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"No."

Evander turns away from me because he's a coward.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"My apartment."

"Why?"

"Because I live there."

"Not currently."

"Interesting. Was there an election I missed?"

"You need something?"

"Several things."

"Send someone."

"I have legs."

"I've noticed."

"Then I'm going to use them."

"No."

The line goes quiet again. This silence is worse.

"I'll be upstairs in thirty seconds," she says, then hangs up.

Evander looks at me. "I can leave."

"Stay."

"I'd rather fight the Colombians."

"Stay."

"You're a terrible friend."

Twenty-eight seconds later, the office door opens, and Elena enters wearing yesterday's clothes, her hair pulled back, handbag over one shoulder. She looks composed, except for her eyes.

She closes the door carefully behind her, her eyes promising litigation.

"Explain."

Evander studies his phone with the concentration of a surgeon.

I lean back in my chair. "Someone tried to kill you yesterday."

"Someone tried to kill both of us yesterday."

"Yes."

"And yet nobody downstairs has stopped you from going and coming as you please."