What happens when you fuck mafia? McClane wanted to know, sounding almost as tense as Riley had felt after his nightmare.

“Nothing good, that much’s for sure.” Fuck. No way was he going back to sleep. Might as well get up. He rolled out of bed with a grunt that was eight parts disgust and two parts habit. “Misha’s not exactly small fry, either.”

Actually, he might even have hesitated if Misha had been involved in non-lethal shady dealings. Misha meant—had meant—a lot to him.

Assassinating people, though? Riley couldn’t live with that. Didn’t want to live with that.

Sometimes, killing just kind of happens, McClane offered carefully.

It’s not personal. It’s not… it’s not done out of meanness.

“Shooting someone in the head in his own home with a sniper rifle doesn’t kind of happen,” Riley snapped. He made his way to the bathroom once again, pulling open the curtains as he passed. “Killing in self-defense or in defense of others? All right. If there’s no other way out, okay. For money? Not okay.” He snatched up his toothbrush, then stopped to glare at his reflection in the mirror. “I don’t get why you have such a problem grasping the concept. You said you’re an armor system. Armor’s supposed to protect, not destroy.”

Armor and weapons system, McClane corrected. His little hooks were digging into Riley’s insides again, this time along his back and in his ribcage. Instinctively, Riley arched and tossed his head like a horse fighting an inconsiderate rider.

“Claws,” he gasped.

Sorry, McClane apologized immediately, easing up and soothing away the sting with what felt like wet swipes of a dozen tongues. Sorry.

Sorry. Maybe we should change the subject?

“Sure,” Riley sighed, relieved and disappointed at the same time.

He’d never talked about Misha before, not with anyone. It had felt surprisingly good to get some of it off his chest. Confession was the emotional equivalent to puking, Riley supposed. Something bad went down, bits of it came back up, you felt better. His belly rumbled a little in response to that.

Hunger, McClane diagnosed. Can we get more nachos?

“How about I introduce you to breakfast food instead?” Riley suggested, squeezing toothpaste onto his brush. He glanced at his watch and blinked. It was almost nine. Wow. He must’ve slept like the dead before the nightmare had hit. Rush hour had to be almost over, which meant there was time for a nice, leisurely breakfast before they had to hit the road again.

Where’re we going next? McClane asked, curious.

“Dunno yesht,” Riley mumbled around his toothbrush. He spit, glanced up, and flashed a foamy grin at his silver-eyed-again mirror image.

“How ’bout west? Wanna see Carson City?”

You could show me New Orleans, McClane suggested sweetly.

“I could try to barf you into the shitter,” Riley shot back.

McClane didn’t lose a beat. Carson City sounds awesome.

“Good choice.”

EIGHTEEN