The air tasted of ash and scorched metal. No smoke, no fire. The sonic weapon left no visible destruction, just bodies where they fell, neural tissue boiled inside intact skulls. We stepped over a child's bicycle abandoned in a driveway. Pink streamers hung limp from the handlebars. Algerone's face remained expressionless, but his knuckles whitened on his cane.
I wanted to touch him, to press my palm against the small of his back, to offer comfort the way I had in those quiet hours before dawn, before the news had shattered everything. But we were exposed here, surrounded by military personnel and federal agents and the ever-present threat of cameras. I keptmy hands at my sides and my expression neutral and my need locked away where it belonged.
Xavier spotted us first, his orange and blue hair visible from a hundred yards away. He stood in a cluster of technicians, monitoring equipment set up around what appeared to be a concrete foundation. The sight of him still produced a complicated knot in my chest, a tangle of guilt and protectiveness and something almost like pride that I couldn't separate.
"Algerone." He nodded, eyes flicking briefly to me before returning to his father. "The energy readings confirm it," he continued, focusing on his tablet. "The activation point matches the coordinates down to the meter."
"How could Shaw know the exact location after forty years?" I asked.
"County records. The trailer park layout hasn't changed since the seventies." Xavier's mouth tightened. "The Wheeler family occupied lot 127 from 1979 to 1985."
"And the weapon itself? Was it our stolen Banshee?"
"No," Xavier said certainly. "This wasn't our prototype. The energy signature is all wrong." He pulled up data on his tablet, angling it so I could see the waveform analysis. Numbers and graphs I could interpret and patterns I could follow. "This was Shaw's own design, the same inferior model that failed during his demonstration for the Russians. Our Banshee produces a targeted, focused beam. This thing was a blunt instrument. No directional control, no intensity modulation, no safety limiters. He just cranked up the power and let it rip in every direction."
"Then why is everyone blaming our technology?" Algerone asked.
"Because that's exactly what Shaw wants." Xavier's expression hardened, an echo of his father's face when cornered, when dangerous. "He's using this attack to demonstrate capabilityto his Macau buyers. Shows them footage of nine hundred dead civilians, claims it's the stolen Banshee, and sells them a weapon. Meanwhile, our prototype is still locked behind my security protocols, and he's still trying to crack it."
"So he's framing us for mass murder," I said. The logic was elegant in its cruelty. Shaw had always been clever. I had underestimated him.
"And destroying evidence of Algerone's past in the process." Xavier glanced at the concrete foundation. "Three birds, one stone. He demonstrates his weapon works, he buries whatever secrets might be in this soil, and he makes Lucky Losers look culpable for a terrorist attack. The Pentagon will be forced to cancel our contracts. Our stock craters. Shaw swoops in to pick up the pieces."
"The Macau buyers won't know the difference," Algerone said quietly.
"Not unless we tell them." Xavier met his father's gaze. "The real Banshee is still out there, still locked, still valuable. Shaw needs to crack it eventually, or his buyers will figure out they've been sold a paperweight. But by then, he'll have our contracts, our market share, and enough leverage to finish us off."
I nodded once. Algerone had moved away from us toward the concrete slab, his attention fixed on the foundation that had once supported his family's trailer. The place where Shane had bled out. Where Jackson Wheeler had died and Algerone Caisse-Etremont had been born.
Xavier returned to his team. I crossed the barren space to join Algerone, gravel crunching under my shoes. The heat pressed against my skin, sweat gathering beneath my collar where makeup concealed the marks his teeth had left.
Algerone stood motionless, silver-tipped cane planted in Oklahoma soil.
I stopped beside him, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched. I waited, watching the wind stir dust across cracked concrete, listening to the distant sounds of military vehicles and emergency personnel, counting my own heartbeats while he remained frozen in memory.
This was what I could give him. Presence without pressure. Silence without abandonment.
"He's done this," he said finally, his voice rough. "For what? To prove he knows who I used to be?"
I studied his profile, the harsh Oklahoma sunlight carving deeper lines around his eyes and his mouth. The silver threading through his hair caught the light, gleaming like mercury against dark strands. He was handsome even here, even now, even surrounded by death and destruction. The thought was inappropriate. I filed it away with all the other inappropriate thoughts I'd accumulated over three decades.
"It's not just about who you were," I replied. "It's about erasing who you've become."
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"This is where I died," he said finally. "Every version of me that came after... this is what they were built on."
"You survived," I said simply. "You rebuilt."
His shoulders shifted slightly, the only acknowledgment that he'd heard me. The sun beat down, relentless. Sweat traced paths down my spine beneath my shirt. Neither of us moved.
"He'll destroy everything," Algerone said after a long silence. "Not just Lucky Losers. Everything I've built. Everyone connected to me."
"Only if we let him."
His head turned finally, green eyes finding mine.
"I won't let him," I promised. "Not our company. Not your sons. Not you."
