Page 105 of So Close

“You’re still going forward.”

“I have to save Kane,” I say simply. “I have to try.”

“All right.” He extends his hand and squeezes firmly when I set mine in his. “The town car will be waiting at the curb right outside.”

“Got it.”

He hands me a small box from the center console. “Here’s your earpiece. I’ll tell you when to start walking. Get in the back until then. And put the damn sunglasses on!”

Rogelio reaches between the seats and grabs a Gucci ball cap, tugging it on. He checks for traffic, then opens the door and hops out. I move to the back of the van and watch him head down the street and around the corner. Then I slide the shades onto my face and pull on a pair of blue gloves.

“There’s a guy on the door, outside,” he murmurs through the earpiece. “And two undercovers across the street.”

I nod by instinct, then scoff at myself for doing so. The van is already growing hot. The silicone prosthetics intensify the heat. Sweat beads on my skin then runs in rivulets. My makeup feels greasy, and I expect it’s begun to run, too.

I focus on my discomfort, on how my skin prickles. I can’t think about you. I can’t risk second-guessing a plan that’s been years in the making. It may not work, and I accept that. But I have to try. For you. For us.

“Walk.”

The one word is hissed but sounds like a shout. I hear it even over my panting breaths and the frantic beat of my heart. I check for anyone looking and hop out, sliding the door shut quickly. I adjust the weight of the blue bag on my shoulder and trace Rogelio’s steps. I walk briskly, with purpose, but roll my shoulders forward as if I’ve spent my life being awkward with my height. I notice people move out of my way more quickly than when I’m not wearing a mail carrier uniform. They’re not friendlier, but there seems to be some awareness that the mailperson should win by default in a game of pedestrian chicken.

There are two stores before I reach the restaurant, and I stop in each one, dropping off junk mail bundled with rubber bands. A lady in the stationery store asks if there’s a way to reduce the deluge of crap. I tell her to toss it in her recycling can.

When I step back outside, the sun seems blinding even with the dark, oversized sunglasses I wear. I can’t spot Val’s henchman or the cops. The people eating at the sidewalk tables across the street are animatedly engaged in conversation. Those who aren’t talking are looking at their phones.

The restaurant’s door chimes as I open it. I’ve already got the bundle of advertisements and coupons in my hand. I see Val’s broad back disappear down a hallway straight ahead.

“Thanks,” the hostess says, taking the mail and shoving it into the podium. She’s a tiny brunette, nearly as petite as Tovah but curvier.

“Mind if I use your restroom?” I ask, jutting out my lower jaw into an underbite that alters my face and deepens my voice.

“Sure. Straight back. How about ice water to go?”

I’m startled by her thoughtfulness. “I’m good, but thanks.”

The restaurant is less deep than wide, with the kitchen along the back wall. The floor is stone that’s seen more decades than I will, and the booths are notable for their ornately carved privacy screens and thoughtful hooks on the sides to hang jackets and handbags.

That’s all I see as I walk back like I’m in a hurry. I don’t want to look too closely at anyone or anything. I don’t see Rogelio, but I don’t doubt he’s there. I don’t know which of the servers or bussers might be his man. I reach the hallway and remove the sunglasses and hat, shoving them in the mailbag. While my hand is in there, I take inventory. I feel the weight of flawless jewels wrapped in satin.

“He’s in the second water closet,” Rogelio tells me. “Wait for the distraction.”

I pass the first bathroom. My footsteps slow as I see the second one. There is a third and then the entrance to the kitchen. I hear a crash behind me and the breaking of glass. At the collective gasp, I bump my hip into the second door, feel it give, and stagger in.

The rest passes in a blur of muscle memory. I rush forward, using the force of gravity to my advantage. For such a big man, Val moves like a ninja. He’s coiled and ready to strike in the blink of an eye. Then he sees my face and seizes. There’s a heartbeat of recognition and pleasure.

I don’t waste energy pulling out the knife. With all the momentum of my running entry, I shove it through the bag and into his chest. The layers of his clothing give way to the wickedly sharp dagger, but the flesh and muscle resist, followed by the scraping of blade against bone.

I’ve practiced on enough dead pigs to know the strength required for the task. But the addition of life – a gasped breath and hot, viscous blood … I am not prepared for those. I’m not prepared for death.

I try to help him to the floor gracefully, but he’s too heavy and nearly takes me down with him. I pull back when he’s seated on the tile with his legs stretched out and lock the door. I expect Val to be dead. If my aim was good, he’s got a knife in his heart. But he breathes shallowly, and there’s a smile on his face.

“I can’t let you kill him,” I tell him, crouching between his spread legs. I don’t have time for this. I need to remove the knife and let him bleed out. He’s made his living exploiting women and children – the younger, the better. He’s destroyed so many lives and wants to end your life. He doesn’t deserve mercy or my hesitancy. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with him, but I did.”

He chuckles, and blood runs from the corner of his mouth. It’s ghastly. Like a horror movie.

“The boat,” he wheezes with a crimson bubble of spit that bursts into tiny spatter. “Find it.”

“What? Val … what did you say?”

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