on him and why his face looked like it had been used as a battering ram recently.
With a towel wrapped around his waist, he pawed through the small closet next to the kitchen. He didn’t feel as sick to his stomach anymore, but his brain was still pounding away at his skull, and he knew this time it wasn’t due to sedatives or any alcohol he’d consumed earlier but from reality crashing down around him. Pulling out a pair of worn jeans and an NYU sweatshirt, he frowned.
“Goddamn hand-me-downs,” he mumbled. As if the situation weren’t bad enough, he had to actually wear Slade’s clothing.
Muttering curses at no one in particular, but with no other options, he pulled on the jeans and refused to think about the fact he was going commando in another guy’s pants. He tugged the sweatshirt over his head, found a pair of wool socks in a basket on the shelf and pushed his feet into a pair of hiking boots in the bottom of the closet.
“Oh, this just figures.” He bent down and shoved his foot around as he tied the laces as loose as possible, the whole time glowering at the size tens that were—just his luck—one size too small. When he stood up too quickly, his head spun, and a wave of nausea hit him hard.
Food was a good idea at this point. Soak up the drug, sober up his head. He turned for the small kitchen only to find most of the contents were frozen foods and packaged meals.
He didn’t have the patience or inclination to actually cook right now, so he pawed through the cupboard until he found a jar of peanut butter and decided that was better than nothing. As he pulled a frozen loaf of bread from the freezer, he couldn’t help wondering when the hell Slade had been here last. The guy was probably off on ops half the time, but you’d never know it by looking at the supplies he kept on hand. Or maybe he’d left the agency and been in hiding with Kat all these years.
That thought was enough to send the blood roaring to Pete’s head. Not going there. None of my business anyway.
With more force than necessary, he grabbed two slices of frozen bread, slapped peanut butter on one and smashed them together. One bite told him his stomach wasn’t going to like the combination, but he figured, screw it. Anything was better than this drugged-out feeling.
After he choked down the sandwich and polished off a cola, he went back to the closet, found a gray parka that looked like it would fit his shoulders and tugged a black wool cap over his head. He shoved a pair of fingerless gloves into the coat pocket, then searched the closet some more. A little metal box up on the top shelf drew his attention.
He pushed propane canisters to the side, reached for the box and pulled it down. The locking mechanism on the front was child’s play, really. Just enough to deter a kid or a halfwit. Frowning, he carried the box into the closet-sized kitchen, set it on the counter and dug through the drawers until he found a metal skewer.
Not a pick, but it’d work in a pinch.
It took him longer than he’d have liked to pop the lock, and he knew his buddy Rafe would have laughed his ass off if he’d been watching, but the end result was still the same. The lock gave with a soft click. Pete tossed the skewer on the counter, lifted the lid and let out a low whistle when he looked inside.
At least one damn thing was going his way. The 10mm was high end and probably the most expensive thing in the whole apartment. He lifted the black metal, turned it from side to side and checked the chamber. Like an old habit, he pocketed one magazine, snapped the second into place, then tucked the firearm into the back waistband of his jeans.
And as he did he had a sudden flash of doing the same damn thing time and again, in a lot shittier places than this.
He’d been in tight scrapes before. A man in his line of work ran into shady characters in some of the worst corners of the world. It went without saying that the poorest and least policed countries had the biggest treasures and the greediest suppliers, and he’d capitalized on that fact over the years. Sure, his business