I examined the briefcase and saw that the locks were even better than they’d first appeared, and small bulges on other side felt like the right size and shape for thermite charges. Force the locks and the case explodes into a white-hot fireball. Not the sort of thing I wanted to do with the case resting on my lap. I set it aside for the moment.

There was a small sink and I turned the spigot and let the water run until it was cold. Then I used some paper towels to wash my face and sponge the garlic out of my nose, trying not to feel as freaked as the situation warranted. Those sons of bitches had tried to stun me with garlic and drive a wooden stake through my heart. That’s something none of the guys back at the DMS is going to story-top.

For the third—or was it the fourth?—time today the immediate rush of adrenaline was flushing itself out of my blood. That fight or flight juice certainly amps you up but when it leaves it tends to take a lot of other things with it. Electrolytes were the least of it. I felt as if I had no energy left at all; I doubted I could go two out of three falls with Betty White.

When I closed my eyes I saw Krystos’s face, the way he looked at the moment I pulled the trigger. I’d made a joke as I killed him. Like I was a hero in some summer action flick. A cheap one-liner while I blasted the life from him.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number.

Not Church this time.

The call was answered on the third ring.

“Cowboy?” asked Rudy.

“Hey.”

Are you alright?”

“I’m at the safe house. The one Church sent me to. It’s cool. The place is secure.”

“I am very glad to hear that. What about you, Joe? Are you okay?”

“No,” I said, and the word came out fractured. “No, man, I’m not. I just killed a man while he was praying.”

Chapter Sixty-five

Chapter Sixty-Five

Mustapha’s Daily Goods

Tehran, Iran

June 15, 3:14 p.m.

Rudy and I talked for nearly ten minutes.

“Joe,” he said when I’d finished telling him about Krystos, “what else could you have done?”

“Nothing,” I snapped. “That’s my damn point. What choice did I have except to kill them? I’m not saying that I was wrong, or that I did it wrong. But I made a joke while I was doing it. Jesus.”

“I think we both know that your sense of humor is as much a weapon for you as your fists or your gun. It protects you. It keeps the pain at arm’s length.”

“Except when it doesn’t.”

“Except then, yes,” he conceded. “Tell me, though, does any defense work all the time?”

“Running away?”

“Joe…”