Not one.
32
BROCK
Tommy's people came into that airport like they'd rehearsed it, because they probably had—dark vehicles and dark jackets fanning out, folding into the Charleston PD response without ever quite announcing themselves, lowering the temperature of a scene that had every reason to boil over. Men with the right words for the right officers. A woman with a clipboard who seemed to know which questions would get asked before the asker did. Inside ten minutes, the thing had a shape it hadn't had, and the shape was one that let two people walk out of it.
I knew exactly what it cost to do that.
You don't put down a mass shooting at a public airport and make it manageable without burning through a mountain of favor, leverage, and quiet money, and you don't do it clean. There'd be cameras. Witnesses with phones. A dead lawyer with a name and a family and a parish. Wounded travelers. A shot cop. This was the worst possible place on God's earth for a gunfight short of a schoolyard, and Craine had walked me right into the middle of it. Now, every bit of the mess had myboot prints around it. The trap wasn't a thing waiting to spring anymore. It had already closed. We were inside it, all of us, and the walls were the kind you can't shoot through.
I knew all that. I filed all that. And when the cursory questions were finally done and a driver pulled us away from that bloody curb, I let out a breath I felt like I'd been holding since the wagon coughed its way up the lane.
Beside me, Mary Catherine was holding herself together with both hands. Shock in her, plain—the glassed, far-off look of a person whose body is present and whose mind has gone somewhere it can survive. But she wasn't coming apart. She was tough, this woman, tougher than the curated surface ever let on. I couldn't begin to imagine the country she was traveling through behind those eyes. A man she'd nearly married had just died across her back. I had no words that would touch a thing that size, so I didn't reach for any. I just kept myself locked and ready, because right then one of us had to be, and it wasn't going to be her.
We weren't a mile down the highway when the driver said, "Shit."
I came around in the seat.
Behind us, closing fast: black SUVs, three of them, light bars throwing red and blue across the afternoon, eating the distance between us.
"Who is it?"
I wished to hell Tommy were in the car. He'd stayed back to put a lid on the airport, which was the right call and the worst timing. It left me running blind on ground I didn't own.
"Feds, probably," the driver said, already easing off, signaling, bringing us onto the shoulder slow and unthreatening, the way you move when men with badges and guns are pulling you over and you'd like to keep breathing.
He put it in park and reached for his belt.
"No," I said. "Stay in the car. Keep your eyes on her."
Mary Catherine turned to me, and the far-off look cracked for a second and let the fear show through.Don't,it said.Don't leave me.And God, I didn't want to. But I had a good idea who'd come all this way to chat on a highway shoulder. That conversation wasn't one I'd have with her sitting beside me.
"I'll be right back," I told her.
I got out.
I walked straight back along the shoulder to the lead SUV, hands loose and visible, the traffic blowing past at seventy a few feet off my shoulder. The back window rolled down as I reached it, smooth, electric.
And there he was. Coffee gone, but the same mild face, the same suit, the same eyes doing their endless, quiet arithmetic.
"You did this," I said.
Craine's eyebrows lifted, the picture of polite confusion. "I'm not entirely sure what you mean, Mr. Dane. I'm told there was some sort of incident at the airport. A shootout, my people are saying. Terrible." A small tilt of the head. "I do hope no one was hurt."
I have killed men for less than that sentence. I stood on that shoulder and I wanted, with everything in me, to reach through the window and take that reasonable face apart with my hands, to make him wear what had happened on that crosswalk. And I knew, with the cold part of me that always knows, that if my hand so much as twitched toward him there were three or four guns in those trucks that would put me down on the asphalt before I closed the distance, and then there'd be no one between Mary Catherine and the rest of this. So, I kept my hands at my sides and I kept my voice flat.
"What do you want?"
Craine nodded, slow, like I'd finally said something worth his time. He appreciated that, I could see it—a man who'd come totalk business instead of swing a fist. It was the only language he respected.
"I told you what I want," he said. "Nothing about that has changed. Dominion Hall. The Trueborn files. Your father." He let it sit. "What has changed, Mr. Dane, is your position. After today, it's quite solidified. A man was seen at the center of a great deal of violence. Witnesses. Footage. Questions that will need answering by someone, eventually." A faint smile. "It would be in your interest to make my requests your priority."
And there it was, dropping into place with a click I felt in my teeth. He'd sent me to that airport on purpose. Knew the wagon was coming. Pointed it there himself. Put me in the frame, made me the man at the center of the bodies, and now, stood here on a highway shoulder collecting on the debt he'd manufactured. I'd spent my life setting traps like this for other men. I had never once been on the wrong end of one. I found I hated it down to the marrow.
"I'll see what I can do," I said. The words tasted like rust. "But I want assurances. About the Donovans. All of them—the father, the business, every last one. They walk clear of this, completely, or you and I have nothing to talk about."
Craine smiled, and it was a worse smile than the others, because it was almost warm—the smile of a man getting exactly what he'd planned to give.
