"How many more prototypes are missing?"
Algerone moved beside me, spine straight, face composed for the cameras that would broadcast his image globally within minutes. He maintained his perfect control and betrayed not a hint of the rage I knew churned beneath that tailored suit. My hand brushed his elbow, guiding him toward the exit while security personnel formed a barrier between us and the shouting press.
The brief contact sent heat racing up my arm. Even here, even now, my body still responded to him like a compass finding north.
The tent flap closed behind us. Military personnel scurried around the command post established at the Oklahoma City disaster perimeter. The moment we entered the private staging area, Algerone's shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.
"That was a goddamn massacre," he muttered. "And I don't mean the civilians."
"The press always wants blood." I checked my tablet, scrolling through the cascade of crisis notifications. Three hundred forty-seven unread messages had accumulated since the press conference began. Board members demanding updates. Legal flagging liability concerns. The Pentagon's office calling every fifteen minutes. I could manage numbers and data, but the man standing beside me made my pulse stutter.
"We're fucked, Maxime." He loosened his tie with a sharp tug. "Nine hundred twelve dead. Congressional hearings scheduled. Stock down sixty-four percent. The Pentagon threatening to void our contracts."
"We've survived worse." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.
"Have we?" His eyes met mine, the carefully constructed corporate facade cracking to reveal something darker beneath, something more honest.
My hand drifted unconsciously to my throat, pressing against the collar where his marks lay hidden beneath makeup and expensive fabric. The bruises had faded to yellow-green now, but I could still feel them if I pressed hard enough. I pressed harder, letting the dull ache anchor me.
Commander Reid approached, tablet in hand. "Sir, the perimeter is secure. Xavier's team has confirmed the energy readings at the activation site."
"Where?" Algerone asked.
"Sunset Terrace. Eastern quadrant. What used to be Lot 127."
Algerone's expression flattened. This was not just any location. This was the exact spot where his family's trailer had stood, where Jackson Wheeler had killed his stepfather and remade himself into Algerone Caisse-Etremont.
"Take me there." The order came out flat and emotionless.
"Sir, the area is still being processed for evidence," Reid began.
"Now." The single word carried enough weight to silence further objections.
Reid nodded once. "Yes, sir. Transport is standing by."
"Arrange a briefing with Xavier's team for 1700 hours," I instructed Reid, keeping my voice steady despite the way my chest had tightened. "Full analysis of the weapon specifications, casualty projections, and recovery operations."
"Yes, sir."
Algerone moved toward the waiting SUV, back rigid beneath his suit jacket. I followed, checking my tablet again in the nervous habit I'd never been able to break. Another cascade of notifications lit up the screen. The world circled like vultures, hungry for explanations, accountability, blood.
The Oklahoma sun beat down mercilessly as we left the command post. The National Guard checkpoint smelled of sweat, diesel, and borrowed authority. I showed our credentials to a lieutenant whose eyes widened at the Lucky Losers logo. His hands shook slightly as he handed the badges back.
"Mr. Caisse-Etremont, Mr. St. Germain." He nodded stiffly. "The technical team is already at the site."
"Which is where exactly?" Algerone asked.
"Sunset Terrace. Eastern quadrant. The coordinates where..." The lieutenant faltered.
"Where the device was placed," I finished for him. "We know. Thank you, Lieutenant."
Oklahoma City baked under the afternoon sun, waves of heat rippling off the asphalt as we crossed the final barricade. Behind us, news vans assembled like vultures, satellite dishes aimed skyward, reporters rehearsing their standups against the backdrop of disaster.
Throughout the press conference, I'd maintained my position slightly behind Algerone's right shoulder, half a step back and half a step to the side—the position I'd held for thirty-two years. My spine stayed straight despite the lingering ache from Xander's assault the day before. My ribs protested each breath, a reminder of the cemetery, of Imogen's grave, of sins that could never be fully paid. I had been the company's public face of composed competence while reporters shouted accusations about stolen prototypes and corporate negligence.
I had stood there and lied for him. I would stand there and lie again. That was what I did. What I had always done.
Military vehicles crowded the perimeter, their olive drab stark against the blue Oklahoma sky. Medical personnel in hazmat suits moved through what had once been streets, documenting the dead. FBI evidence teams marked locations with numbered flags. The whole neighborhood had been reduced to coordinates on a grid, to data points and evidence markers and body bags.
