“There might not be another way,” Trent said.
“Then we make one.”
Ryan’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and his eyebrows rose. “CSIS just took Cal into custody. They’re setting up the interview for tomorrow morning, seven a.m. Calgary time.”
“I’d love to be in the room with him,” Omar said grimly.
“You and me both,” Jake and Trent said in unison, their voices seething with vengeance.
“Sorry, boys. Video conference. Secure line. But, in an act of Canadian generosity, CSIS is letting us take point for the first hour, then they take over. Sixty minutes is better than thirty.”
“One hour to get everything we need,” Jake said.
“One hour to find out why he betrayed us,” Trent added, his voice hard.
Cal as a traitor still hadn’t fully sunk in for Omar. The former soldier had been part of their team for three years. Sure, he was prickly, but he was one of them. Until he wasn’t.
“I want to know if it was worth it,” he said quietly. “If trading our lives for his son’s freedom seemed like an even exchange.”
“It won’t matter what he says,” Trent said. “It won’t change what he did.”
“No. But I want to look him in the eye when he tries to justify it.”
Ryan closed his laptop. “We should all try to get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
They started stacking papers and taking cups to the kitchen, but Omar knew he wouldn’t sleep. Not with Marielle in Paris and Idris unaccounted for. Not with Cal’s interview looming and the Annapolis approach hanging over them like a sword.
He pulled out his burner:
Going after Cal tomorrow. Hope to talk to POTUS on Friday. How’s Paris?
Marielle’s response came after several minutes:
Meeting with Hanna tomorrow. Chelsea and Leilah arrive afternoon. Poppy’s concert tomorrow night.
Busy day. Stay frosty.
You too.
Always.
Then, because he couldn’t help himself:
I miss you.
Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again. Finally:
I miss your pain au chocolat.
Which I suppose means I miss you, too.
Despite all the free-floating stress in his brain, he cackled. Leave it Elle to be a smartass in the middle of an international incident.
He pocketed the phone, headed upstairs, and chose one of the four bedrooms at random. The bed was made with crisp white sheets, military corners. He lay down fully clothed and stared at the ceiling.
In forty hours, give or take, they’d expose a conspiracy that reached the highest levels of government. Or they’d be in prison.
Or dead.
