Page 30 of The Evening Wolves

Together, they closed in on the Econoline. It reminded John-Henry of a traffic stop. The reason traffic stops were so dangerous—part of the reason, anyway—was that you had no idea what someone was doing inside a car. No clear line of sight. Lots of opportunities for concealment. It was true for a sedan, where someone could have a gun hidden between their seat and the door, and you wouldn’t see them draw it until it was too late. It was even more true of a campervan—the only windows not blacked out with curtains were the ones in the front. Depending on the configuration of the seats, someone hiding in the back could have a built-in barricade. And, of course, there was the over-cabin loft where a shooter could lie in wait.

They picked a spot diagonal to the rear of the van, where someone hiding inside wouldn’t have a clear line on them. Then Emery said, “Jace Vermilya, if you’re in the van, you need to come out slowly, and with your hands up.”

The wind answered, soughing through the stripped branches of the oaks.

“If anyone’s inside the van,” John-Henry said, “you need to come out right now.”

A screech owl cried. John-Henry wasn’t a jumper, and he didn’t flinch at the sound. His heart, on the other hand, shot somewhere into the thousand-beats-per-minute range, and as the owl’s cry faded, the fresh infusion of adrenaline made blood sing in his ears.

“Mother of fuck,” Emery said under his breath. A little more loudly, he said, “I’m going to open the back. Cover me.”

“Ree, no. I’ll do it.”

“Like hell. You’re the one with the pension and health insurance.”

John-Henry didn’t have a response to that, actually, and by the time he’d realized he couldn’t wrap his head around that logic, Emery was already moving. As he approached the van’s cargo doors, John-Henry steadied the Glock. In a crouch, Emery closed the last few feet to the van. He waited for a three count, and John-Henry could feel it, the clockwork of their bodies.

When Emery yanked the door open, John-Henry already had the Glock up and ready.

His brain predicted: muzzle flash, the clap of a gunshot.

Nothing. The cargo doors opened onto a black well inside the van.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Emery said, slumped against the side of the van. The hand holding his big old cowboy revolver, though, looked steady. “I need an EKG after this.”

“Light.”

Emery produced a flashlight from one pocket of his coat. He braced himself against the van and then directed the beam inside.

More nothing: the van’s rear bench was folded down into a bed. The over-cabin loft was empty. John-Henry inched closer, and he confirmed what his gut had already told him: the van was empty.

“Well, what the actual fuck?”

John-Henry took out his burner and called North.

“Let me guess,” North said. “You fucked up.”

“You’re sure nobody left?”

“It’s a valid question, North. Your failing vision—” Shaw cut off with a squawk.

“Am I sure?” North asked.

“Right.” John-Henry took a deep breath. “If Vermilya isn’t one of the victims, then where the hell is he?”

Emery was already holstering his revolver. He jerked his head at the trailer and said, “Come on.”

“We’ll check the Jeep,” North said. And then, before the call disconnected, “Quit dinking your dork through that snowsuit, or I’m going to cut it off.”

“I think I have a rash—”

John-Henry pocketed the phone. The earlier rush, the adrenaline-fueled high spirits, it had all worn off, and now he felt tired, his body aching from thirty-six hours of no rest, high emotions, and constant demands. The light seemed too bright, the darkness too deep, the world slippery—like if he turned his head too fast, everything might slide away.

Their steps rang out on the old, packed snow, and the security lights high overhead sent their shadows sprinting in front of them. They went back inside the trailer, being careful to avoid disturbing the crime scene as best they could, even though at this point, John-Henry knew the damage had been done. If whoever processed this scene was careful and attentive, they’d see that someone had been here. Not all blood spatter was visible, for one reason, and between the two of them, Emery and John-Henry had doubtless trampled through some of it.

In that way he had, Emery said, “We’re going to have to get rid of these shoes.”

John-Henry couldn’t help the quiet laugh, but when Emery looked at him, eyebrows arched in a question, he shook his head.

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