At least Joey G had been good for changing her jewels into cash. And the crash course in trauma medicine couldn’t hurt. Another perk of working in the underground: no one got too upset about your low batting average. Death was expected, and malpractice insurance wasn’t necessary.
Whenever she thought of Joey G, she also remembered Carlo Aggi. Not a friend, not really, but something close. He’d been her contact, the most constant presence in her life then. Though he was stereotypically thuggish in appearance, he’d always been sweet to her—treated her like a kid sister. So it had hurt more than the others when she hadn’t been able to do anything for Carlo. A bullet had lodged in his left ventricle. It was too late for Carlo long before they’d brought his body to her, but Joey G had still been hopeful; Charlie had done good work for him in the past. He was philosophical when Charlie had pronounced Carlo dead on arrival. Carlo was the best. Well, you win some, you lose some. And then a shrug.
She didn’t like to think about Carlo.
She would have preferred a few more weeks to think about other things—to fine-tune her scheme, consider her vulnerabilities, get the physical preparations perfect—but Carston’s plan gave her a deadline. She’d had to divide her limited time between surveillance and organizing a workspace, so neither had been perfectly done.
It was likely that they’d be watching her in case she tried to make a move without them. After her early visit to Carston, they would be anticipating it. But what choice did she have? Report for work as expected?
She’d seen enough to bet that Daniel would follow the same pattern today as he had the past three. Something about his almost identical outfits—similar jeans, button-down shirt, casual sport coat, all featuring only minor differences in hues—made her suspect that he was a creature of habit in his public life. After school, he would stay past the final bell to talk to students and work on his lesson plan for the next day. Then, with several folders and his laptop in a backpack over his left shoulder, he would head out, waving to the secretary as he passed. He would walk six blocks and get on the subway at Congress Heights around six, just as the commuting mayhem was at its worst. He had a straight shot up the Green Line to Columbia Heights, where his tiny studio apartment was located. Once there, he would eat a frozen dinner and grade papers. He went to bed around ten, never turning the TV on as far as she’d seen. It was harder to follow what happened in the morning—he had rattan shades that were basically translucent when lit from inside, but opaque in the morning sun. He hit the street at five for a morning run, returned an hour later, then left again after another thirty minutes, headed for the subway station three blocks away, longish curly hair still wet from his shower.
Two mornings ago, she’d followed his exercise route as best she could from a safe distance. He held a strong, fast pace—obviously an experienced runner. As she watched, she found herself wishing that she had more time to run. She didn’t love running the way others seemed to—she always felt so exposed on the side of a road, no car to escape in—but it was important. She was never going to be stronger than the person they sent after her. With her short legs, she wouldn’t be faster, either, and there was no martial art she could learn that would give her an advantage over a professional killer. But endurance—that could save her life. If her tricks could get her past the crisis moment, she had to be able to keep going longer than the killer could keep chasing. What a way to die—winded, muscles quitting, crippled by her own lack of preparation. She didn’t want to go out that way. So she ran as often as she could and did the exercises she could manage inside her small homes. She promised herself that when this operation was over, she would find a good place to jog—one with plenty of escape routes and hidey-holes.