Gene. His dad’s best friend. His partner. The man who’d been a pallbearer at Michael Cooper’s funeral and wept. The cop who’d saved Seth’s life when he was sixteen and hell-bent on wrapping his car around a concrete barrier at a hundred miles per hour. The “friend” who’d checked in and watched over his mother all these years, who’d attended her wedding with that easy grin and fatherly grip on his shoulder.
The man Seth had just told thirty minutes ago exactly where he was going. Who knew Seth was alone and unarmed with sixteen years’ worth of evidence that could destroy him. Who was sitting in his mother’s family room, drinking mimosas—alone with everyone he loved. Heavenly. Beck. Hudson. His mother. Carl.
He had to get back. Had to act fast. Had to figure out how the fuck to keep them all alive.
Thirty minutes. Not a second more, or I’m coming after you.
What Seth had interpreted as a promise suddenly skidded through his brain in warning. In mere minutes, Gene would come looking for him. How long now? Fifteen? Ten? Less?
Seth’s heart lurched. He didn’t dare read more now.
Then again, he didn’t need to.
Breaths sawing in and out of his chest, Seth slammed the binder shut. His hands shook, and he nearly lost his grip on the goddamn binder as he shoved it back into the pouch, beside the gun, the cash, and the video tape. He zipped it closed and tucked it under his arm, the weight of it both grounding and terrifying.
Then Seth forced himself to move, locking the unit with trembling fingers. When the padlock clicked into place, he ducked back into the hallway, the leather container clutched tightly under his arm.
The building felt too quiet. Too still. He didn’t like it. Every footstep echoed. Every camera lens seemed to track his movement.
He was alone.
Unarmed.
And carrying something people had killed for. Something people had died for.
The gun in the pouch might work. But after sitting in a storage unit for sixteen years, it could just as easily misfire. Seth couldn’t risk finding out the hard way.
His pounding heart roared in his ears as he forced his legs to carry him toward the exit. He tried to keep his breathing even, tried to keep his unsteady legs from giving out.
Stay alert. Keep your head on a swivel. Get home.
It seemed like half an eternity before Seth pushed through the facility’s back door and stepped into the parking lot. The morning sun hit his face, too bright, too normal. The gate was still open. His mother’s SUV sat where he’d left it, maybe thirty yards away.
But the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He felt eyes on him.
A sound that didn’t belong echoed across the lot—a scrape of gravel, a shift of weight.
Seth’s head snapped toward it. He saw nothing except rows of storage units casting long shadows.
Too many places for people to hide. Too many possibilities for this to go sideways. But he couldn’t afford to be cautious; he had to get the fuck out of here.
He started moving again, faster now. The pouch pressed against his ribs as he scanned left, right, behind.
Another sound. Closer this time.
His hand twitched toward his pocket—toward his phone. He couldn’t call 911. Anyone—everyone—at the precinct could be dirty. Seth couldn’t risk it.
Nor could he text Beck and tell him to get everyone the fuck out of that house. Any contact risked tipping Gene off. One wrong word, one panicked message, and Specter would know Seth had found something damning.
And a cornered man with that much power and everything to lose? He’d go scorched earth, burn it all down.
Seth couldn’t risk that, either. He had to get home. Had to walk back into that house and pretend he’d found nothing. That the storage unit had been locked, inaccessible. Empty.
He had to lie to Gene’s face and pray the bastard believed him.
Move. Now.
Seth broke into a jog, closing the distance to the SUV. Twenty yards. Fifteen.
