BY THE time Riley pushed open the door to the diner, the cool metal had warmed up against his skin and he’d adjusted to the bulky shape pressing into his back. Nobody looked at him strangely, either, so he guessed McClane had been right about the jacket hiding the weapon. He still felt like a villain in a bad movie. It made him wonder if you ever got used to this kind of shit. Had Misha carried a gun whenever he hadn’t been with Riley? It would’ve explained his nervous habit of touching a hand to his side, to the place where a shoulder holster would’ve rested had he worn one. Could you get so accustomed to being armed you felt uncomfortable when you weren’t? Riley wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and afraid he already did. Just one of the many things he’d preferred not to think about, because it would’ve meant questioning Misha and likely losing him. He’d been a fool. Still was, apparently, because it hurt to remember the look in Misha’s eyes just before Riley had slammed the door shut. He felt it bubble up again, self-recrimination and shame and longing, black and searing as hot tar, knew he couldn’t deal with it—too raw yet, too recent—so he swallowed it back down like bile, refused to acknowledge it.

McClane must’ve picked up on his mood because he stayed still and quiet in Riley’s mind while Riley chose a corner booth and settled with his back to the wall. Riley took off his hat, laid it on the bench seat beside him, and ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. He should’ve known the day was going to suck when he’d woken from that nightmare. Dreaming of Misha and blood was never a good sign. It meant thoughts of what he’d lost would pop up at the most inconvenient moments, Misha’s ghost walking beside him until he managed to distract himself.

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.