“I’m staying.”

“Look,” Wiley said angrily, “I don’t want you dying on me of pure bullheadedness.”

“I’m not going to die.” Looking past Wiley, he addressed Jordie directly. “Panella is. I’m gonna kill him.”

Chapter 31

Gwen Saunders was joined by two other U.S. marshals—fit young men in jeans and black t-shirts—who were called in to assist with Jordie’s relocation. Among the marshals, Wiley, and Hickam, it was decided to wait until after full dark to make the transfer.

Shaw supported the postponement. That gave them several hours to plan how they would go about it and which safe house in the area would provide the best protection.

Shaw left the logistics of the process for the rest of them to sort out and took Wiley up on his suggestion that he sleep during the intervening hours. He didn’t feel the need to be hospitalized, but his body was demanding some downtime.

“Take Gwen’s bedroom,” Wiley said. “She’s going to be busy and won’t be using it.”

Jordie was in a huddle with Hickam and the marshals. Sensing his gaze, she looked at him, then quickly away. She was still furious at him for playing her. Or maybe her trip with Panella was the reason for her refusal to acknowledge him. Either way, she couldn’t avoid him forever. Even if she planned to, he wouldn’t let her.

He went into the bedroom and shut the door. The surgeon had instructed him not to get his incision wet for at least a week. He showered anyway, holding a plastic laundry bag over the wound with one hand, soaping and shampooing with the other.

He exchanged the bandage for a fresh one, which was among the items in the kit given him by the surgeon before leaving the hospital. Morrow had returned it to him when they were in Tobias. Also in the kit were several blister packs of antibiotics and a bottle of pain pills. He took an antibiotic capsule, but skipped the pain pill. He needed sleep, but not a hangover.

When he emerged from the bathroom, there was a room service tray on the nightstand. He scarfed down the grilled cheese sandwich and bowl of chicken noodle soup, reminding himself to identify and thank the Good Samaritan later. After finishing the meal, he gratefully lay down.

He wanted badly to throttle Jordie for not telling him about her Costa Rican excursion with Billy Panella.

He wanted badly to fuck her anyway.

Sliding his hand into his jeans, he tested the equipment and discovered to his relief that, despite the catheter, the anesthesia, and his overall weakness, it was in working order.

He was fantasizing about it in sexual congress with Jordie when he dropped into a deep slumber.

A tap on the door woke him. He sat up quickly and hissed a curse for forgetting to favor his left side. The room was dark. He checked the time. He’d slept nearly six hours and could tell already that it had done him good.

Hickam was standing in the open doorway. “Showtime’s in about twenty minutes.”

“Thanks.”

Rather than retreat, Hickam stayed. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

“What?”

“Manipulating people. Misleading them. Lying.”

“Everybody lies.”

“That’s your excuse?”

Shaw set his feet on the floor and stood up. “I don’t need an excuse. I’ve got a job.”

He left Hickam standing there and went into the bathroom. He used the toilet, splashed his face with cold water, and swished with the wintergreen mouthwash provided by the hotel. But then he braced his hands on the rim of the basin and stared into it, Hickam’s question swirling around in his mind like the tap water around the drain.

Raising his head, he gave his cold eyes and uncharitable visage a good, hard look in the mirror, seeing himself as other people must. “Goddamn Hickam,” he muttered.

Back in the bedroom, he checked his pistols, holstering the nine-millimeter on his belt and slipping the palm pistol into the customized scabbard inside the shaft of his boot. He put two of the blister packs of antibiotics in his jeans pocket, then went into the living room, where the others were similarly preparing.

Wiley asked, “How was your nap? Side hurt?”

“Like hell, but I feel better. Anything important happen while I was out?”

“We contacted the printing company that did the party invitations. Took them no time at all to look up the order. It was placed and filled over six months ago. Event was bogus, and Josh used a fake name, but the invitations were shipped to the address where he was living when he turned himself in. Ms. Bennett cleaned out the apartment and paid off his lease. She claims not to have found any invitations or such.”

“He probably received stuff there, but squirreled it away someplace else.”

“That’s my thought, too,” Wiley said. “He stocked the essentials plus anything he might need in order to contact his sister.”

Shaw, who’d never met Josh, asked, “Is that a compulsion, you think?”

“Contacting her, you mean? Yeah, I think so. He had the gumption to steal millions, but then cratered before we really got tough with him. He had the wherewithal to defy us and escape, but he can’t resist calling and checking in, with us, with Ms. Bennett. What does that make him, gutsy or a goofball?”

“Both.”

“Right. You never know what you’re dealing with. Anyhow, Hick and I think he had his own safe house somewhere around here all set up and waiting for him.”

“Won’t argue that. Speaking of safe houses, how safe is the one you’re moving Jordie to?”

“Safe,” Wiley replied, looking peeved for having been asked.

“What’s the game plan?”

“Three black SUVs leave the hotel garage one behind the other. Motorcycle police block traffic for their exit. Once they leave the hotel, each peels off in a different direction.”

“You don’t think that will draw attention?”

“Exactly. If Panella is out there, he’ll think she’s in one of the SUVs. Also as a decoy, we’re leaving Hick’s car in the garage where we parked it when we got back from Tobias. But one of our agents left another car parked on the street. As soon as the SUVs peel out, Hick’ll bring that car into the garage and pick up Gwen, Jordie, and me at the elevator.”

“How many officers watching the hotel?”