‘Blackmailing motherfucker,’ Deacon calls from behind the sofa. ‘Maybe I should just throw you out the goddamn window. You could land on the car.’

‘Bring it on, doll head.’

My headache spikes behind one eye. Even at a time like this, people will not lay off the scalp.

‘I have had transplants, if you must know,’ I say, a little touchy, striding into the living area. ‘This bald thing is temporary.’

Deacon is standing by the window, cuffs on the floor, her gun in one hand, mine in the other.

‘For you, Dan,’ she says, ‘everything is temporary.’

If I had the time and the flexibility, I would kick myself in the arse, not a glancing blow either.

‘You had a key on the memory bracelet, right?’

Deacon smiles like a wolf. ‘That’s right. One of my fondest memories is a little handcuff session a couple of years ago. Now take your hand out of your pocket, kneel down and say please, please don’t shoot me in the balls, Detective Deacon.’

I give her my best doorman dead eyes. ‘I only kneel before the baby Jesus on Christmas morning.’ I glance over her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you ask my friend?’

Deacon closes one eye, like she needs to take careful aim. ‘Yeah, sure. I’ll ask the guy behind me. Kneel the fuck down, McEvoy.’

I press the remote button in my hand and the window buzzes open, swatting the detective on the butt.

Deacon puts three shots into the pane and I’m out the door before the glass stops tinkling.

I have a ten-second head start, and I can add a couple of minutes to that unless Deacon is crazy enough to chase me half naked.

Better pick up the pace.

CHAPTER 8

Army basic is a lot like school. You learn a lot of junk that you won’t ever need, and miss out on stuff that could save your life. I’ve been cracking heads for twenty-five years now and not once did spit-shined shoes or a shipshape locker give me an edge.

Some people learn the hard way that life lessons are the valuable ones, like a certain short-lived Private Edgar English who checked his Steyer for blockages by squinting down the barrel. Others are lucky enough to survive the lesson and bank the information. I know because I was that student of the bleeding obvious during my second tour.

One desert-dry evening, Tommy Fletcher and I were leapfrogging ahead of our patrol in the village of Haddataha when we were cut off by sniper fire. Suddenly the air was alive with buzzing, shimmering missiles. Metal sparked against metal and chunks of building rained on our shoulders. Jaded old men played backgammon on their steps, barely pausing to watch the intruders get shot at.