Black Heart Read Free

fun of him. Biting my tongue won’t be enough to keep me from it. I would have to bite off my whole face.
    He notices me grinning out the window at him, turns his back and stalks to the entranceway of a closed pawnshop half a block away. I made sure to waggle my eyebrows while he was looking in my direction.
    With nothing else to do, I stay put. I drink more coffee. I play a game on my phone that involves shooting pixelated zombies.
    Even though I’ve been waiting, I’m not really prepared when the boy with the braids walks out of the pool hall. He’s got a man with him, a tall guy with hollow cheekbones and greasy hair. The boy lights a cigarette inside his cupped palm, leaning against the wall. This is one of those moments when a little more training would help. Obviously running out of the deli and waving my arms at Barron is the wrong move, but I don’t know the right one if the boy starts moving again. I have no idea how to signal my brother.
    Improvise, he said.
    I walk out of the deli as nonchalantly as I can manage. Maybe the kid’s just hit the street for a smoke. Maybe Barron will notice me and come back over on his own.
    I spot a bus stop bench and lean against it, trying to get a better look at the boy.
    This isn’t a real assignment, I remind myself. It doesn’t matter if he gets away. There’s probably nothing to see. Whatever he’s doing for Lila, there’s no reason to think that he’s doing it now.
    That’s when I notice the way that the boy is gesturing grandly, his cigarette trailing smoke. Misdirection, a classic of magic tricks and cons. Look over here, one hand says. Hemust be telling a joke too, because the man is laughing. But I can see his other hand, worming out of his glove.
    I jump up, but I’m too late. I see a flash of bare wrist and thumb.
    I start toward him, not thinking—crossing the street, barely noticing the screech of a car’s brakes until I’m past it. People turn toward me, but no one is watching the boy. Even the idiot guy from the pool hall is looking in my direction.
    “Run,” I yell.
    The hollow-cheeked man is still staring at me when the boy’s hand clamps around the front of his throat.
    I grab for the boy’s shoulder, too late. The man, whoever he was, collapses like a sack of flour. The boy spins toward me, bare fingers reaching for skin. I catch his wrist and twist his arm as hard as I can.
    He groans and punches me in the face with his gloved hand.
    I stumble back. For a moment we just regard each other. I see his face up close for the first time and am surprised to notice that his eyebrows are carefully tweezed into perfect arches. His eyes are wide and brown beneath them. He narrows those eyes at me. Then he turns and runs.
    I chase after him. It’s automatic—instinct—and I’m wondering what I think I’m doing as I race down the sidewalk. I risk a look back at Barron, but he’s turned away, bent over the phone, so that all I see is his back.
    Figures.
    The boy is fast, but I’ve been running track for the last three years. I know how to pace myself, allowing him to getahead of me at first when he starts sprinting, but catching up once he’s winded. We go down block after block, me getting closer and closer.
    This is what I’m supposed to do once I’m a federal agent, right? Chase bad guys.
    But that’s not why I’m after him. I feel like I am hunting my own shadow. I feel like I can’t stop.
    He glances back at me, and I guess he sees that I’m gaining on him, because he tries a new strategy. He veers abruptly into an alley.
    I take the corner in time to see him reaching for something under his hoodie. I go for the nearest weapon I can find. A plank of wood, lying near a stack of garbage.
    Swinging it, I catch him just as he gets out the gun. I feel the burn of my muscles and hear the crack as wood hits metal. I knock the pistol against the brick wall like it’s a baseball and I’m in the World Series.
    I think I’m as surprised as he