“Not at all. There’s so much I could tell you about Omar Hemingway’s shop.”

“Like what?”

“Like he hates your guts.”

“I already know that,” St. Vincent said dismissively.

“No, he really hates your guts. So much so that he’s actively working to publicly humiliate you.”

St. Vincent laughed. “He wouldn’t; he hasn’t got the balls. He couldn’t; he doesn’t have the juice.”

Julie wisely held her tongue, but her gaze remained steadily on St. Vincent’s face, until he was forced to ask, “How? How the fuck does he think he’s going to do it?”

“That’s a question for after my recruitment.”

St. Vincent’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe a word of this. You’re just delaying the inevitable. But your little playlet bought you a bit of time.” The gun moved back to Orrin. “Him first, then you.”

His finger tightened on the trigger. The smell of hot urine invaded the bedroom as Orrin lost control. They both heard the shot at once. The window glass shattered, St. Vincent arched backward as the hollowpoint bullet tore through his chest cavity, disintegrating like a pipe bomb.

As if by a giant fist, he was hurled across the room, against the inner wall, where he bounced, collapsed, and fell dead, bleeding out onto the carpet.

Julie ran to the ruined window, looked to the armored sniper framed in the open window of the building across from them. Seeing her, he gave a half salute.

Moments later, Omar Hemingway was in the room, looking from one occupant to another. He smiled at Julie. “I trust the contact mic wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t feel it at all.”

“Good. We’ve got it all on tape.” His smile broadened. “You’re one brave field operative. I’m goddamned proud of you.”

For a moment, Julie thought he was going to embrace her. Instead, he held out his hand. She didn’t even glance at it, let alone take it. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

Hemingway’s face darkened. “I don’t know what—”

“Oh, don’t give me that shit. From the moment you dropped Sydny’s name into my lap as an extracurricular assignment your hope was that it would end like this.” She pointed to St. Vincent’s corpse. “You knew he had bugged your office—you knew all along, and you fed him the bits of disinformation that he wanted.” She shook her head. “No, no, that he needed.”

“That’s some imagination you’ve developed, Julie.”