Chapter 30

His gun’s a Glock 29, small enough to fit comfortably between us in the small space of the SUV’s cab. The doors are locked, and I’m betting Jonathan has the child safety engaged so that I can’t open the door next to me without his unlocking it from his side.

“Explain,” he says evenly. He’s stone-cold in this minute, not the friend I shared a battlefield with but the cold-eyed warrior I remember. He may or may not like what he has to do right now, but he’ll do it either way.

I hold my hands out, though he knows I’m unarmed since he watched them check the returned inventory they handed me at the jail. Wallet, set of keys, and a small pocket knife. No gun.

“There was a fire, everyone got out, asshole cop power-tripped about us going down for questions and arrested me. Got the full-court parade of interrogations, complete with the damn Chief of Police, then you showed up.” I narrow my eyes, looking at him carefully. “But you already know that. What’s going on?”

I’m hoping he’ll tell me what’s brought this on because I’m clueless.

Something Charlotte said echoes in my mind. Blackwell has people all over the city, and she doesn’t trust anyone. Oh, fuck.

“Are you working for Blackwell? Are you spying on Thomas for him?” I growl.

It’d make perfect sense, Infiltration 101, get close to your target. Jonathan’s insinuating himself as the head of Thomas’s security team would be perfect, getting him into all sorts of top-secret places and able to direct every move Thomas makes, for good and bad.

I’m already looking for an opening to take Jonathan out, grab the gun, and remove the threat to Charlotte and her friends, when he scoffs.

“Me? Nice try, but you’re the operative for Blackwell. What does he know? What’s he planning?” Jonathan says quietly, ice in his voice.

I read his face, looking for any sign of dishonesty but finding none. “Wait, you’re not on Blackwell’s payroll?” He shakes his head slightly, but his eyes and the gun stay locked on me. “I’m not either. Charlotte said Blackwell was a sick fucker, with resources all over the city. But I’m not one. I swear it. On Stockton’s grave.”

James Stockton. He wasn’t the first death letter I’d had to write, nor was he the last, but it was the hardest. And Jonathan knows that because he was there for the worst of it.

We’re most of the way through the dusty field, just after 2200 local. Ahead, less than a hundred meters now, is our target when the AK opens up and we grab dirt.

“Move, move, move,” I yell to my men. We’re a small group tonight, just one platoon of sixteen, but we’re good. My guys do as trained, alternatingly laying down covering fire and hauling ass for the single shack on the property.

Inside, the family of caretakers, employees of the area warlord, shrink back in fear, but they each hold weapons. A father, a mother, and a ten-year-old boy. Thankfully, they’re more scared of us than their warlord.

Stockton, our interpreter, tells them we aren’t there for them and even gets them to lower their guns, which we promptly secure. We stay still and quiet for two hours as a patrol sweeps the fields outside.

We’re ready to kill every one of those patrolling men, which in the civilian world sounds horrifying, but there in the quiet of the night, I’m ready to do whatever I have to for my men.

Eventually, the guards retreat, and I silently celebrate that our cover held. I call for pickup, and we prep to leave as the tut-tut-tut of the chopper blades gets closer in the distance.

Stockton speaks to the father, something I can’t understand but sounds kind, like he’s thanking the man for our safety. Stockton even smiles, a flash of white teeth in the dark shack.

Suddenly, the man lashes out with a knife. I return fire automatically, killing the father instantly as the mother and child cry out, yelling in a language I don’t understand.

He’d been sitting on it the whole time, and he gets Stockton across the calf, taking him down. We’d all been so close to surviving this unexpected meeting, but the father forces my hand.

We leave the shack, one dead, two grieving, but all of my men alive. They’re my responsibility, and I’m not going to fail them.

We haul ass for the Blackhawk that’s just setting down. I help Stockton, who’s limping badly and not able to put much pressure on his left leg. We make it aboard, and one of the guys who’s already loaded helps me pull Stockton inside.

He’s half in-half out when the ratta-tat-tat of automatic gunfire loudly sounds out, even though we’re right under the helicopter’s rotating blades.

I shove Stockton in, climbing in behind him. We both take hits, I can tell by the way his body jerks in my arms and the fire that shoots through my leg. But the chopper takes off, getting us out of there.

“Are you hit?” someone asks, and I nod because my mouth is so dry, I can’t speak. But I’m okay. It’s not serious, even though it hurts like a motherfucker. “Stockton?”

No answer.

I roll over, where the medic’s working, but I can tell already that it’s not good.

Five seconds. If we’d been five seconds faster . . .

I’d had to tell his wife, as she held the tiny baby Stockton had kissed goodbye less than a week before, that he hadn’t made it. I’d been the man right next to her husband as he kept us all safe in that shack and paid for his kindness with his life. She hadn’t said it, but I know she’d wished it’d been me.

An inch or two to the right and it would’ve been.

I tell Jonathan, back in the cab of his SUV at gunpoint, “You were on pickup that night, Jon. Your boys were our backup, so you know. I swear on Stockton’s grave, it’s not me.”

Jonathan lowers the gun, sighing. “Fuck. I had to be sure. It’d be so much easier if it was. One and done.”

I know just how close Jonathan was to shooting me, can hear the desperation in his voice. “We need to back up. Our intel is wrong. It’s not you, and it’s not me.”

He nods, putting the Glock away. “Then who?”

I look out the window, replaying the day. “Charlotte was sure it was Sabrina, and she was in the kitchen alone for a few minutes this afternoon. She came by unexpectedly, which could track that it’s her. I could even see her being so mad at Charlotte that she could be turned to Blackwell’s side, not because she cares about Thomas but just to get back at Charlotte.”

Jonathan shakes his head, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “But what about the phone?”

“What phone?” I ask. “Charlotte picked up a phone when the police were hauling me away, but I’d never seen it before.”

Jonathan opens his center console, pulling out a phone. “This phone. Check the text messages.”

I do as he says, and fury rushes through my body, my blood catching fire in my veins. “What the fuck?”

“I know. Charlotte thinks it’s yours,” he says hollowly.

“No, she knows I wouldn’t do something like this, wouldn’t betray her. I love her,” I protest. But I can see her, the color draining out of her face and the look of hurt in her eyes.

I hadn’t understood then, but I do now.

She would believe I’d do something like this. Not because she doesn’t trust me, but because she doesn’t trust anyone and is always waiting for the other shoe to drop. And this? This is like a size-thirteen combat boot dropping on her life. She’d believe, I think sadly.

Her scars run too deep. I’ve been healing them, but not fast enough, not enough for her to know without a doubt that this is a lie.

“I’ll make her understand,” I vow to Jonathan. “I’ll prove to her that it’s not me. I love her, and she does this dance. Two steps forward, one step back. This is a giant one back, but I got her to trust me once. I’ll get her to do it again.”

“That’s sweet and all, but not really the issue at hand. Whose phone is this?” Jonathan says. “We were sure it was yours.”

I play back that moment.

Vaughn could’ve dropped the phone in the scuffle. His vehemence that he take me in could be a play from Blackwell to separate us. Even Chief Harris’s involvement could track with that. Dirty cops on Blackwell’s payroll makes sense, and Jonathan knows the cops are in Blackwell’s pocket.

But Vaughn didn’t have access to the ovens in the kitchen. He might be dirty, but he’s not the guy for this.

I flip to the camera folder on the phone, scrolling.

Steven? Maybe it’s not Jonathan who’s the plant in Thomas’s crew but the guard closest to Charlotte. He’d been there today and has been in the kitchen dozens of times.

But a picture on the phone stops me. It’s a picture of Steven. If he’s the plant, he couldn’t take a picture of himself. He’s too far away. I study the picture, horror dawning as I realize who.

Only one person has gotten Steven to smile and flash a peace sign.

“Oh, fuck. I know who it is,” I say, still not believing my eyes even though the proof is right in front of me.

“Who?” Jonathan says.

“It’s Trixie. She was always taking pictures of Steven. I thought she had a crush on him. And she’s got full access. To everything. She was there, fighting Vaughn when he tried to take me in. Maybe the phone fell out of her pocket or she dropped it into mine?”

Jonathan’s eyes narrow, and I can see his mind flipping through files in his mental filing cabinet. “Trixie Reynolds, Oklahoma. Business degree, assistant manager at Cake Culture. . .” He goes on, repeating things I already know about Trixie, but he’s missing the vital piece and so am I.

How in the fuck does she know Blackwell, and more importantly, why would she betray Charlotte?