“There’s nothing of relevance here,” Stryker said. “Where does he live now?”
“Somewhere up here with his parents.” She pushed out of the chair. “Thank you for doing all of this.”
When he rose, she pulled him into her arms and held him tightly. Then, she whispered, “I love you, Stryker Truman. Why did you have to be a vigilante?”
He kissed her. “Why did you have to be a cop?”
Back at home, she poured herself a half glass of wine, and a finger’s worth of scotch for him. She took his hand and led him into the family room. He set down his glass. “Back in a second.”
He retreated upstairs and returned with the small gift bag. Her gaze went from him, to the bag, and back to him.
After collecting his glass, he eased down beside her and set the bag on the sofa cushion. “For you.”
“Oh, wow,” she said. “What’s this for?”
“Love.”
Eyeing the bag, Pima hopped up, shoved his face inside, then tried climbing in. Stryker pulled him out and tossed the cat nip across the floor. He tore after it.
Emerson extracted the gift box, then opened the hinged ring box and stared at the jewelry for several seconds. “Wow, Stryker, this isstunning.”
He pulled out the ring and she offered her right hand. After slipping it on, he said, “It fits.”
“Perfectly.” She kissed him. “Thank you. I’ve never received anything this…gorgeous.”
“That’s how I feel about you.”
She captured his face in her hands, and stared into his eyes. “I love you, too.” Her kiss was fierce and powerful and the look in her eyes was full-blown love.
* * *
The following evening, Emerson and Stryker sat at the poker table in the Travesty room discussing possible scenarios for dealing with Barca, including the one where they both ended up dead.
“Not an option.” Emerson pulled up a photo on the laptop. “Barca’s a career criminal with priors,” she read from his rap sheet. “Possession and distribution of heroin, armed robbery, grand theft, rape, and attempted murder. He did time a few years back, but got out when the verdict was overturned on a technicality.”
Stryker studied a recent picture of Barca.
“He goes from shaving his head to letting his hair grow long,” Emerson said, swiping through more pictures of their target. “And he loses the beard and mustache when he wants to change up his look.”
Stryker pulled on his leather gloves before opening Donny Farraday’s burner phone. “I sent Barca a few texts from Farraday’s phone last night.”
They read through the texts together.
“We got a prob,” Stryker had texted as Farraday.
“Meet me at the bar,” Barca replied.
“Not safe. I got eyes on me. Abandoned shopping center, route 236, Alexandria. Tomorrow night 930.”
“You gonna be alone?” Barca texted.
“Fuck yeah,” Stryker replied. “Make sure you aren’t followed.”
“You set the trap, now we execute it,” Emerson said.
“You sure about this?” he asked.
“Yes.”
