Simon pounded after, slamming his arms into the thin black leather jacket she had found for him. He snapped on his sunglasses and pulled his hair over his forehead. The clothes on Liz were loose and long while Simon’s fit him nearly perfectly. She landed on the first floor and sprinted. He was right behind. At the front door, they hid their pistols and looked each other up and down. “You’re good,” he decided. “Can’t believe you play a mouse so well.” She had that same timid, weighed-down appearance that he had seen in Waterloo Station. “Just goes to show how little you know me. I’m a retiring creature at heart.” “Your nose just got a foot long, Pinocchia. What about me?” “Lout comes to mind,” she said approvingly. “Also hoodlum. I was getting tired of that preppy look that you seem to think is the real you.” He smiled. “Thank you.” Then the smile vanished. He inched open the door and peered out through the crack. “Well?” she said. In answer, he pulled it wider and slid out to the step.
