the photo.
He was only a few inches taller than she was, but he carried himself as if he were six feet tall. He wore a dark blue nylon bomber jacket and jeans, with an army surplus duffle slung over his shoulder. His black hair was brushed straight back from a deep widow’s peak, there was a day’s worth of black stubble on his jaw, and beneath his bulky clothing, he had the trim, sculpted body of someone who worked out with weights for more than show. When she’d called the service, she’d specified needing someone who could keep her safe anywhere in New York—and blend in on the street. The man they’d sent more than fit the bill. You wouldn’t give him a second glance anywhere from Spanish Harlem to Crown Point.
“Come in, Mr. Logan,” she said, closing the door behind him.
“Just Logan. And you’re Ria,” he said. “These are for you.” He held out the bag. “The service has your size and your profile; you’ve used our West Coast service in the past.”
She opened the duffle and pulled out the contents. Worn jeans with the extra gusset at the crotch that would give them as much flexibility as a pair of dance tights, a tight black T-shirt, and a jacket. It looked like a cheap vinyl imitation of a black leather jacket, but when she lifted it, it was heavier than she expected. She checked the lining, and found it was lined in Kevlar—enough to stop anything up to a Black Talon cop-killer.
“The dispatcher said you’d be going into some rough neighborhoods. You don’t want to go looking like money,” Logan said.
“Thanks,” Ria said, meaning it. Gotham Security was the best. They turned down more clients than they accepted, and the reason they still accepted her commissions was because she never argued with their decisions once she’d set the parameters. Ria respected competence in any field. When you hired an expert to keep you safe, there was no point in telling him how to do his job.
“Help yourself to some coffee. I’ll go change.”
She’d worn running shoes on the plane, a