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The assassin lay motionless on our kitchen island. Arkan hadn’t sent his best. He sent someone just good enough to sneak up on me, and he didn’t expect this man to survive. He threw a life away just to tap us on the shoulder and say, “Lovely house. I haven’t forgotten about you.”
“Hypothetically, if I shot him, who would know?” Leon asked. “I could shoot him, hide the body, I know a place, and nobody could prove anything.”
Similarly, Agent Wahl looked like an FBI agent: severe haircut, grave expression, athletic build, and that no-nonsense look in his eyes that suggested he knew you were up to no good even if you didn’t and he was not amused.
“Fine,” Wahl said. “As long as you understand that I am a fucking FBI agent, and I will not allow myself or the agency to be used to delude the public.”
Bern had bags under his eyes, and they weren’t clutches, they were totes.
“What happened to the FBI agents breathing in toxic fumes while trapped in a car that was being crushed?” Alessandro asked.
“Do I not warrant knocking?” my grandmother demanded. Alessandro turned and knocked on the inside of the open door.
“Love me, my beautiful harpy.”
