That was when I put my plan in motion. The memory flickers?—
I'm standing on the edge of the field, anonymous in the crowd. Friday night lights. Noise. Heat. Violence disguised as sport.
"It's all set," Jerry assures me, nodding his head towards a boy on the opposing team. He's big. Number 57. "He'll break his neck, get it done. It'll be quick and public. An unfortunate accident." He shrugs. "Happens all the time in football."
I nod my agreement. It irks me that it'll be quick for Whitford, but it's the best I could do right now, flying under my uncle's radar. If the old man found out what I was up to… It's not family business. Hell, it's not business at all, it's personal, and he always warned me to be careful with personal shit. No, nobody can ever find out about this. Least of all, my uncle and his sons. So it'll be quick. Dead is dead, I tell myself as I watch 57 tackle Whitford. Hard. The angle is what matters. Whitford goes down, rolls awkwardly. The crowd is too loud to hear the snapping of his neck. But when the golden boy doesn't get up, it gets really, really quiet on the field.
I hand Jerry an envelope. A hundred grand. I'm not sure how much of that will get to 57, and I don't care. It's done.
Only it wasn't. Paralyzed, they told me. From the chest down. Karma has a sick sense of humor. I didn't demand my money back. It didn't matter. He was nothing but a walking corpse to me until… he married Jenna.
They place Whitford into a seat across from where I stand. He fusses with his legs, the seat belt, and a blanket. I remain still and standing. Fully intending to let the height do the work for me, letting him crane his neck just enough that it irritates him. Petty? Absolutely. Satisfying? Immensely.
He looks up at me with polite confusion, not recognition. That alone is interesting.
"I owe you thanks," he nods, arranging his face into something practiced and political. The smile doesn't quite stick. "Did Kingsley send you?"
He waves down the flight attendant like he owns the aircraft. "Food," he says briskly. "Something light."
I don't stop it. I let him believe, for a few seconds longer, that he's still the kind of man whose gestures matter.
"No," my voice catches his attention again. "Kingsley didn't send me."
He looks up properly now, eyes sharpening, reassessing, brows furrowing. "Then… who?"
He studies my clothes. My stance. My men, strategically positioned without being obvious. The way the cabin seems to orbit me instead of him.
"You're not," he hesitates, then tries again, "some kind of special ops?"
I laugh. It slips out before I can stop it. Low. Genuine. The sound of something being entertained by its own restraint. "No."
I lean back against the seat across from him and cross my arms over my chest.
"Then who?" he presses, irritation creeping in. "Because you're clearly not military. And you're not State. And I don't recognize you."
"I know," I chuckle. "That's my favorite part."
The stewardess returns with a tray. She sets it down in front of him. He's nervous now, sensing the imbalance butnot understanding it. Whitford thanks her distractedly, already losing interest in the food. He's lucky he's still amusing me in a strange way. My uncle always said don't play with your victims, but I find the opposite much more entertaining. "I'm the man who paid for the plane. The men. The doctor. The silence."
He frowns. "You're… private?"
"In a way."
He exhales sharply, impatient. "Listen, whoever you are, I appreciate the rescue. Truly. But I need to contact my father-in-law. There are arrangements?—"
"Your father-in-law," I interrupt, "figured you're more worth to him dead than alive."
Whitford freezes.
I continue, unhurried. "You sold a woman for a career. You bought a child for cover. And you've been coasting on borrowed authority ever since."
His smile collapses. "That's not?—"
"You don't know who I am," I agree. "But you know whosheis."
I let that sit.
His eyes flick, just once, toward the back of the cabin. Toward the couch. Toward the small, sleeping shape wrapped in a blanket. I step into his line of sight again, blocking it completely.
