Outside, a large vehicle rumbled down the normally quiet street. That, he surmised, was the communications van. He wondered how extensive the setup would be. Eight hours wasn’t a lot of time for a large task force to deploy. A streamlined one, filled with some of the best, and hungriest, agents in the Enclave?
More than doable.
“Pansy?” Jack’s voice shook, her name a whispered prayer. He knew better than to lean forward, to crowd her.
She turned toward him, a tired smile lighting her face. “I’m here.”
Her gaze flickered, first to Mortimer and then Gwyneth and then back to Henry.
“Are you able to sit?” he asked.
“I think so.” Already, she was moving, easing up to her elbows, although once upright, she leaned heavily against his chest.
The feel of her there, in his arms, was as familiar as if in some other lifetime, they’d sat like this often. Her head came to rest in the crook of his shoulder, and she sank against him, solid and warm in his embrace. Certainly, everyone in this room sensed this strange intimacy. Jack glanced away, and Mortimer scowled.
As for Gwyneth? The inscrutable scientist was gathering data. To what end, Henry could only guess. Although Gwyneth, their betrothal, and even the Enclave wouldn’t be a problem for very much longer, at least, not one of his problems.
It was Gwyneth who broke the spell. She crouched in front of Pansy, her expression full of clinical concern.
“How are you feeling, Agent Little?”
“Better. Grounded. I’ll be okay.”
Gwyneth’s gaze flickered to his before returning to Pansy. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I’ve booked a room at the bed and breakfast. Agent Darnelle and I should probably head out.”
So, they were going to maintain the polite façade, then, no one in this room willing to broach Botten’s hidden agenda. Henry supposed he could, but what little advantage he had was in appearing ignorant.
He shifted his position, knelt to help Pansy stand, and instead, found her in his embrace. She brought her hand to his heart and let it rest there. The heat from her palm penetrated through his shirt, his skin, down deeper through muscle, until it finally touched the bruise left from his betrothal ring. Warmth spread through his chest, soothing the ache, mending the fractures in his heart. Then she stood on tiptoes, brought her lips to his ear, and whispered words meant only for him.
“Your father was a good man.”
They didn’t bother with the luggage. That was the most obvious tell. They left his SUV and took Gwyneth’s high-end sedan, one with leather seats, the sort only she would have the audacity to expense. When she slipped behind the wheel? That, too, was a tell.
But then they turned left out of Pansy’s driveway, not right, not toward the housing development. That was promising, although Henry remained silent, on alert. He scanned the area with a Z-pattern and checked the side mirror, looking for hints that Botten had the neighborhood covered. The Enclave was often far too careless with small towns, as if video surveillance only existed in cities, as if no one here might keep an eye on their neighbors.
But any number of home security cameras were recording their slow trek up the street. No doubt those same cameras had caught the communications van heading in the other direction.
Gwyneth slowed the car, pausing at the first stop sign. Another vehicle shot into the intersection, blocking the way forward. Yes, Henry could unlock the door and make a break for it. He could split the task force’s efforts, lead a portion of them on a chase, into the cemetery, perhaps. He suspected he could even hide in the arms of that willow tree; there was something preternatural about it.
Except that would solve nothing. Botten had his blood. With Mortimer on guard, Botten had Pansy as well. Max Monroe’s words surfaced in his mind.
You understand that it needs to be you.
Only now did Henry discern the compassion in the other man’s voice.
They sat there, high beams from a second vehicle joining the first and flooding their car, painting them both in a garish light.
“It’s not going to end like you think it will,” Henry said, venturing to say the quiet part out loud.
“You don’t know what I think.” Gwyneth stared straight ahead, chin jutting toward the windshield, knuckles pale on the steering wheel.
True enough. Perhaps he never had. Perhaps that had been the problem all along, at least between the two of them.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he added.
“What makes you think you have?”
He exhaled, half sigh, half sorrowful laugh. “How about this. In the next several hours, I don’t mean to hurt you, but I suspect it could be part of the collateral damage. In fact, I suggest you hand me over.” He nodded toward the cars in the intersection. “Then drive straight to the airport and take the first flight back to Seattle.”
