“Another six minutes and you’ll be clear,” Hershorn said. She stood beside him, watching her teams on a screen, orchestrating last-minute changes. There hadn’t been many, but an unexpected departure of a client and a herd of deer she hadn’t wanted to startle had forced a few readjustments.
“Ready on go,” he replied, his eyes locked in the direction of the house. He tuned out everything except his mission; he wasted none of his focus on wondering what was happening inside the house, or what it would be like to confront his brother and sister. He thought of nothing but getting in, getting the information they needed, maybe some of what he wanted, and getting out.
He didn’t expect “closure,” wasn’t even sure what that really meant, but he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t expectsomething. Maybe the ability to finally put his past to rest? No, he’d done that long ago. Maybe he hoped to see his siblings through the eyes of a man rather than a child. To see them as who they were rather than what they’d never been to, or for, him. Understand them, and their relationship to him, in a way that would let him clear the filmy remnants still tying them together.
Hope was a funny thing, though. Pandora had trapped it in her box, a symbol of its enduring nature. But the part of that story that always stuck with him was the fact that hope was in the box in the first place—the box containing all the world’s evils.
“Two minutes,” Hershorn said.
He nodded, not taking his eyes from the path he’d take. A crackle of activity unfolded in his ear: Khafra’s team had cleared the house. Charnette’s was moving in, securing the path he’d take to the office where the nightly meetings occurred.
Breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out.
“Clear,” Hershorn said.
The only acknowledgment he gave was to take off toward the house without a backward glance. Ninety seconds in, the house came into view. Another sixty seconds and a member of Charnette’s team ushered him in through a door in the garage. Thirty seconds later, he stood in front of the office, eyes on Charnette as she silently told him to hold.
Muted voices filtered through the solid wood. He tried to catch the words and cadence as he waited for the green light. An agent knelt at his feet, feeding a small wire under the door. A tiny camera. It would give them important intel, but he remained focused on the voices.
There, the unmistakable pitch of a woman. His sister. The rumble of a deeper voice, one he didn’t recognize, followed by another.
A tap at his shoulder brought his attention back to Charnette. She made a circle with her finger, then held up two, before indicating the corners of the room.
He nodded. In addition to the four people he’d come to see, two security guards were stationed in the corners closest to him. As he stepped into the room, they’d have a chance to flank him, but there was nothing he could do about that. He wasn’t about to stand with his back to the door. It would signal unease, a weakness, to Malcom and Chanel,andpose a barrier to Charnette and her team when the time came for them to enter.
She held his gaze for the count of four, then nodded and stepped back.
Setting his fingers on the levered handle, he took a deep breath, pressed down, and walked through. He didn’t stop until he reached the middle of the room.
Bracing himself, he didn’t wait long before the two security guards took him down. He put up no fight as one knelt onhis back and the other rushed outside to investigate how he’d managed to walk in.
“Hello, Malcom, Chanel,” he said, his cheek pressed against the carpet. “Long time no see.”
The guard’s hands traveled over his body, looking for weapons. When he completed his sweep, he remained in position, a bony knee digging into Lovell’s back and a vise grip around his wrists.
“He’s got a vest on,” his octopus friend said.
A beat of silence followed. Lovell couldn’t see his siblings but sensed they were silently communicating with each other.
“Let him up,” Chanel said. “We can always shoot him in the head.”
A comforting thought.
“Search him for a wire,” Malcom ordered.
The guard jerked him upright; Lovell went willingly. The man was a good three inches shorter than Lovell but had about thirty pounds on him. As he searched the usual places for a wire, under his shirt, in his pockets, Malcom dropped his hand to the desk and slid a drawer open. Lovell tensed when his brother reached inside, but rather than pull out a weapon, he withdrew a small black device. As the guard finished the physical sweep, Malcom approached.
“Thrilled to see me, big brother?” Lovell asked.
Malcom’s eyes never left his as he crossed the room and handed the device to the guard. “Search him again, Feddy.”
“You’ve probably heard by now that Beeker is dead and Weeks is in custody,” Lovell said as Feddy ran the electronic device around his body, reminding him of a TSA agent. He’d been assured that the two-way device attached deep in his ear would give no signal, but even so, tension eased in his chest when Feddy stepped away with a shake of his head.
“He’s singing like a bird,” Lovell continued, then inclined his head. “Although he doesn’t know that much, does he?”
Malcom turned his back on him and walked away, circling the desk to stand behind Chanel. Neither Ken nor Adam Gareth had moved from the chairs they sat in flanking the antique oak monolith.
Lovell smiled. “Quite an interview panel we have going on,” he said, nodding in their direction. “By the way, even if you’d succeeded in killing me, you wouldn’t have inherited anything. I have a will. I have people and organizations who I want to take care of in the event of my demise.” A not-so-subtle reminder of how different his life was from theirs.
