and as you hear—or rather don’t—excellent soundproofing.”

She opened the door, and he listened with half an ear as she hyped the space, the privacy screening throughout, the flooring.

“Let me get the lights. So gloomy today.”

“No, I’d like to see it as is, in the gloom first, if you don’t mind.”

He wandered, as if interested in the space, the screening, the flooring. All he cared about was the view of Chez Robert.

And it was perfect, of course.

He’d planned to watch from the restaurant on the street, but this? So much better. More a private moment, to cherish, to savor. He’d had to scramble a bit when he’d seen the listing, but worth it.

So worth it.

“The kitchen area.”

She went on about counters, cabinets, appliances.

“Do you cook, Mr. Brockstone?”

He laughed as if such a question was foolish. “Not at all. My wife handles such things. It’s often reservations,” he added with a wink. “But she’s quite a good cook when she puts her mind to it.”

“She should love cooking here. It’s a wonderful space for entertaining. For family evenings. Do you have children?”

He despised the little brats, but made up a son, a daughter, and three adorable grandchildren on the spot.

“Lovely! You’ll see the second bedroom is a good space. For guests, for grands spending the night, and of course, an excellent home office or multipurpose space.”

He tolerated the tour—he had time, still had time. Made approving comments or noises about the main suite with its windows—and the street view—its en suite, the double closets.

The surprise bonus, according to Dita, of a closet holding a combination washer/dryer.

“Not all the units have this, so there are laundry facilities, along with storage areas, on the basement level. The storage facility is an additional monthly fee.”

“Of course.”

“Is there anything I’ve missed? Do you have any questions?”

“Actually, I’d very much like to contact my wife, take her on a virtual tour. Then we can discuss—just the two of us, if you don’t mind.”

He very much wanted to be alone to enjoy his moment. If she objected, well, he could slit her throat. But he supposed he’d avoid the mess and be shocked at the explosion with her.

“That’s an excellent idea. As I said, these apartments don’t stay on the market long. Since you indicated, when I told you about the vacancy—not yet listed!—on five, you’d like to see it, too, why don’t I meet you up there when you’re done? 5-A. Remember, they are painting this afternoon, but if you and your wife want a look?”

“Perfect. I’ll just walk through with Alice. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes or so, then I’ll come up.”

“5-A.”

“5-A.” He beamed smiles. “Ten minutes. Fifteen if Alice is chatty.”

When she finally shut the door behind her, Potter moved straight to the window. Then checked his wrist unit. “Five minutes, thirty-two seconds.”

They’d be at the table now. He was sorry he’d missed seeing them arrive, but he’d had to pretend interest in closets and double sinks and a ridiculous laundry machine.

But he could imagine, oh so well.

And up here, alone, he could cheer, right out loud (good soundproofing) when the bomb blew those bitches to bits and pieces.

For fun, he sent Iris a quick text from her cousin’s ’link.

Darling! So sorry, running late! This rain. I’ll be rushing in, wet and frazzled, in five minutes! Kiss, kiss.

The response came moments later.

No worries. We’re having a glass of wine and catching up without you.

Smiling, he slipped the ’link back into his pocket. “Enjoy your glass of wine. It’s your last.”

In the van, Eve checked her own ’link. “He contacted Iris, said he’s running late. Or her cousin is. Goddamn it, no sign of him.”

No light in 3-C, painters still moving around in 5-A.

“He’s here, I know he’s here.”

She looked at the view of 186.

“Lights on in 5-A. Painters in there. Shit, what if he’s posing as a worker up there? I’m going in. I’m going to check.”

“He knows your face,” Roarke reminded her.

“Right.” She plucked the bucket rain cap off Callendar’s head. “This’ll work. Peabody, give me two minutes inside, then follow. I’m checking 5-A, then we’ll hit 3-C on the way out if it’s a bust.”

“You got three minutes, forty-eight seconds till it doesn’t blow.”

“Got it. All teams, Peabody and I are doing a check of 186. Give me two minutes inside,” she repeated.

She went out the back, and hunching over as if bothered by the rain, walked the quarter block to 186.

“Want company, LT?” Jenkinson said in her ear as she passed.

“Peabody’s behind me in two.”

She mastered in, scanned the small lobby, then took the elevator to five.

On five, she scanned the hall, then walked straight to 5-A.

One hand resting on her weapon, she mastered in.

And into blasting music and the thick smell of paint.

Two figures in white hooded coveralls and breathing masks manned sprayers on either side of the living area.

One, obviously female by the way the coveralls fit, spotted her, turned off her sprayer.

“Jeez, Denny, we got another one. Do for you?”

Eve held up her badge, and since she couldn’t see the second painter’s face, kept the other hand on her weapon. “Turn off the music. Take off the masks.”

“What the what?” The female slapped a pocket, and whatever device blasted music. The second pushed up his mask.

Since he couldn’t have been more than thirty, Eve relaxed slightly.

“We’re supposed to be here,” he told her.

“Just the two of you painting this unit?”

“Us and Ned. He’s cutting in the bedrooms.”

“Stay where you are,” she said, and moved in the direction he’d pointed.

In one of the spare bedrooms, the man, with an ebony hand, rock steady, painted a line ruler straight at the top of the ceiling. Since he was easily six-four in his paint-splattered kicks, he reached his target without a ladder.

She backed out, walked to where the painters stood, both slurping from tubes.

“Counting down from thirty,” Roarke said in her ear.

“5-C’s clear,” she responded. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, then stopped on her way to the door.

“What other one? You said you had another one?”

“Another one what? Oh right, person coming in. The lady.”

She gestured to what Eve remembered was the main bedroom just as a woman came out.

“Please don’t start the sprayers again until my client arrives and I show him through. It’s already… Hello,” she said to Eve. “Can I help you?”

She recognized the suit, the slice of face she’d seen glance up and laugh. At a man shielded by an umbrella.

Showing the apartment. A client.

“You came in with a man about fifteen minutes ago. Where is he?”

“Excuse me, I have exclusive rights on this unit until it’s advertised. Who are you?”

She yanked out her badge. “Where the hell is he?”

“Well, for heaven’s sakes! Mr. Brockstone should be on his way up to view this apartment.”

“Where is he now ?”

“On his way up, didn’t I just say?”

“3-C. Son of a bitch! All teams, all teams. Subject is in the building, 3-C. Cover the exits. I’m heading down.”

She pulled open the door just as Peabody turned to run for the stairs.

As the Realtor stepped out of the bedroom in 5-A, Potter stood by the window. “Five, four, three, two, one!”

For an instant, his heart was full of joy, of triumph. He even pumped a fist in the air.

And nothing happened.

No blast of sound. No one on the street stopped, no cars braked at the sound of an explosion. No one ran screaming out of Chez Robert.

Furious, he jabbed the remote in his pocket.

Nothing.

And in that next instant, as fury turned to fear, he knew.

They’d set him up. Somehow.

He ran.

He flashed back to the night, decades before, when he’d been forced to run. His legs didn’t move as fast now, but they wouldn’t take him.

They wouldn’t take him. He’d kill them all first.

Eve pounded down to three with Peabody on her heels. The door to 3-C hung open.

“Clear it, clear it fast. Black suit,” she shouted at her team as she and Peabody cleared. “Box him in. He’s running.”

And so did she, down the steps as Santiago and Carmichael ran up.

“He didn’t come this way. He didn’t come out the front,” Carmichael told her.

“Clear the basement level!”

Alarms went off.

“Fire exit. Goddamn it.”

She launched herself over the railing, hit the floor, then streaked toward the back. She looked right, left, and saw him running across the intersection at the end of the block.

She shouted orders, locations, directions as she raced through rain that had decided to come back with a vengeance.

Though she had to dodge umbrellas and people who weren’t looking where the hell they were going, she cut the distance in half before he looked over his shoulder and spotted her.

Then he did exactly what she’d feared. He pulled out a gun.

She felt the impact of the bullet on her shoulder, a light punch. And kept going.

Her own weapon in hand, she was still yards away when he planted, changed tactic.

With a wild grin he aimed not at Eve but at two women, oblivious as they walked arm in arm under an umbrella and chattered away.

She was fast, but not as fast as a bullet. With no choice, she flung herself in front of the women. She felt the impact again along her ribs, and a quick, hot sting as the women, shrieking, fell on the wet pavement.

One of them wrapped an arm around her leg and started screaming for help. For the police.

“Lady, lady, I’m a cop. I’m in pursuit.”

And losing him, losing him in the rain.

The woman kept screaming, and before Eve could pull free, a good Samaritan built like a maxibus got in her face.

“I saw what you did. You knocked these ladies down.”

“We’re cops, we’re cops. In pursuit.” Panting, Santiago ran up, waving his badge. “An armed suspect. Go, Dallas, go!”

She went, but when Roarke cut across her path from the north, she knew they’d lost him.

“No sign of him the way I came,” Roarke told her. “Feeney’s circling in the van, and your BOLO went out.”

Breathing hard, a drenched Santiago caught up. “I used to steal bases like they were candy, but fucking A, Dallas. You’d’ve had him, you’d have had him if those civilians hadn’t gotten in the way. And let’s hear it for Thin Shield.”

“He fired on you?”

“Twice,” Santiago said to Roarke. “Second time he aimed for the civilians. Bastard. Dallas knocked them down to spare them a bullet, then they tangled her up just long enough.”

“We lost him. All this, and we still lost him.”

She pressed her fingers against the sting on the edge of her right ribs. And they came back bloody.

“Well, shit.”

“You’re hit.”

Roarke dragged up her shirt.

“Hey, hey, we’re on the freaking street.”

“Shut up. It didn’t penetrate.” Relief trembled through him as he examined the wound. “A graze, not a pleasant one, but shallow.”

“I could’ve told you. It hit the lining. I felt it. I guess it caught me a little when I had to jump in front of those idiot women.”

Roarke tapped his earbud as she dragged her shirt back down. “Feeney, we need the van at our location. The lieutenant’s wounded.”

“Don’t say that!” Appalled, she shoved at his arm. “I’m not wounded. I’m scratched. I need these blocks canvassed, I need to see security feeds from door cams. I need—”

“To tell your very efficient team what you need them to do while you’re getting that wound treated.”

If she could’ve torn out her hair—or better, his—she’d have done it.

“I’m not going to the hospital for this. That’s ridiculous.”

“We’ll see what the MTs have to say.”

Santiago cleared his throat. “Say! How about we get started on the canvass? Here’s Carmichael now.”

“Was that gunfire?” Carmichael demanded. “I thought I heard—Dallas, you’re bleeding.”

“White male, seventy-eight. Looks late sixties, approximately five-ten, a hundred and sixty, blond, collar-length hair, black suit, white shirt, blue tie. Heading west on foot when I lost him.”

Peabody jogged up. “I took over the civilians from Santiago. All handled. Did I hear— Dallas, you’re bleeding.”

Eve ignored her, along with the chatter in her ear from various team members. “Everybody, shut the hell up! There’s a glide-cart on the next corner, talk to the operator. Canvass the block, then split with the rest of the team. West, north, south. I couldn’t see which direction he took. I want McNab and Callendar on door cams.”

“Your ride, Lieutenant,” Roarke said as the van pulled up.

“Goddamn it, I’m in charge of this clusterfuck of an op. He has a vehicle, and if he used it, he could already be in it. I want patrols sweeping, looking for single male drivers in late-model, luxury vehicles.

“He’s armed—handgun, and may have more weapons in a vehicle. He won’t hesitate to fire. Get started. Crap,” she added as an MT van pulled up behind Feeney.

“We got it, Loo,” Santiago assured her.

She started to turn to the EDD van, but Roarke steered her to the MTs. “If it’s nothing, as you insist, this won’t take long.”

Eve took one look at the MTs. Male, twenties, blue-streaked blond hair in a tight topknot. Female, forties, cool eyed, brown hair in a short braid.

She addressed the female. “No painkillers. Don’t come near me with that shit, clear? It’s a scratch.”

“Why don’t we have a look?”

Sitting in the back of the van, Eve lifted her shirt.

“More a gash, short and shallow. Let’s clean it up.” Those cool eyes met Eve’s. “It’s gonna hurt.”

“No painkillers.”

The MT didn’t lie. It stung like fire. To take her mind off it, Eve snapped out more orders to the team.

They cleaned it up, closed it up—which hurt more than the cleanout. When the MT loaded a pressure syringe, Eve put a hand on her weapon.

“For infection. You’re not going to do a follow-up, are you?”

“No.”

“Shouldn’t have a problem, but keep an eye for redness, for heat. Change the bandage in twelve, and keep the physical activity down to moderate for twenty-four to thirty-six.”

“Got it. Thanks. Ow,” she added as the pressure syringe gave her one more jolt.

When she got out of the van, Feeney stood on the sidewalk. He took a long look. “Too bad about the shirt.”

“Yeah.”

“We got him on some door cams. Got him turning, got the weapon in his hand. Fired twice.”

“Jacket took all the first one.”

“We got you jumping in front of the two civilians, and the tumble. How he caught you some? Pure bad luck. The jacket shifted just enough on the jump. You hadn’t moved, the woman on the right woulda been down, bleeding from a bullet in the gut.”

He paused, kept his eyes on hers.

“Just a graze. They fixed it.”

“Okay. What he did, he headed north at the corner, and got his head straight enough to move outside of cam range. We lost him. The team’s canvassing for wits, and we brought in some uniforms, but we lost him. That’s the fact.”

“I know it. I watched him walk into 186. I watched him go in.”

“With the woman. Arm-in-freaking-arm. We missed it. He duped us. That’s another fact.”

“He wouldn’t have gone into any building with a cam,” Roarke pointed out. “Or you wouldn’t have lost him. So a vehicle. He had one, got to it, or caught a cab. Or if panicked—”

“Subway, maxibus,” Eve finished. “Where there are more cams. We’ll check that, but he had a car somewhere close enough. It’s raining, why walk, why take a cab that can, eventually, be traced?”

Frustrated, she shoved her fingers through her hair. “I need to talk to the woman, the Realtor.”

“Brendita Havanara,” Feeney told her. “Jenkinson took her, got her statement. He’s got her contacts.”

“That’s something, at least.” She stood in the rain, scanning the street and the people moving along under umbrellas.

“A guy pulls out a handgun and fires, and people just go about their business.”

“New York.” Feeney shrugged. “We got some who thought it was a vid shoot. And plenty who didn’t notice a damn thing. It’s rainy, it’s noisy. Just a couple bangs.”

“We’ll finish the canvass, then debrief at Central. But he’s gone. He slipped right through.”

He’d run like he hadn’t in decades. West, north, then east, lungs screaming, legs burning. He cursed the fact he’d parked three blocks east of his target—then in a panic had run in the wrong direction.

When he reached the lot, the car, he slid down in the seat while his breath whistled in and out. He pulled off the blond wig. With trembling fingers, he pinched the tinted film from his eyes that turned them blue. Then removed the appliance that gave him a slight but noticeable overbite.

Just precautions. More a kind of costume, he’d thought, almost for the fun of it. He thanked God he’d taken the time for them.

He took off his tie, shrugged out of the suit jacket. His hands still shook as he unbuttoned his collar, rolled up his shirtsleeves.

He got a tube of water from the in-dash AC, and relieved his desert-dry throat.

His heart continued to pound as he backed the car out of its slot. He had to back up again, reposition the car when he stopped too far away to reach the autopay. Then he nearly hit it, and had to stop, wait to gain some control.

He held up his ’link, waited for the comp.

Your account has been charged forty-five dollars, and is verified and cleared. Drive safely and enjoy the rest of your day.

“Fuck you,” he muttered, then carefully eased out of the lot.

He drove east. He needed to drive well clear of any canvass area. Basic evasion techniques. He knew what to do, but couldn’t find his calm.

The bitches had set him up. Somehow, some way.

And somehow, some way, the cop bitch had located the bomb and deactivated it.

She’d nearly had him! It seemed impossible, but she’d been right on his heels. He’d gotten two good shots off. He’d hit her, he knew it. Protective gear.

As he paused at a light, he felt himself begin to settle again.

He should’ve gone for a head shot.

She’d jumped right in front of the women he’d aimed at to distract her. Probably considered herself a bloody hero.

Bloody idiot, more like it.

She’d chased him down the sidewalk as if he were a common criminal! There was nothing common about Conrad Potter.

She’d have to pay for humiliating him, for ruining his day. He should be celebrating. He should be heading home to toast his success with the bottle of champagne he had chilling.

The finest French champagne.

Now he was driving around in the goddamn rain with his bladder throbbing with the need to empty.

Oh, she’d pay. They all would.

He pulled the candy, his Fry’s Peppermint Cream, out of his pocket. Its sweetness, and that bite of peppermint, soothed.

They all thought of themselves as heroes. Well, he knew just the way to make them prove it.

He knew exactly how to lure them out.

He’d thought to save this for the last of them, for Summerset. He’d just push the plan up in order, and—why not?—give the heroes a choice of who would stand as sacrifice.

Yes, let them prove themselves heroes. And he’d prove, at last, he was better than all of them.

Back at Central, hoping to avoid any more comments, Eve changed her shirt. After pulling on the plain gray T-shirt, she shoved the ruined one in the recycler.

When she came out of the locker room and started down to the conference room, Whitney got off the elevator.

“Lieutenant.”

“Commander.”

“You were injured during the op?”

“A minor injury, sir, and treated.”

“Very well. I’m attending this debrief to learn what went wrong. And how one of my officers was injured when the suspect opened fire with an illegal weapon on a public street.”

“Yes, sir.”

Head throbbing, wound stinging, she walked into the conference room where the team already gathered.

“Take your seats,” she ordered. “Conrad Potter remains at large. The operation to capture him failed. Each one of you performed your duties during same. The failure is my responsibility.”

“Bullshit.”

“Detective Sergeant—”

“You can write me up if you want, but I’ll say it again. That’s bullshit, LT. You weren’t the only one who saw him go into 186. The motherfucker walked right by me. McNab says he saw him on-screen.”

“I did. The description was off, and he was with the woman—like they were a couple. It didn’t ring.”

“Saw him myself,” Feeney put in, “and maybe should’ve known better, but he slipped by me, too.”

“I was in charge of the op. The op failed. It’s on me.”

“No excuses,” Baxter said, “but reasons. We were covering a block, in the rain, looking for a man who worked in intelligence, knows how to change his appearance and slide through. And that’s what he did.

“This time.”

“You knew he’d be there,” Carmichael added. “You were right. He ran. He’s spooked now.”

“And more dangerous because of it,” Eve pointed out. “At this point—”

“Lieutenant,” Whitney interrupted. “Why did you enter building 186?”

“Other than the sidewalk service, it had the best view of the target. And two unoccupied street-facing units. One had a painting crew working. It seemed unlikely, as time ticked down, he would use the sidewalk restaurants, and more possible he might have infiltrated the painting crew. I went in to check it out, cleared the crew, and discovered the Realtor, the woman who’d walked in with what turned out to be Potter posing as a prospective tenant. She’d left him alone in 3-C.

“I alerted the team. One minute the other way, Commander, we’d have boxed him in. He was already on the run when Detectives Peabody, Carmichael, and Santiago arrived. I ordered Peabody to clear 3-C, and Carmichael and Santiago to check the basement area. The emergency exit alarm sounded, and I pursued in that direction.”

“Sir, Carmichael and I made the snap decision for her to clear the basement area, and for me to back up the lieutenant. I thought I was fast.”

He shook his head. “I got nothing. I couldn’t catch up to her, was still well behind when Potter fired on her, then fired again when the lieutenant jumped in front of two female civilians. I didn’t know she was hit.”

“I wasn’t hit,” Eve began, but Whitney pointed at her.

“Continue, Detective.”

“One of the females grabbed the lieutenant’s leg, and a male civilian rushed over and confronted the lieutenant. When I reached them, I told the LT to go—I’d lost sight of Potter—and I ascertained neither of the female civilians had been wounded. At that time, Detective Peabody arrived, and I left her to handle that situation and continued after the lieutenant.

“She’d reached the next corner, and Roarke had come in from the north. At that time, I noted my lieutenant was bleeding along the right side of her torso.”

“Is that accurate, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir. We have some door cam footage of Potter as he fled, and have determined he turned north at the corner, then moved out of camera range. With the rain, visibility wasn’t optimum, but we have enough. With that, with the artist’s rendering from other witnesses, and the work in EDD, we should have enough for a current likeness.”

“And the Realtor?”

“I took her statement, Commander,” Jenkinson told him. “She’s who she says she is. Potter, using the name Jamison Brockstone, contacted her about seeing 3-C. It had been well-advertised. He and his wife were to meet her at her office. She ran a standard background, as is her company’s policy, and he checked out. He arrived alone, claiming the wife wasn’t feeling well, and they shared a cab to 186. Then used his large umbrella to the entrance doors.

“They toured the apartment, and he asked if he could do a virtual tour, alone, for his wife so they could discuss. He was to meet her in the other unoccupied unit when he’d finished. She states it was nearly thirteen-fifteen when she left him.”

“He cut it close.”

“Sure as hell did. Sir.”

Nodding, Whitney got to his feet. “Write it up, Dallas, and get me a damn face.”

“Sir.”

When he walked out, Eve started to speak.

“I got something to say.”

“Jenkinson, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“We don’t appreciate you taking it on for him getting by us.”

“Jenkinson—”

“If we’d bagged him, would you take all the credit? Hell no, you wouldn’t, so don’t treat us like we’re assholes who don’t know the job. Plus, the motherfucking fucker fucking shot you.”

“At. Shot at.” Recognizing if she didn’t cut this angle off, she’d have a mutiny on her hands, she held one up. “Okay, we all did the job, and he still got away from us. Feel better?”

“No, but at least that’s not bullshit.”

“Somebody get me some damn coffee, and we’ll go over it point by point. Then everyone write up their part of it and have those reports on my desk by end of shift.”

Roarke got her the coffee, and smoothly pressed a blocker into her palm. “Take it, you’re in pain. Take it,” he murmured, “or I’ll sic Jenkinson on you.”

She took it.