Page 3 of Agent vs. Assassin
“And he said?”
“He said an FBI agent wouldn’t kill anyone. You know how this went, Kane. It was short, and I was my normal sweet self. The end.”
“More, Lilah,” he repeats. “What did you say when he said you wouldn’t kill him?”
I sigh heavily. “I told him he doesn’t know me well or he wouldn’t ask that question.”
“And he replied with what?”
“Was I sure it would be me that killed him, not the other way, which we both know was a stupid question. This is me we’re talking about.”
He’s silent again—a thick, dangerous silence that has me saying, “Kane? What are you going to do?”
“He’s handled, Lilah.”
“How?”
“I’ll see you at the house.”
“When?”
“I’ll let you know.” He hangs up.
Holy fuck.He hangs up, and Enrique must know as he marches my direction. I meet him halfway and point at him. “If he ends up dead or in jail over this, you’re just dead. Do not even think about joining me for the rest of this trip. I can’t tiptoe around what you’ll yap about.” I step around him just in time to find Jay halting at the stoplight. I rush that way, climb inside, and order, “Drive.”
“Enrique?”
“Can go suck a giant banana for all I care. Drive.”
He doesn’t drive, and horns honk behind us. “Lilah, he means well.”
“He just put Kane in danger.”
“He didn’t intend—”
“He put Kane in danger,” I repeat, “and if you aren’t smart enough to read between the lines, let me dumb it down for you. He’ll catch up, Jay, and with a little time and space, I might let him live. Drive.”
Jay accelerates and places us in motion, potentially saving Enrique’s life in the process.
Chapter Two
Traffic is at a standstill. Horns honk with no purpose. “Do the idiots think if they make noise, the cars in front of us will miraculously move?”
“They’re cranky, I guess,” Jay replies.
I grunt.
People say us New Yorkers are cranky all the fucking time. We aren’t cranky. The vast majority of us have either had time wasted in traffic and have no time left for bullshit, or we’ve been forced into the subway, where we try to make eye contact with no one and still end up with a person in a garbage bag harassing us.
“Dumb shit with no purpose is just dumb shit, and it will get you killed, Jay.”
“Aren’t we talking about traffic?”
“Your point?”
He thrums his fingers on the steering wheel and, after a long stretch of silence, says, “Birthdays are a big thing in my family.” He is apparently of the mindset that he must fill the wait time with mindless words. “I had no idea yours was next week.” He glances over at me with no concern for traffic, as it’s not moving. “I’ll bring you a strawberry pie.”
“Stop talking,” I say, pointing at him.