And through it all, his mind still showing the things that had made up his life. His mother fussing over his prom tuxedo. His ’86 LeBaron with the crooked-smile bumper. The kick of the pistol in his hand and the primal joy he had been afraid to acknowledge.

The night the four of them met.

Right here, at this same spot in this same bar. The recognition each had felt in the other, that strange glow of assumed camaraderie that came from nothing but some inner certainty that here were friends, that whatever was to come, however they might fail one another, they shared this sense of newfound completion, of being made whole.

Mitch was laughing as the liquid rained down on them all.

CHAPTER 34

LATER, Jenn Lacie would spend a lot of time trying to pinpoint the exact moment.

There was a time before, she was sure of that. When she was free and young and, on a good day, maybe even breezy. Looking back was like looking at the cover of a travel brochure for a tropical getaway, some island destination featuring a smiling girl in a sundress and a straw hat, standing calf-deep in azure water. The kind of place she used to peddle but had never been.

And of course, there was the time after. And all the days yet to come.

There was never just one picture, one clear moment. Everything came in juttering fits and starts, all of it snarled, one circumstance leading into another. Untangling it would be no simple feat. But it seemed important to try. That was her work now. Her tribute.

Tonight, though, the moment she kept coming back to was the flash of a second when Ian was on the ground and their eyes met. When she had realized what he was doing. When they committed to the right thing, even if it was hard. Yanking open her front door, sprinting down the steps, abandoning him there, that had been hard.

There had been crazy adrenaline, an energy unlike anything she had ever known. She had run with everything in her. She’d wanted to look back but hadn’t dared, just leaned into it, legs flying long and free as she sprinted toward Clark. There would be people on the street, and cars. Even if the man followed her, she knew she could make it.

It was when she heard the muffled crack from behind her that she almost screwed up. She’d known what it was. What it meant. Ian had gone all-in.

The feeling that climbed from her belly to her lungs to her mouth was raw and horrible, a recognition that life had stakes, consequences, and that they were playing for them. And with it, a furious anger at the forces that had come into her life, into her house, that had killed her friend. The rage made her fingers tremble, and for a moment, she wanted more than anything to stop. To hide behind a parked car and wait for the man to chase her. To turn from prey to predator, snapping a hard kick into his belly that dropped him to the ground. Then kick him again and again and again, kick until her toes were broken and there was nothing left to kill.

But there was the look in Ian’s eye. He hadn’t given his life for her to attempt an action-hero ending. He had played by the rules of the game, accepting the ultimate penalty to give her a shot to secure the most important outcome. And she had to play by them too, or she truly would betray him.

Besides. Ian was gone, but it might not be too late to save Mitch and Alex.

So she ran. Arms pumping, lungs burning, heart screaming, she ran. She might have run all the way to the police station if she hadn’t almost tripped in front of a cab cruising for partygoers.

Detective Bradley told her it had been the right move. That she had saved lives, the innocent men and women, cops and EMTs, who might have gone into Rossi’s without a warning.

She supposed he was right. But like most truths, it was comforting only to a point.

Bradley had been dubious, then interested, and finally incredulous as she told him everything. She spilled it all with a manic intensity, knowing that the faster she could get him to move, the more chance her friends had. Praying that even though she had been delayed, she might still be able to hold up her end of the plan and bring the police screaming down on Victor.

Because the alternative was too terrible to consider.

As Mitch had predicted, she had really had to sell Detective Bradley. It was the details that won him over. She told him everything, every step of the robbery, the murder in the alley, the discovery of chemical weapons, their response tonight. Inch by inch, she watched the screens behind his eyes lift as he began to believe.

The details worked. But they took a long time. And just as she was wrapping up, another cop came in the room. “Detective-”

“I’m busy here-”

“I know, but it’s about that restaurant. Rossi’s.”

Jenn had been leaning forward, forearms on the table, eyes locked with Bradley’s like a conspirator or a lover, but at the mention of the restaurant she jerked upright. She stared at him, knowing what he was going to say, dreading it. Until the moment she heard it, until a stranger spoke it, it wasn’t true. Alex and Mitch were strong and clever and good. They might have found a way without her.

“Dispatch got reports of gunfire. Multiple shots. That’s your restaurant, right? From the body the other night?” The cop continued, his lips moving, facts spilling out, but Jenn didn’t hear it, not another word.

They were gone. Her friends were gone.

Something had almost swallowed her then, as she realized with utter certainty that she was the last surviving member of the Thursday Night Club. It was panic, but of a different sort than she’d been suffering. A black and consuming loneliness, and a suffocating sense of failure. Everything in her wanted to collapse at that moment, to put her head down on the table in the dingy interview room and sob.

Later, she would remember that moment as maybe the one that saved her, that gave her a chance. Because instead of giving up, she told Detective Peter Bradley he had to hurry. That there might still be men there, dangerous, armed men. Men with chemical weapons. In calm, clear tones she told him not to let anyone go inside, to clear the streets and guard the door. That if there were men inside, they were armed.

He may not have believed her, not really. But he’d at least seen there was no point in taking the risk.

The rest of the night blurred into a succession of interview rooms and men in suits. Snatches of news gleaned from the things they said, the gravity of their manner. The whole police station came to wild and whirling life around her: shouts she could hear through the walls, phones constantly ringing, men yelling, men pointing fingers. When she was alone, she stared at the wall and fought the urge to cry. When cops came with questions, she answered completely and without thought of self-preservation. At one point, someone she didn’t know came into the room and cuffed her hands. When Bradley returned, he undid them, set down a cup of coffee. Touched her shoulder. “Ms. Lacie, I’m afraid-”

“I know,” she said. Two words that took all she had. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”

“I’m sorry.”

She nodded, wanting to cry from the emptiness, the loss. First Ian, and now Alex and Mitch. Gone. She closed her eyes.

“We found four bodies at the restaurant. We’re working the-”

Four?

It took a moment, and then she got it. She almost smiled. Good for you. I hope you made it hurt. “What about the DF, did you find it?”

“It was hard to miss. One of the containers had been broken and mixed with alcohol from the bar. Apparently there are pools of sarin spattered all over. Which is actually good news, means that it’s relatively easy to contain. If it had been strapped to an explosive device…” He blew a breath. “We’ve locked down the restaurant, kept everyone out. Hazmat teams are working it now. Homeland Security is involved, and the FBI, and-” He shook his head.