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answering, but perhaps she could defuse the situation and convince him to leave her alone. “Yes.”
    “Where are you?”
    It wasn’t Ricky. “Who is this?”
    “Beau Junger.”
    Joe’s name was Beau? Didn’t seem to really fit him. It wasn’t hard enough. He looked more like a Buck or Duke or Rocky. “I’m in my apartment.”
    “Are the Gallo brothers outside your apartment?”
    She peered out the slice in the blinds. “I don’t think they’re brothers.”
    “One short and fat? The other tall and skinny?”
    “Yeah.”
    “They’re brothers. Do you see their beige Lexus LS?”
    How did he know that? “Yes.”
    “Where is the vehicle oriented to your front door?”
    “Several rows back and to the left.”
    “Okay. Do you have a bag packed?”
    “Yes. I’m waiting for them to leave so I can run to my car.”
    “Forget your car. I’m still about an hour out. So at”—he paused as if looking at his big watch—“fourteen hundred hours, you’re going to hear a commotion. Grab your bag and haul your ass out of your apartment.”
    “What kind of commotion? How will I know it’s you?”
    She wasn’t sure, but he might have chuckled. “You’ll know. There will be a black SUV parked at the curb closest to your unit. Get in.”
    “Your SUV?”
    “Yes,” he said, and the line went dead.
    “Wait. Come back. What time is fourteen hundred hours?”

Chapter Three
    C ommotion. Stella considered a heated argument a commotion. Loud music was a commotion. Evidently, Beau Junger had a different definition. One that included a boom and black smoke and chaotic flashes of light. At the first sign of “commotion,” Stella grabbed her bag, locked her door behind her, and hauled ass down the stairs as he’d directed. As she hit the ground floor, she glanced across the parking lot at the smoke pouring from beneath the Gallo brothers’ Lexus. Amid the confusion of crackling light and blaring car alarm, a black Escalade pulled up to the curb. With her backpack across one shoulder and her duffel clutched to her chest, Stella yanked open the door and jumped inside.
    “Holy frijole y guacamole!”
    From across the big SUV, Beau Junger, aka G.I. Joe, aka Captain America, looked back at her through the lenses of his mirrored sunglasses. “Good afternoon.” All calm and cool, he eased his foot off the brake, and the Cadillac pulled away from the curb. No squealing tires or racing engines or hail of bullets. Just cool air-conditioning, soft leather, and tinted windows.
    “What did you do?” She looked back through the seats toward the billowing black smoke and the Gallo brothers yelling and pointing at their Lexus. “Did you blow up the Gallos’ car?”
    “Of course not. That would be against the law.”
    “And that isn’t?”
    “That’s just a little flashbang.” He took a deep breath. “God, I love the smell of flashbang.”
    All she could smell was leather and some sort of man soap. Like he’d scrubbed his face with Axe or Irish Spring or Lava. She shoved her duffel in the seat behind, and her forearm brushed his solid shoulder. “Little?”
    He shrugged and pulled out of the apartment complex. “I’ve used bigger.”
    She didn’t doubt it and turned forward. He struck her as a secretive kind of guy, and she knew better than to even ask where one might get his hands on a “flashbang.” She wouldn’t mind having at least one of her own. “Where we going?”
    “Out of town.” He glanced across the car at her. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but she could feel his gaze on her face. “Initially, I didn’t gather intel on your boss. There was no need, but after our meet and greet in the parking lot, I’ve done a little digging.” He turned his attention back to the street and pulled onto the 112.
    She clicked her seat belt across her lap and dug her sunglasses out of her backpack. “What did you find out?”
    “Ricky De Luca is associated with the mafia out of Newark.” He looked across his