Watching her laugh, he felt something tug at him.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing.”

She bit her lower lip. Studied him. And yet she hadn’t asked him to sit.

“I’d better go,” he said. “Before you bust out that Gillette Venus razor again.”

“We wouldn’t want that.”

He started out.

He was at the door when she said, “I can’t help but think that in some other life…”

He turned.

She looked at her nails, over his shoulder, everywhere but at him. “Where I’m not a DA and you’re not a … whatever you are.”

He nodded.

“But it’s not safe for Peter,” she said. “I could never put him at risk.”

“No,” Evan said. “Never.”

“I wish it were different,” she said.

“Me, too.”

“Good-bye, Evan Smoak.”

“Good-bye, Mia Hall.”

69. No Extradition

69

No Extradition

Before turning in for the night, Evan entered the Vault and logged in to [email protected].

A single e-mail waited for him from Melinda Truong.

“A Rolls-Royce Phantom III 1936 sports limousine with a Hooper body, Saoutchik chrome trim, and a chassis number of 9AZ161 passed through the Port of Rijeka on Friday, October 28. You’re welcome. You can repay me by taking me to dinner. Or to Turks and Caicos. xoxo mt”

Evan cracked his knuckles, studied the screen.

Rijeka.

In Croatia.

One of the countries that has no extradition treaty with the U.S.

Evan reached for the IRS printouts, covered with his notes. On the backs of the pages, he’d scrawled all the addresses he’d turned up while trying to chart the sprawling map of René’s financials.

In 2008 one of René’s attorneys had taken receipt of a quarterly distribution from a now-extinct umbrella corporation at a condo address in Zagreb. The building, a mere two-hour drive east of the port.

Evan crossed the Vault and spun the dial on his floor safe. Lifting the steel hatch, he reached inside for one of his passports.

70. The Slightest Misstep

70

The Slightest Misstep

It had been hell.

Not just weathering Van Sciver’s quiet rage. But being stuck with Ben Jaggers. And stuck with him Candy was, until the job was done.

As if she needed another motivation to reduce Orphan X to ash.

She sat in the driver’s seat of a Passat wagon that had been advertised as “family-size.” She mostly liked it for its trunk space.

To avoid Jaggers’s stink, she breathed through her mouth, but then she got worried about all that funk getting into her lungs, and so she went back to breathing through her nose and suffering silently.