Binary: It’s how I work.
Mercury: Must be nice, living in a world where surprises don’t exist.
Binary: It is, actually.
Lincoln had been sitting in his SUV outside Callum Webb’s house for eleven minutes.
He needed Callum’s help. There wasno way around that in order to successfully defeat Jason Randall in Denver tomorrow.
Lincoln had calculated the optimal time to arrive here—late enough that Callum would be home from the station, early enough that he wouldn’t have settled into his evening routine. He’d mapped out the conversation in his head, identified the key points he needed to make, anticipated the likely objections, and prepared responses for each.
None of that preparation made it easier to get out of the SUV.
The house was modest. Single story, well-maintained lawn, a porch light already on against the gathering dusk. Through the front window, Lincoln could see movement—Callum crossing the living room, probably heading for the kitchen. Normal life. The kind of evening Lincoln was about to interrupt.
Twelve minutes now.
He forced himself to step out of the vehicle, walk up to the front door and knock before he could talk himself out of it.
The door opened faster than he expected. Callum stood in the frame, still in his work clothes, a dish towel slung over one shoulder. His expression cycled through surprise and wariness before landing on something that looked almost like amusement.
“Lincoln.” He leaned against the doorframe. “You know, most people just call.”
“I was in the area.”
“You live on the opposite side of town and have never once beenin the area.” Callum stepped aside. “Come into the kitchen. Sloane is putting the baby to bed, and I was about to make coffee. You look like you need it.”
Lincoln followed him through the house. The interior was practical, uncluttered—a few photographs on the walls,a bookshelf heavy on procedural manuals. Callum moved to the coffeemaker and started measuring grounds with the deliberate precision of someone giving his guest time to figure out what he wanted to say.
“I lied to you. When you came by the house the other day.”
Callum’s hands didn’t pause. “I know.”
“I figured as much.” Lincoln made himself stand still instead of pacing. “The woman on the federal bulletin. Morgan Reese. She is the one I brought to the Eagle’s Nest.”
“Uh-huh.” Callum finished with the coffeemaker and turned around, leaning back against the counter. “And she’s been at your place this whole time.”
“Yes.”
“While every agency in the country is looking for her.”
“Yes.”
Callum crossed his arms, but there was no heat in it. “You know, your uncle Finn pulled something similar years ago, back when I was federal rather than sheriff. He hid a witness from a federal case because he didn’t trust the Marshals handling it. I’m pretty sure the other Linear guys were in on it too, although no one could prove it and everything worked out in the end.”
Lincoln blinked. “I didn’t know that.”
“Your uncle Ian still gives him grief about it.” Callum shook his head. “Bollingers. You’re all the same. Rules apply until they don’t.”
Callum turned toward the coffeemaker.
“She didn’t do what she’s accused of.” Lincoln heard the edge in his own voice and made himself dial it back. “Morgan was kidnapped. Held captive. The people who took her framed her for the fire sale. Every piece of evidence pointing to her was planted.”
“And you can prove this?”
“I can prove who actually did it. His name is Jason Randall. Former private military contractor, current evidence destruction specialist. He runs a business helping criminals make their legal problems disappear—stealing evidence from federal facilities, destroying case files.” Lincoln paused. “Randall has an operation happening in Denver in just a few hours. I’ve mapped his facility, identified his methodology. I’m going to catch him in the act.”
Callum leaned back against his kitchen counter and studied him for a moment. “You need backup.”
