Sitting next to Jaggers had only added to the agony. She hated everything about him. His stink. His jaundiced skin that under the yellow glow of the reading light looked like dried papaya. How he sucked his teeth after eating instead of using a toothpick.

The way he’d killed a beautiful young fawn of a Tatar girl who’d only walked into the alley to see if they needed help.

That the mission had proved to be a dead end only added to Candy’s frustration. They’d laid over in Amsterdam already and would now enter the U.S. from the south, a not-worth-noticing commuter flight from Mexico City to San Diego. She was willing to endure any amount of hellacious travel and the myriad discomforts that came with it as long as the journey held the faintest glimmer of hope for catching Orphan X. She’d forge through fire and brimstone to get a crack at his untarnished flesh.

That’s why she hated return flights. They spelled failure.

She finished patting down her back and let the paper towels drop to the floor. Hanging her head, she eased a breath through her teeth. The air cooled the moist skin, a momentary break from the itching, the burn.

Putting her shirt back on would be unpleasant. Gathering her will, she stared at the bra wrapped around her clenched fist.

All her training, and here she was nearly vanquished by a 34D in a bathroom stall.

A boarding announcement for her flight echoed through the bathroom. She readied herself to finish dressing.

A vibration in her jeans caught her attention, the punk rendition of “I’m Every Woman.”

Excitement licked up her spine.

She clicked TALK, held the phone to her cheek.

“I HAVE made YOUR next RESERVation.”

“Already?”

“You HAVE to EAT WHILE the meal IS HOT.”

“Gladly,” she said. “How hot is this particular meal?”

“PIPING.”

The lick of excitement turned to a tremor.

“PARTICULARS to follow,” spoke the chorus, and then Van Sciver clicked off.

Grinning, Candy slid the phone back into her pocket. She pulled on her shirt and shoved through the stall door. On her way out of the bathroom, she dumped her bra in the trash.

After all, this called for a celebration.

45. A Different Kind of Ruckus

45

A Different Kind of Ruckus

Hot water pounded the top of Evan’s head, streaming down his shoulders. No matter how long he stayed in the shower, it seemed he could not get warm. His internal clock told him that it was a few hours past midnight. René seemed to be forgoing the sleeping gas, perhaps in honor of Evan’s last night at Chalet Savoir Faire. Evan had been told that he would be hooded and driven away tomorrow, dropped off somewhere in the middle of nowhere so René would have plenty of time to clear out.

He had his doubts.