I guessed that I was already out of their sight. I could stop, slink down behind the rhino-sized hunk of rock, turn off their phones and, for good measure, remove the batteries and SIM cards.

There had been no reply. Liz tried again. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Oh, thank God. I didn’t know where the shot went.”

“You shot Bruno!”

“Bruno?”

“Bruno! My LX. My big beautiful LX.”

“Look, I’m sorry.”

“Bruno was perfect. Not a scratch. Not a dent. Like fresh from the showroom. Not a stain on the seats!”

“I’m sorry. It was his fault. His fault. He grabbed me and made the shot go wild.”

“You shot my car. You shot my car.”

“Where? Where did I shoot it?”

“In his side, like in his shoulder, right by the wheel.”

“Is the wheel alright? I mean, are we going to have change the tire?” I could hear real alarm from Elizabeth over that possibility.

“I think it’s OK, but there’s a bullet hole.”

“It can be repaired. I promise you it can be repaired. It will be like new. Better than new. Cars are repaired all the time. That’s what insurance is for.”

“It’s a bullet hole. How am I going to explain a bullet hole? Tell them you shot it when you were really trying to shoot the guy that we were trying to hire to kill my husband?”

“It’s not my fault. It’s his fault. Men. Fucking men are always like that. Throwing their weight around. Taking over. They can’t stand having a woman running things. That’s what this is about.” Liz took a breath. It powered her switch from complaining to blaming. “I told you to find a woman. Why didn’t you find a woman? And stand up already. He’s gone. It’s over. Stop…whatever…and stand up. Why not a woman?”

“I couldn’t find one,” Maddie said. “I tried. I mean mostly you have to just hint around things and there was no response. I tried…you know…like Strangers on a Train…oh, you hate your husband, I hate mine…what if we swapped…then they’d say I’m not into swapping and I’d say I mean to get rid of them…then it was like ‘ha-ha.’ Or no response. I even tried some black women, they’re more…physical and radical…right?”

“That’s ridiculous. There must be women assassins all over the place. Like Villanelle. Like Nikita. I mean Nikita was just one of a whole school of trained female assassins. Elizabeth in The Americans. And Red Sparrow.”

“They’re Russian, all Russian. I don’t know any Russians. Well, maybe two, but that counts a grandmother. Oh, and I once met Yul Brynner’s son.”

“It’s not just Russians. What about what’s her name, Queen of the South?”

“I don’t know. I never watch it. It’s too violent.”