Ten

Over the past eight hours, Walsh had called ny fifteen times. Texted him four times. When that didn’t yield any results, he called Reese, and once again, didn’t receive an answer.

He’d slept at the clubhouse.

Well. Not slept . He’d stayed here, after a brief trip out to the farm to ensure that George and some of Emmie’s older students had the horses well taken care of. Then he’d sat up in Ghost’s office chair all night, making his phone calls, nodding off occasionally and then startling back awake.

Now, midafternoon, he contemplated the cold cup of coffee on his blotter, eyed the bottle of vodka sitting on top of the mini fridge, and reached for neither. Instead heaved himself out of his chair and left the clubhouse in search of his brother.

“Hey.” Shane was outside on one of the picnic tables, and popped up to fall into step beside him.

Not that brother.

“Any word?” Shane asked. He was a few inches taller, but had to stretch his legs to keep up.

“No.”

“Maybe his phone died.”

They’d reached the main office by this point, and Walsh halted, which caused Shane to pull up, too. Walsh turned to face him, peering up at his notched-brow worry through the very necessary lenses of his sunglasses.

If pressed – and it wouldn’t take much pressure, truth told – he would admit that Shane was his favorite brother. Fox and ny sneered over him, because he was the softest of them, the kindest. He wasn’t a spy, or a trained assassin, or a weapons dealer, or a computer genius, or an accountant. He was just…him. Generally useful, without any interest in becoming a specialist the way the rest of them were. He had no ulterior motives, and his smiles were genuine, rather than calculated or mocking. He was easy in a way the others weren’t; being around him was calming compared to the way the others, Fox especially, riled him up to the point of reverting into the dead-arming, backhanding, insult-hurling sort of brother he’d never been as a child, thinking back then that he was all alone in the world.

Right now, though, Shane’s company wasn’t all that comforting. In fact, Walsh thought it might be a big liability, if the conversation he was about to have went the way he expected.

Still…everyone had to find out at some point.

“Fine,” he said, turned, and kept walking.

“Fine what?”

He didn’t answer.

Albie was right where Walsh expected to find him: in the corner of warehouse he’d turned into first a makeshift, and now a proper woodshop. He was alone, but didn’t respond to the loud clang of the door falling shut. He wore an ear protection headset, and was bent over a slender piece of wood twirling on the lathe, thick, pale curls of wood flying through the air and piling up on the floor as he shaped the leg of something. Three others, completed, waited on the workbench at his elbow. A table, then.

Walsh paused a moment, gaze flitting over the array of ornate, carefully-crafted pieces, knowing the attention to detail and lengthy consideration that went into the construction of each. Noted the peaceful, concentrated look on Albie’s face. He liked his guns, especially the Russian ones, for some ungodly reason, but the furniture was his passion. His art.

“Stay here,” Walsh told Shane, then walked over, and yanked the lathe’s plug out of the wall.

The noise ground to a slow halt. “Hey,” Albie called.

Walsh turned to him, and found him in the act of pushing up his clear protective glasses, frowning.

“What was that for?”

Walsh walked over to rest his hip against the table where the finished legs were laid out in a neat row. “Where are ny and Reese?”

Albie had a good poker face. The sort of practiced blankness that only someone with a better poker face could recognize. “What?”

“Where are they?”

Albie shrugged. “You tell me. Last I heard, you said they were out collecting intel.”

He was convincing. Very convincing.

Walsh said, “Neither of them are answering their phones.”

“Maybe they–”

“Died? No. They’re dodging my calls. And I think you know why.”

Albie snorted, incredulous. But Walsh caught the fast flicker of his fingers, tapping a rhythm against the leg of his jeans before he stilled them. “Right. Because and I are so close.”

Which was exactly the reason ny would have reached out to Albie. Someone knew what was happening, that was just sound logic. You didn’t go offline without informing someone. Albie was a perfect choice: less emotionally involved in this whole shitshow, but still family, reliable, and, most important of all, the seeming last choice.

Walsh picked up one of the finished table legs. It was dainty, a series of curves and flares, barely a half-inch thick in places. “This is nice,” he said, flatly.

“Oh, come on,” Albie said. “You’re not serious.”

Walsh caught his gaze, held it, and smashed the leg over the edge of the workbench.

Albie’s jaw tightened, tendons in his neck leaping. “Yeah?” he asked, once the clatter of the snapped-off wood had stopped ringing against the cement. “You want to talk about keeping secrets? You , King? Is that how you want to play this?”

“Whoa,” Shane said belatedly somewhere behind Walsh. “Guys, what–”

Albie gathered the other two legs and snatched them over to his side of the bench, his glare hard and accusatory. “Are you going to acknowledge what I just said? Or keep being a little bitch about it?”

“Are you going to tell me where the fuck ny and Reese are?”

Albie should have looked ridiculous, clear safety glasses pushing his hair back, plain navy t-shirt liberally doused with sawdust. A fat curl of wood clung to the collar, like the world’s biggest flake of dandruff. Albie’s gaze narrowed, jaw working side to side.

In all their history together, Albie had never stood to-to-toe with second-oldest brother. Walsh could still remember him big-eyed and baby-faced when Phil finally dragged him into Baskerville Hall the first time. When Walsh had still been the cool older brother, Albie’s gaze skating off of him rather than sticking each time he clocked him leaning up against the wall in Phil’s study. He’d gotten stronger, surer of himself; contributed, now, as competent and forthcoming as any of them, without all of Fox and ny’s dickhead tendencies. He offered his opinions – but he didn’t push . Didn’t challenge.

He did now, when he shoved his shoulders back, exhaled slowly, and said, “Ghost isn’t really dead.”

Shane made a predictably melodramatic noise.

Walsh sent Albie his sternest leave it alone look, while his heart did kickflips in his chest. Shit. Shit, of course someone suspected. Aidan was too na?ve and trusting, and Walsh had been so caught up in his relief that he’d bought the story, he hadn’t stopped to consider…

But, no. This wasn’t suspicion. Albie’s glittering look said he knew .

“How did ny find out?” And is he with Ghost now?

“ What ?” Shane demanded, and was ignored.

For a split-second, he thought Albie might smirk. Delighted in finally having the upper hand. But he frowned instead, debated a moment, jaw still working, and then said, “He heard it from Maggie. That’s where he and Reese are: they’re escorting Maggie and Ava to New Orleans to join the search for Remy.”

Walsh had always prided himself on the controlled, thoughtful nature of his violence. He wasn’t an impulsive man: didn’t punch walls or hurl glasses to the floor. When he fired his gun, it was out of necessity, and never excessive.

The sudden, overwhelming urge to break something was one that would disturb him later, but which he could do nothing but manage, now.

With the table legs out of reach, he turned, stalked halfway across the warehouse, and stared down at his boots. Counted to ten. To twenty. Then tipped his head back and shouted, “FUCK!” up at the ceiling. The explosion of breath and sound, the way the echo rebounded three times off the high steel trusses, was marginally satisfying. The knot in his chest was still there, but it had loosened enough to allow him to breathe, and to speak.

He stalked back to find Shane glancing between them, pale-faced and wide-eyed, and Albie with his arms folded and feet braced apart, ready for whatever he could throw at him.

Shane said, “How did – but what–” His head turned, back and forth, back and forth. “They got on a plane to London!”

Walsh wasn’t interested in whatever sleight of hand ny had helped the women execute that got them off the plane and into whatever vehicle had borne them south. ny was like Fox: he could pull off the impossible, and the details were only important to him.

Just like certain aspects of this whole fiasco were only – truly – important to Walsh. He took a few more deep breaths, and the knot in his chest loosened another fraction. He called upon logic, and, as always, it came to his rescue.

First priority: safety.

“Did they get to New Orleans?” There was a chance, he worried, that ny hadn’t kept in touch.

But Albie nodded, posture easing with obvious relief. “Yeah. They hooked up with Colin and Alex on the way – total coincidence – and they checked into a hotel downtown. Alex and Ava each had contacts they were going to reach out to.”

Walsh thought about what Ghost would say to his daughter reaching out to contacts, investigating shit…but no one had ever been able to control Ava, and Walsh certainly wasn’t going to take responsibility.

“They’ve got Colin and Alex, too?”

“Yeah. It’s the six of them. And I can’t imagine they won’t meet up with Mercy and the others.”

Walsh scrubbed both hands through his air. “Jesus.” But it was a mutter instead of an exclamation. Everything else was upside down, why not this, too?

“Your problem,” Albie said, “is dealing with everyone in that clubhouse when they find out the truth.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Albie’s gaze took on a concerned edge for the first time. He looked almost nervous. “They might strip your patches, King.”

“Yeah.”

Shane said, “Ghost’s not dead ?”

~*~

Ghost was not dead, but he wondered if this was what it would feel like when he went, because he’d always assumed the next and last time he’d wear a suit would be in his coffin. And even then, probably not: Maggie already knew he wanted to be buried in his boots and cut.

They’d spent the night at a cheap motel, and Fox had been up and at ‘em before first light, clicking away on his laptop and drinking shitty instant coffee. When Ghost rolled over and sat up, he’d said, “Get dressed. There’s a Macy’s a few miles from here.”

And now here Ghost sat with his hair severely slicked, wearing an off-the-rack suit, white shirt, and maroon tie. Wingtips that made him feel severely ill-equipped for action should he need to run, or fight, or shoot someone.

They shopped. They did recon – additional recon. Fox had apparently gotten up around three to make some phone calls, including to Eden across the pond, and done some digging on their mark for the day: Deputy Director Deborah Sawyer.

She had a driver who picked her up at one-fifteen every afternoon and whisked her away to whatever errands she’d deemed necessary. If she had any other work to do for the day, she conducted it from her phone, or her home office, only returning to HQ if it was an absolute emergency. Fox got into her financials, and she spent a shit-ton on expensive dinners, and even more expensive shopping trips. Tiffany’s, Cartier, Saks, etc.

Fox, dressed in a similar suit, expression crafted to something officious and dickheadish, sunglasses flat and black on his eyes, used a pair of convincing fake IDs to get rid of the driver, and then Ghost slotted their rented black Tahoe along the curb where Sawyer usually climbed into her car.

She exited the building in a gray skirt suit that doubtless cost almost as much as Ghost’s bike. Clipped along in her spike heels, gray hair gleaming in the sun where it was pulled back into a tight knot. She walked with her head bent over her phone, ID badge slapping against her waist, and didn’t even slow as she neared the car. Never lifted her head to ensure it was in fact her car.

Ghost had the window cracked, so when Fox slid out of the back seat and joined her on the sidewalk, he could hear his perfect Beltway accent when he said, “Excuse me, Deputy Director?”

She huffed with annoyance and lifted her head. “Yes? What is it? If this is about the Peterson…” She trailed off when she got a good look at Fox, who was flashing his credentials. “Who are you?”

“Special Agent Anthony Charles, Mrs. Sawyer. I’m with the Justice Department. I’m afraid I need to ask you a few questions.”

~*~

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Agent Nowitzki said after she slid into the opposite side of the booth. It was in the corner between two windows, and Aidan had put his back to the wall so he had clear sightlines of the door, the parking lot, and the rear exit. He could tell right away that she was going to at least begin this meeting playing the sympathy card. Her shirt had two more buttons undone that was strictly necessary, though, so he figured she’d shift into more sultry tones at some point.

Aidan nodded solemnly, and lifted a hand from his mug to signal the waitress.

“Getcha somethin’?” Darlene asked when she arrived at the table, with that patented blend of welcome and indifference so remarkable in all the Waffle House waitresses Aidan had met.

“Coffee, please.” When Darlene was gone, Nowitzki turned her big doe eyes back on Aidan. Someone get this chick an Oscar. “I’m surprised you reached out, honestly.” Flicker of a smile. Oh, poor Aidan. Poor confused, traumatized boy. “But I’m glad.”

Darlene returned with coffee, and then Aidan shooed her with a little flick of his hand that left her rolling her eyes before she retreated.

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “Last time…It didn’t feel like the clubhouse was the best place to talk.”

She tilted her head to a searching angle. “Too many curious ears around?”

“Something like that.” He sipped his coffee, and glanced up from beneath his lashes to pin her with a look. He didn’t think it would work – no one had ever told him he had that whole penetrating stare down like his old man, or Walsh, or, well, anyone else, really – but she stiffened a moment, before sitting forward with her elbows on the table. Leaning in, getting cozy. That moment of hesitance was good, though. “Any word on my nephew? Have y’all found him yet?”

Her lips compressed, and frustration flashed in her eyes before she schooled her features back toward empathy. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not on that case.”

“Yeah. I get it.” Lying bitch, he thought. There was no case. No one at the FB fucking I was searching for Remy. Maybe a frightened handler or two were flailing for the end of Boyle’s leash, but that was it. What was one missing or possibly-dead biker kid to the guys and gals at Quantico? “Could you maybe put in a phone call, though? Just to check? As a personal favor to me.”

Her brows twitched. “Personal favor?”

“Yeah.” He sipped his coffee. “I figure, if I give you some of the information you’re looking for…”

She stilled again, but this time it was eagerness that sparked to life in her gaze.

“…then maybe we could get a little quid pro quo thing going. A favor for a favor.”

“Well. Yes, I suppose–”

“But off the record. I’m not turning informant. I’m not squealing.”

“Right, yeah. Of course not.”

“But…” Here, pain flared hot and choking at the base of his throat, and he swallowed against it. “My old man’s gone. I had to – shit, I had to call my stepmom and tell her over the phone, like…” He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. Get it together . It would be far too easy to get sucked down, down, down into the depression spiral again. That wasn’t what needed to happen here, now, in front of this person.

He took a deep breath. “Y’all tried to arrest my brother-in-law, now he’s dead, and, just…my family’s getting smaller. The club is – I dunno what’s gonna happen to the club. I have to look out for my nephew. For my wife and kid.” He made eye contact, and held it. “I want to do the right thing.”

He could see the way she did a victory dance in her head. Outwardly, she plumped her lips in an oh poor baby gesture and slid her hand across the table. Glanced her fingers over the backs of his, her flawless nude manicure striking against the roses tattooed below his knuckles.

“I think that’s really brave, Aidan.”

He nodded. Peered down into his coffee a long moment, and then sighed. Let his shoulders slump. “There’s…”

Her hand shifted to cover his fully, smaller than his, but rigid with tension. She pressed her palm hard over his tats. “Yes? What is it, Aidan? You can tell me.”

“Mercy, he–”

“It’s okay.” She leaned in closer. Her breath smelled like coffee, and wintergreen gum. “You can tell me.”

He took a deep breath and let it explode out of his mouth. He didn’t have to fake the nerves; they were very real, churning in his gut, making him glad he hadn’t ordered lunch.

He said, “I don’t know for sure about the bodies in New Orleans. But I know where the bodies are buried here.”

~*~

Unused to working one-on-one with Fox, Ghost somehow wasn’t prepared for all the explaining he would do in the lead-up to whisking Deborah Sawyer away in their “Justice Department” SUV. He always seemed so above-it-all and removed amongst the group, but Fox enjoyed teaching, Ghost realized, even if, in this case, he was teaching his president, who was more than a decade his senior.

“The trick,” Fox had said earlier, “is to offer just enough information to hint at credibility, without saying too much. Real fed boys don’t run their traps. It’s just ‘we have a few questions,’ and ‘I’m not at liberty to speak.’ That sort of thing.”

Ghost had given him a flat look. “Do I look like one of your little proteges?”

Fox had smirked. “You don’t look like a spy .”

The fake ID, the suits, the car, and Fox’s brilliant acting job got Deborah Sawyer in the back of the Tahoe and into their custody.

She wasn’t going to be wholly cooperative, though.

“I don’t understand. The Justice Department?” Ghost could hear the little click-click of something scrolling on her phone screen. “I don’t have any emails from Clark.”

Shit. She knew somebody at the DOJ. Of course she did. All these Abacus shitheads had each and every finger in a powerful pie.

Ghost skated a look toward the passenger seat to see that Fox had his jaw set at an unusual angle, a tension in his neck never present in his natural state. In his Beltway voice, he said, “He’s not involved in this. This isn’t a professional call, Miss Sawyer. We’re investigating accusations of corruption at the FBI.”

“What corruption?” she snapped.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you more right now.”

The next few minutes would be the most tenuous. Until they had her somewhere secure, and until they got hold of her phone and laptop bag, she could bring hell raining down upon them.

“Where are you taking me?”

“An offsite secure location,” Fox said. “We have a few routine questions, and we think it’s best not to ask them in your office.” He twisted around to peer between the front bucket seats and glanced at her seriously over the rims of his shades. “We don’t know whether or not there are listening devices in your office.”

A quick glance at the rearview mirror proved that her manicured brows had flown up, and her face gone pale. “You think my office is bugged ?”

“We’re sending in a team to check,” Fox said. “Until then, we think it’s safest to talk somewhere secure.”

She subsided with a huff, playing at put-out, but clearly spooked. She lapsed back into silence, phone making muted scrolling sounds, until Ghost turned into the parking lot of their destination: a block of nondescript, gray concrete office buildings, sunlight gleaming black off the windows, men and women in business attire coming and going in the parking lot.

The leather of the seats squeaked as Sawyer sat up straighter in back. “This isn’t–”

“No, we’re not going to HQ,” Fox said. “We’ve been working out of this annex to keep things low profile. If the media catches wind of you turning up at the DOJ…”

“Right. Yes. Of course.” She sounded relieved.

Mike had been the one to score them the location: an empty office space on the second floor of Building B, at the end of a long hall, well away from the elevators. Fox had gone by earlier to get it all set up, to, in his words, “make it look legit,” and to disable the security cameras in all the places that would capture their comings and goings.

Ghost parked, farther from the building than he liked, but Fox was all extended arms and conciliatory, “Right this way, Miss Sawyer,” and “sorry for the inconvenience,” and “this shouldn’t take long.” Ghost kept silent and his reflection in the glass doors, as they approached, looked sufficiently fed-like, he thought.

One of Fox’s other little tidbits of wisdom: the details were the thing that sold a con. He’d said “op,” but same difference. Ghost clocked the floor directory in the building lobby, and saw that Fox had used the stick-up letters to make an entry for their fake office. He saw Sawyer clock it, too, and said a silent thanks to Fox’s neurotic commitment to the bit.

Sawyer stayed on her phone – typing in rapid bursts and sighing – the whole elevator ride and trip down the hall. As someone wealthy who had drivers, and no doubt a private chef, and domestic help, she’d grown used to living in her own little world, concerned with only herself while others floated around her, opening doors, offering her refreshment. It worked in their favor…until they reached the office, and she lifted her head to find it stark and empty. No computers, no files, no ringing phones. The reception desk sat empty, and the air was chilled and stale; there was no mistaking they were the only three people here.

“What–” Sawyer started.

Fox snatched her phone in one quick movement, then her bag while she was spluttering a protest, and then caught her hands together and slapped her in handcuffs. When she started to scream, he fitted his hand over her mouth and said, “Don’t do that.”

Her eyes bulged.

Ghost shut and locked the door. The blinds were already drawn, and the sunlight only a muted glow through their plastic slats. In the dim stillness of the empty space, he could hear Deborah Sawyer breathing roughly through her nose.

Fox put his face very close to hers, and said, “If you scream, I’ll hurt you. Cooperate, and you can be home by dinnertime.”

Her legs wobbled, and Ghost thought she’d go down. Panic turned her pupils to pinpricks, but then, slowly, she calmed, and nodded.

~*~

Walsh’s anger wasn’t so much bristling, as pulsing, like a deep-tissue bruise, painful, but disorienting. He wanted to sleep for a week. He settled for pouring a vodka rocks and calling his wife in the privacy of the clubhouse office.

He was greeted by clattering in the background, and Emmie’s voice, away from the phone, saying, “No, Vi, don’t – yeah. Like that.” She sighed, and then, closer, said, “Hi, baby. Sorry. Uncle Tommy’s teaching Violet how to play pool.”

“Billiards,” Tommy’s voice corrected, laughingly, in the background.

“Billiards,” Emmie said, and he could hear her eyeroll. The smack and clack of balls faded some, and he could envision the game room, its old tables salvaged from pubs, its Tiffany glass lamps, its black-on-green wallpaper and dark wood wainscoting. He loved that room, though he didn’t miss it now. It reeked of decades’ worth of cigarette smoke. “How’s it going over there?” she asked, softly. “How are you?”

It took him a beat to remember that Emmie thought Ghost was truly dead.

Or did she? His anger swelled up, painful under his skin.

“Well,” he said, and took a sip to help flatten his voice out into something unimpressed, rather than something on the verge of shaking. “I’ve been better. Today, for instance, I found out that Maggie and Ava are in New Orleans with .”

She sucked in a breath.

“You didn’t think to mention that during one of our four phone calls since you landed?”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. That about sums it up.” At sound of her sigh, his anger faded – a pressed bruise with the pressure suddenly released; still ugly, but no longer paining him. “Em,” he said, prompt and plea both.

“I know, I know. But I didn’t want to worry you.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Okay.” Her voice firmed. “I had no intention of telling you. Happy?”

“What do you think?”

“I think that I trust you more than anybody on the planet – but sometimes, you owe your friends a secret or two.”

He’d suspected as much before he even dialed her number. And, deep down, he liked that she was loyal to her friends. The old ladies stuck together; watched each other’s backs. Usually that didn’t mean keeping a secret this big, but he understood the impulse.

“ You’re not in New Orleans, are you?”

“Yes,” she said, tone dry, but relieved, too. Glad they weren’t going to have a shouting match. Shouting wasn’t his style, but it was hard to give one another the silent treatment across an ocean. “Tommy’s teaching Vi to play pool in New Orleans. It’s all one big conspiracy against you.”

He snorted. “Speaking of conspiracies…do you know about Ghost?”

“That he went with Fox to Virginia and that Aidan’s going to have an actual heart attack when he finds out he’s not dead? Yeah. I know.”

“Fuck.”

He heard movement, and then the background noise cut out. Her voice went serious. “King. How badly is this going to blow up in your face?”

“Badly,” he said, tired of lying. “But I’m in it, now.”

“Yeah,” she said, sadly. “I’m sorry.”

~*~

Aidan had left his bike parked around the corner of the building, not wanting any brother passing by to spot it and get curious. Even so, he rounded the sidewalk and pulled up short when he spotted two bikes slanted in the space beside his, riders astride them.

Roman and Carter.

Roman’s gaze was difficult to read behind his sunglasses, but the way his arms were folded over his gas tank was clear. “I saw your girlfriend leave,” he said, lip curling in disgust.

Carter’s expression, when he pushed his sunglasses up into his golden hair, was pained. “Aidan. Dude. Really ?” His voice was thick with hurt. With betrayal.

A part of Aidan wanted to laugh hysterically at the idea: the preppy jock who’d tailed Ava home all those years ago, pathetic, frightened of them, questioning his loyalty to the club. And now he felt betrayed by Aidan . By a fucking legacy.

As quick as he’d thought it, Aidan was swamped with guilt. Carter was a good egg. Was doubtless as adrift as any of them.

He scrubbed his hands over his face – his eyes still felt full of sand, the lids heavy and sluggish after his emotional outburst yesterday – and said, “Guys, come on. It’s not like that.”

Roman’s brows lifted over the rims of his aviators. “You wanna tell us what it is like, then? ‘Cause it looked like you were spilling your guts to that pretty FBI bitch.”

Carter’s jaw worked, his silence as good as agreement.

“I…” An excuse – a tepid and unbelievable one – formed on his tongue, but he closed his mouth. Excuses had always been his game, but he wasn’t just Aidan anymore. Not just Ghost’s fuckup son. He was VP. He had the patch and everything. And both of these chuckleheads had voted him as such.

He squared his shoulders, and made eye contact with them, one and then the other. Hands on his hips, one boot cocked out, he belatedly realized he was mimicking his dad. All the better.

“Do either of you actually think I’d go running to spill my guts to the FBI? About…what? Mercy? All the criminal shit we’ve done? Are you fucking serious?”

Carter’s brows flew up, and then he sank down into the collar of his cut. “Uh…”

“You, Roman?” Aidan asked – no, demanded . “You ran away like a little bitch back when Duane was president, and now you’re gonna accuse me of turning rat?”

“Uh…”

“Fuck you both.” Aidan wasn’t angry, but found himself warming to this new approach. To this authority. Shit, was this why Dad was such a shithead? Because it felt damn good to throw his weight around?

Inwardly, a part of him was screaming: I’m not ratting! I’m not! I swear! I would never…

Outwardly, he plucked his helmet off his handlebars and said, “Take a ride with me.”

~*~

The cuffs probably weren’t necessary, but the pat-down definitely was. Fox didn’t find a gun, but Deborah Sawyer had a slim stiletto knife tucked into an interior pocket of her skirt. Fox disappeared it, then pushed her down into a cheap plastic chair at a cheap plastic table, and told her to put her cuffed hands on top where they could see them. Ghost wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t scream, but so far, she was keeping her lips pressed flat in a white, trembling line.

Fox squared off from her, hands in his pants pockets, head tilted at an eerie angle that brought to mind watching animals at the zoo.

“You’re not really DOJ, are you?” she asked, but she didn’t sound sure. Her gaze was narrow, but her mouth tremulous, and for the moment, Ghost was content to lean back against the edge of an empty desk and watch Fox do his thing. He so rarely had the chance to do so, up close like this.

Fox stared at her – a stare that would have a grown man shrinking down in his seat. Sawyer was tough; Ghost could grant her that. “Had many dealings with us lately?”

“I…”

“How about you let me do my job, and you worry about keeping yours. Of course, after the conversation we’re about to have, I don’t think that’s going to be possible.” He sent an offhand look to Ghost and said, “Check her bag.”

Enjoying this? Ghost planned to ask him later. Giving your president orders?

He set the laptop bag over on the desk where he was leaning and pulled out a slim HP. The side pockets contained an array of flash drives, labeled with initials in silver Sharpie. He laid them out one by one, the click of plastic on plastic loud in the mostly-empty space. Seven total. Her gaze, he noted, flickered with fear when he set down the third, marked CL .

Ghost opened the laptop and was greeted by a password screen.

Fox sent her an expectant look. “You can tell me, or I can waste time getting my IT guys to hack into it. I’m going to find out what’s on it either way.”

She pursed her lips, and stared him down. Not unflinching, but steady. “What is this about?”

Fox glanced over, and Ghost handed him the file folder ready and waiting on the desk. From it, with more flourish than necessary so the glossy photo paper snapped loudly, Fox withdrew photo after photo, and slapped them down in front of her.

Close-ups of the girls rescued from the auction at the Beaumont Building, teary-eyed, too-thin, with dark bruises from restraints on their wrists and throats. Girl after girl after girl.

Then came the crime scene photos: the men and women of Abacus’s upper echelon: the husband and wife charity directors sprawled across the floor of their home, and in their backyard, blood pooling beneath them from lone, fatal gunshots. The senator, burned to a blackened husk in the backseat of his chauffeured car. The restauranteur with his head caved in like an Easter egg on the tiles surrounding a pool in France. And Jack Waverly, slumped in a velvet theater seat, skewered with a sword cane, his fat face slack and blotchy in death, eyes staring unseeing at the stage where he’d watched all those too-thin, bound girls be bid upon by his friends and acquaintances.

Sawyer winced at sight of Angelo Rawlings’s brains spilled in a puddle of pool water, and when Fox laid down Waverly’s photo, she gulped audibly and turned her face away. “Enough,” she said, and put a hand up to shield her peripheral vision.

“You’re the Deputy Director of Forensics , aren’t you?” Ghost spoke for the first time. Fox sent him a look that warned caution, but didn’t cut him off. “You’re not going to get queasy over crime scene photos, are you? Has it been too long since you were in the field? Or were you never qualified for the job in the first place?”

According to the file Mike had given them, Sawyer’s rise to directorship had been meteoric, especially considering her low test scores as a trainee.

“Or,” Fox said, “is it harder to look at these images when they’re images of your friends?”

Her head whipped back around at that, threads of silver hair flying loose from her tight bun to cling at the sweat-damp skin of her temples and forehead. Her eyes were huge. “What? I don’t – these aren’t my friends .” But she was too rattled to sound contemptuous, her breathing too quick to sell the lie.

Fox pulled out a digital audio recorder, clicked it on, and set it on the table, just out of her reach. Folded his arms. “Tell us about Abacus. About how you like to buy and sell young women.”

She stared at him a moment, and then her lashes flickered, and her eyes welled, and her lip trembled. She broke, and Ghost tipped a mental hat to Fox’s judgement call on approaching her first.

Somehow, over the years, up to his eyeballs in enough crises and mundane worries alike to drink and smoke and stress himself into the hospital, he’d managed to amass the sort of talent and loyalty in a crew that could more than likely topple a small country, if they set their minds to it. The FBI had all their tech and their government money, but Ghost had the smartest, savviest killers in the country under his roof.

How many of those killers, he wondered, his own son included, would trust him once they learned that he’d lied to them?