Free Adrenaline by Jeff Abbott

lights in the apartment. I found the bullet buried in the bookcase; it had sliced into a copy of
Great Expectations
. I pocketed the bullet and threw the shredded book in the trash under the kitchen sink.
    I went and stared at the body. How was I going to get it out of here? There was not only the matter of the neighbors, but Howell’s watchers might check the apartment at any time when I was at work, and I wasn’t inclined to call Howell and say someone took the bait until I knew who this someone was.
    My link to Novem Soles, whatever it was, was that someone in Amsterdam wanted me dead and thought they had gotten their wish.
    I could call August. But what could he do?
    For the next hour, I retrieved the bullet from the mattress, made the bed, tidied the apartment, then sat and paced and thought about what to do with this dead body.
    There was a quiet knock at the door. It was four in the morning. I took the intruder’s gun and went to the side of the door.
    Howell’s soft voice came through the wood. “Sam?”
    “Yes.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to open it.
    “Are you okay? I got a report your lights have been on for a while.”
    “I can’t sleep.”
    “Open the door.”
    I tucked the silencer-capped gun in the back of my pajama pants and made sure the T-shirt covered it. I opened the door. Howell stood there, in jeans and a black sweatshirt. “Is everything okay?”
    I let him step inside and then I shut the door. I hoped he didn’t have to use the bathroom.
    “You get a call if I leave my lights on?”
    “Yes. Especially on a day like today. When you tried to run.”
    “I couldn’t sleep.”
    “You’re not up thinking about a new way to run?”
    “No. It’s just standard-grade insomnia that is the curse of accused traitors. I hope to get an Ambien endorsement next week.” I kept my voice steady, so unbelievably I-am-a-statue steady.
    “You’re tense.”
    “You showing in the middle of the night reminds me that I’m basically still your prisoner. Tension is a by-product.” I shook my head. “Honestly. I can’t believe you get up out of bed in the night to come check on me.”
    “You matter to me, Sam. I know you want to believe the whole world is your enemy, but
I’m
not.”
    I wanted to believe him. I could hand over the intruder’s phone and, you know, validate Howell. Show him the Novem Soles tattoo and say, well, you asked if I’d heard of it and now I have. Make him happy. But Howell and his peers had been so ready to believe the worst of me for so long, I had no reason to trust them. And whoever was gunning for me thought that I was dead. I had to take advantage of that temporary illusion.
    I had to move. Quickly.
    Howell said, “Well, if you’re all right.”
    “I appreciate the concern.” I didn’t look at him. It just occurred to me that maybe I had marks on my throat from the intruder’s attack or bruises on my face. I hadn’t looked in a mirror. “I think now I can sleep. I mean, knowing that your team is watching over me. You all are better than a night light.”
    He shook his head at my sarcasm.
    If they’d watched everyone enter the building, then they’d notice on their logs that a guy in dark clothes who’d entered at some point hadn’t left. Questions would beasked, probably by the morning. I didn’t have much time. I met Howell’s gaze.
    Howell looked at me and he tried, God help him, a smile. “I know this is a pressure cooker. Just be patient, Sam. The truth will come out.”
    “I’m sure of that, Howell. I’m all about the results.” The results were in the tub. And I smiled at him, the tentative way you do when you want a job and you’re not sure the interview went well.
    He left. I went back into the bathroom and I looked at the dead guy for a minute. I looked at the useless phone number on his cell and then I took apart the phone. I didn’t want whoever wanted me dead to be the least bit suspicious. I went next door to an apartment under renovation