Of course, that’s when I notice the dogwalker.
He’s male, in his mid-forties, receding hairline, nondescript windbreaker, holding a leash attached to a beagle that’s a bit too well-behaved for my liking. I clock him a half-block back and keep walking, but something prickles at the base of my skull.
The man’s gait is wrong. He’s not meandering the way people do when they’re letting a dog sniff every fire hydrant. He’s maintaining distance. Matching pace.
He’s following us.
My fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on Eliana’s arm.
“Bastian?” she whispers, sensing the shift. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I lie smoothly.
I test my conspiracy theory by guiding her left at the next corner. I count silently to thirty, keeping my stride casual, before glancing back under the pretense of adjusting my hoodie.
The dogwalker has turned left, too.
The beagle trots at his heels, not pulling or straining toward interesting smells the way a real pet would. It’s a prop. The whole thing is a fucking prop.
My wound throbs in time with my accelerating pulse. “Hey, I want to show you something.”
“What?” She frowns and tilts her head, confused by the sudden detour.
“Just trust me.” I steer her off the sidewalk and toward the yard with the overgrown rose bush. It’s the same one from the last time we did this, where I’d placed her hand on a bloom and told her to watch out for the thorns. The hedge has grown wilder since then, sprawling in thick tangles that could hide a crouching person from the street. Perfect for today’s needs.
I position her behind it, my hand on her lower back, my mouth close to her ear. “I need you to stay hidden and stay quiet. I saw something. Gotta go check it out.”
Eliana’s face goes pale. Her hand shoots out and grips my wrist. “Is it Aleksei’s people?”
“I don’t know.” I cup her jaw and kiss her hard. “But I’m going to find out. I need you to trust me. You trust me, right?”
She doesn’t let go. Her fingers tremble. Then she nods once and crouches behind the roses with her cane clutched to her chest.
I force myself to turn away from her.
I double back through a neighboring yard, using hedges and parked cars for cover. My wound screams with every quick movement, but adrenaline mutes the worst of it and stubbornness takes care of the rest. I circle around through a gap in a chain-link fence, past a rusted swing set, until I’m behind the dogwalker.
The man has stopped at a corner. He’s pretending to check his phone while the beagle sits obediently at his feet.
I move fast and quiet, closing the distance in seconds.
When I’m near enough, I hit him from behind. He crumbles face-first into a wooden fence. Before he can even sag to the ground, I’m wrenching his arm up between his shoulder blades. The leash drops from his fingers. The beagle, to its credit, merely sits down and watches with mild interest, confirming my suspicion that this is not a normal dog and not a normal dog owner.
I shove the man’s face harder against the fence post. Splinters crack and pierce his cheek, drawing little beads of blood. He grunts and tries to twist free, but I’ve got leverage and fury on my side.
“Who are you?” I growl into his ear.
The man wheezes something garbled. It sounds like “federal agent,” but I’m not fucking stupid, so I don’t let go.
Instead, I torque the arm higher, feeling the shoulder joint strain toward its breaking point. Another few pounds of pressure andhe’ll never swing a golf club again in his whole goddamned life. “Try again. Who the fuck are you?”
“Jesus Christ!” He grunts in pain. “I’m a fuckin’ fed, man. Badge number 63592. Check my jacket pocket. Left side. Credentials are right there, you damn psycho.”
I keep pressure on his captured wrist as I reach around with my free hand and fish inside his windbreaker until my fingers close on a leather bifold. I flip it open one-handed and angle it so I can see.
FBI Special Agent Jordan Solis.The photo matches the face currently being ground into fence planks. The badge number:63592.
My grip loosens slightly, but I don’t release him just yet. I’ve been fooled before.
