Perversely, even though Misha and his men were the ones responsible for Riley’s uncharacteristic twitchiness, Riley would’ve given his right arm to have Misha with him now. It wasn’t that he missed the man, he told himself. Even if there had been something of a hole at his center since he’d taken off, one not even McClane’s presence could fill up completely. It was simply that he was feeling skittish as hell, and for all that Misha had had a rare talent for irritating the shit out of Riley with his slick moves and arrogant attitude, he had been solid at the core, unshakable and scarily competent. In retrospect, it made sense. There couldn’t be a big market for inept or meek hit men. Much as Riley hated to admit it to himself and McClane, he would’ve felt safer with Misha there to watch his back.

You have me now, McClane whispered, and caressed Riley’s cheek with a feathery touch just under the skin. I’ll guard all of you, not only your back.

“Yeah,” Riley sighed. He picked up the menu and looked at it without seeing it. He had McClane. At least until a better host came along.

The little girl who’d stared at him through the window turned in her seat and waved at him again. Her mother was less indulgent this time; she told her to stop stalling and finish her pancakes. The kid slid down out of sight with a grouchy whine. Well, at least Riley wasn’t the only one who was having a bitch of a morning.

The waitress was a pretty, plump woman in a uniform as faded as the rest of the diner. She kind of looked like a Dotty, but her nametag read Maureen. She was probably resigned to the inevitable jokes. Maureen poured him a cup of coffee with a smile and didn’t bother to write down Riley’s order. It wasn’t that original. Bacon and eggs, short stack, side of hash browns. “Ten minutes, hon,” she said. “Anything else I can bring you?”

Riley shook his head. “Nah, thank you.”

He sat staring out into the parking lot for a minute, shifting slightly until the butt of the gun stopped digging into his spine. His gaze traveled over the cars parked across the street, looking for he didn’t know what.

Recognition, maybe. Some car he’d noticed before. A black limousine with a license plate that read NY MAFIA. Misha’s lime-green Viper. Anything.

Unsurprisingly, he didn’t notice shit. Nothing but the usual uninspiring assembly of SUVs, bland compacts, dust-covered pickups, and a banged-up little Toyota that stuck out like a sore thumb. It had a bobble head stuck to the dashboard. He thought he would’ve remembered that at least if it had followed him from the motel.