“‘Clean slates are made with dirty hands.’ He said it more than once. Usually after some shady assignment he didn’t want to explain.”
Ford stared at him. It meant nothing to him—but he filed it. Locked it away.
Because someone else might know what it meant.
DANTE’S SUITE
Ford Cox stepped off the elevator with his coat still half buttoned, hair windblown, eyes raw from the flight from Germany. He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t changed. His shoulder holster still showed under the dark overcoat, and the tablet tucked under his arm was warm from constant use.
Ian, Mike, and Martin had all been briefed. He hated doing this, hated pulling Dante back into it—but if there was anyone who could piece together what Haines said, it was the man who had been inside the nightmare.Dante Olivetti.
Outside the suite, a Chase medic and a nurse tried to stop him. They paged Jamison. Ford flashed his clearance badge and went straight in.
Inside, the lights were dimmed. Shannon was sitting beside the bed, curled under a blanket. Dante sat upright, reading a book on a tablet—alert, watchful. He didn’t look surprised to see Ford.
“Ford,” Dante said hoarsely. “You look like hell.”
Ford didn’t laugh. “That makes two of us.” He closed the door. “I’m sorry, but I have to tell you something. General Barrett Haines isn’t the leak. He’s a pawn. And he gave me a line—something he said Matthew Krueger used often.”
Dante’s expression didn’t change, but Shannon sat up straighter.
Ford swallowed. “He said, ‘Clean slates are made with dirty hands.’”
Dante’s face drained of color. For a moment, no one breathed. And then—he broke. He shoved the tray off the edge of the bed, flinging his tablet across the room.
“GET OUT!” he screamed.
Shannon was already on her feet, trying to hold him back as he lunged upright. The dialysis catheter pulled free from a connector, but he didn’t care. His breath came in short, violent bursts.
“Don’t you EVER say that to me?—”
“Dante—” Shannon held his face, her voice trembling. “It’s Ford. Look at me. You’re safe.” She managed to grab and cap the line. Dialysate poured onto the floor.
Ford didn’t move. “It wasn’t random, was it?”
Dante stared at him, sweat breaking out at his temples, jaw trembling. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths.
Ford stepped back, hands slightly raised—not as a threat, but as if acknowledging the weight of what he’d just dropped.
Shannon hadn’t let go of Dante’s shoulders. She did her best to soothe him.
But Dante had already gone back. Not in body. Inmemory. His other hand shook as he dragged his palm down his jaw, eyes fixed on nothing in the room. “I never saw him clearly,” he said, voice raw. “Not with the light where it was.”
Ford leaned in slightly. “Who?”
Dante swallowed hard. “There was always a second man. He never touched me. He never moved. Just stood behind Daniel... watching. Hands behind his back. Didn’t flinch when I screamed. Didn’t leave when the torture started.”
Shannon’s fingers curled over his arm.
Dante’s voice cracked. “I thought he was the one in charge. I felt it. Even Daniel kept glancing at him—like he needed approval. Like he was performing.”
Ford’s pulse ticked.
Dante looked up at him slowly. “He said the line.”
Ford straightened. “You heard him say it?”
“No,” Dante said. “I heard him whisper it. I felt his breath against my cheek.”
