Evan feels his throat constrict ever so slightly. Neither of them is accustomed to expressing emotion. Not trusting his voice, Evan nods.

The vise grip on his arm relents. Jack waves a hand at the waiting terminal. “Go on, then,” he says, slightly bothered, as though Evan has been holding him up.

Evan climbs out, the chill whipping around his neck, cooling the flush that has crept up into his face. He blends into the thickening crowd entering the international terminal, walking neither too fast nor too slow, a face among faces, invisible in plain sight. The boarding pass rustles in his hand. When he reaches the printed destination, there will be additional orders from Jack, directing him to a man he will kill.

He is nineteen years old and as ready as he’ll ever be.

He gives a last glance back through the big glass doors at Jack, his only connection to legitimacy.

He is also Evan’s only connection to humanity.

14. Rambo in a Bespoke Shirt

14

Rambo in a Bespoke Shirt

This time when Evan arced up from the depths and broke the surface of consciousness, he sensed a difference in the consistency of the air.

A draft.

Rolling his head to the side, he noticed that the bedroom door was ajar.

He rose, wobbling a bit on his feet. Then made his way toward the door. When he stepped through, he picked up movement far down the hall on either side of him. First he looked left, where Manny waited, shotgun leveled. To Evan’s right was another narco—one of the guards he’d spotted earlier from his window—with his weapon also at the ready. Evan took a step toward Manny, and both men moved with him, maintaining the twenty-foot buffer.

They had learned.

Manny jerked the end of the shotgun at the other man. “Dígale, Nando.”

Santa Muerte, tattooed on the side of Nando’s neck, looked like she was melting. He swiped sweat from the ink quickly, his hand slapping back onto the shotgun’s barrel. “Mr. René say he invite you to take some air. He say perhaps you can find some perspective.”

René’s arch tone, replicated through poor diction and a strong Mexican accent, made Evan smirk.

Nando flicked his head, making clear that the request wasn’t really a request.

Evan started down the high-ceilinged hall, Manny backpedaling and Nando bringing up the rear, the three men moving of a piece. The chalet smelled of dust and sweet rot, all the scents of a time-honored place. The space opened up around Evan, such a contrast to the locked and barred room.