Isaac inches closer, settling his hand on my lower back, offering me the only support he can without physically picking me up and carrying me to one of the bedrooms like he had to when we first got here.
He won’t do that now.
Not when he knows how important it is for me to both hear this and to never show Gage what he’s done to me.
Keep it together, girl.
Gage nods to Dad’s request, shifting restlessly in the cuffs that I hope are cutting into his fucking skin painfully. “You all know I was a Ranger, but what you don’t know is that Michael McDonald was black ops. A unit you never would have heard of because it doesn’t exist. It’s why you’ve been having such a hard time locating information on him.”
A hush settles over the room, and every hair on my arms stands on end.
I don’t want to believe anything Gage says anymore, but something about his story feels too real, too personal to be a lie.
“McDonald came in and worked with several people at the 75th on explosive ordinances. He was the best I’ve ever seen. A true master of his field, and someone very high up wanted to ensure his knowledge was passed down to as many of us as possible. After he was done, he just vanished, as if he had never been there.”
Part of me wishes Gage would just vanish.
That I could close my eyes and reopen them to find him gone along with all the memories we created together that I will never be free from.
Almost as if he can sense my thoughts, Gage’s gaze swings my way again, and he swallows thickly. “When I was getting close to the end of my contract and was about to reup, right around the time I was fighting WCAP, I was approached by the CIA. Given my training and the fact that I can speak five languages, they thought I would be a tremendous asset to them. So instead of reupping, I finished out my commitment, then went to do additional training to become a CIA operative. That’s when they told me the truth, that Michael McDonald had been on their radar since well before his retirement and their approach to me was well thought-out.”
Dad shifts his stance, still keeping himself between Gage and me—a physical wall when the ones I created hadn’t been enough to protect myself or any of us. “Why?”
“A bomb used in an attack on American interests in Paris had been linked to him, and they thought that maybe I could infiltrate his organization easily because of our history together.” He shakes his head. “But I wasn’t so sure.”
Isaac shifts beside me, clearly intrigued by the story while furious at the man telling it. “Why not?”
“Because Michael knew who I was at my core and that I would never become a mercenary. He knew I wouldn’t help terrorist organizations hurt innocent people, regardless of how much money might be on the table.”
I wish I could believe that.
I wish I had confidence that Gage wouldn’t do anything like what he’s accusing McDonald of, but all of this could be an elaborate story to try to save his ass from the fallout of what I discovered.
Dad doesn’t seem to buy it either, shifting his stance in a way that emphasizes his size. An old move he only uses when he needs to intimidate someone. “So, what happened with McDonald?”
Gage releases a long, slow breath, rolling his shoulders under his leather jacket slightly. “McDonald never trusted me enough to bring me in. But we stayed in touch. I kept the line of communication open while I worked other jobs for the company. A few years ago, we heard about Satriano’s mysterious resurrection and that he was here in New Orleans…and that McDonald may have been working with him when Satriano operated under different identities in Europe over the past several decades.”
Mom examines Gage closely, and I can almost see those reporter instincts of hers kicking in. “If McDonald worked for him for so long, then why does he want revenge on him like you suggested earlier?”
Exactly.
Allegra told us McDonald was a known associate of her father’s. If they worked together enough for his daughter to know the man, then it doesn’t make any sense that McDonald would turn on Satriano.
That type of hatred has to blossom from somewhere.
Drawing in a long breath, Gage shifts his stance again, clearly growing uncomfortable in the cuffs or under our scrutiny—maybe both. “About a year and a half ago, McDonald was working a job for Satriano in Calabria. Michael had his son along, and things went south. There was an ambush at the location where he was supposed to plant the device. His son died. And McDonald believes Satriano set a trap for them. He blames him for his son’s death. McDonald went ghost after that, but he’s just been biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to get to Satriano.”
Stone taps his cane on the floor, drawing my attention away from Gage and to him. “Why did you come to New Orleans?”
To destroy me.
Gage clears his throat, glancing my way as if in response to my thought. “With Satriano here, that’s where the CIA’s investigation had to lead. And all the activity in New Orleans with your family in recent years—first Leonardo Satriano’s death, then the explosion at The Grind, Christiano Roselli’s assassination in front of it, the attack on this penthouse, not to mention the fact that Damiano was spotted at numerous Hawke-owned properties, all led us, and the FBI, to wonder if you were somehow involved with him.”
I bite my tongue to prevent myself from lashing out at the accusation.
Mom doesn’t care. “Us?” She gapes at him. “You thought we were involved with Satriano?”
Absolutely ludicrous.
