It’s a picture of Carter and a couple of his buddies from some thirty years ago. Two of who died in the car bomb that almost killed my little brother. But Carter nearly died because he threw himself over three other guys who were already down and injured, protecting them and earning himself a medical discharge and a Purple Heart as a result.
In this picture, the guy on the end was one of the ones he protected. One of the three. And—
No fucking way.
I unlock the chain securing the hood around Fowler’s neck and yank it off his head, shoving him over onto his side with my foot to get a better look at him.
It is him.
It’sabsolutelyhim. Older, yes, but aren’t we all? The picture I have matches the old picture in his official military jacket.
I think about how I noticed him getting hard a couple of times during my interrogation, like a man used to rough trade and craving it.
How I thought if the situation were different, I’d absolutely love to pick him up in a bar and take him home and rough him up.
Hmm.
This revelation needs a moment to percolate through my brain. I always suspected my little brother and I shared some of the same personality traits when it comes to power exchange and intimate relationship dynamics, but in our family it’s definitelynotsomething we would ever talk about. From the way I’ve watched Carter and his wife Susa interacting, to the way I’ve witnessed him handle his old friend and “boss,” Owen.
Who happens to be the two-term governor of the state of Florida, and will be until Susa, his lieutenant governor, is sworn into office in a few weeks, since she won her election to take Owen’s place as governor. Carter will then become the First Gentleman of Florida, leaving his job as Owen’s chief of staff to become a stay-at-home dad.
To their two sons.
I’ve always wondered if there was more to the three of them being “roommates” in college. All these years, they’ve been inseparable.
That, and the fact that Owen’s a confirmed bachelor.
Plus, Carter’s sons both have Owen’s green eyes.
Guess I’m not the only one in my family hiding some pretty dark secrets.
Maybe it’s instincts that kick in, I don’t know. But I pull out my other burner and text one word to a number I have memorized.
Liquidated.
I get a response a moment later.
File noted.
After removing that burner’s battery and SIM card, I drop the phone to the floor and crush it under the heel of my tactical boot. I’ll dump it and the SIM card in a river on my way out of here.
At this point, I’m not only disobeying a direct order, I’m playing a very dangerous game that could quite possibly getmekilled.
I didn’t make it to fifty-seven while still actively working as a spook because I’m a fucking idiot, though.
In my SUV I have a travel kit that covers a wide variety of potential situations. From it, I pull out a new syringe and needle and draw up enough drugs to keep Fowler sedated for several hours. He’s in pretty rough shape and dehydrated, too. I can’t risk starting an IV on him right now, though. I need to move him first.
I need time to think, and I can’t do it here, out in the open, where the morning and daylight could bring discovery and interruptions.
Working fast, I position the SUV so the back hatch is at the warehouse’s doorway. After I push the drugs into Fowler, I unchain him, pop his shoulder back into place—because it’s the least I can do for the poor fucker—and reposition his hands in front of him before chaining him up again. Using a tarp, I wrap him in it and drag him to the doorway, where I roughly load him into the cargo area of the SUV. He’s not quite as big as I am, but I am no longer as strong as I once was, so there’s no finessing this. Normally, I don’t have to do the grunt work anymore, which is why I hired the two Russian meatheads.
But I can’t have anyone seeing this man leave here alive.
Fortunately, this area is desolate at night and there’s no one around to witness any of this. There also aren’t any cameras to record me leaving with someone stowed in the back of my SUV. Even if there were, it looks like I’m loading a dead body, not a living person. Were it ever to come up—which it won’t—I could always say I needed to question Fowler further about sensitive information I dredged up during my interrogation, and I didn’t want the meatheads witnessing it. If ever pressed to produce a body, I’ll say I couldn’t risk the discovery and I dismembered him before dumping the pieces into a nearby river.
Wouldn’t be the first time I did that.
Except…
