Page 94 of Ace

"They'll be pissed," I mutter, knowing that SWATTING is when you call in a fake situation to get a large showing of police in a location where help isn't needed.

"That badge of yours will make them shut the fuck up," Wren adds.

"You don't talk, baby girl. Just open that throat for me."

"A fucking pillow," Wren warns again, but the bird cackles in the background as if the threat is never taken seriously. "Actually, there's an FBI office in Columbia. We can get them over there, but the local police would be faster."

"I'll handle the local police."

I turn to see Jericho holding his phone up, Kincaid's name on the screen.

"Sounds good," Wren says, unfazed that someone else is stepping in to handle an aspect of that.

"I need you to keep a level fucking head, Ace," Kincaid says. I've heard those exact words so many times, but it's been decades since he's had to direct them at me.

"You got it, Prez," I say, an echo of the times I've said it in the past.

I watch the smile spread slowly across Hemlock's face as he turns his eyes to me for the briefest of seconds. There's a camaraderie there.

We're on the same team.

This isn't one good guy and another good guy.

This is Cerberus.

This is home.

He dips his head as if he's willing to see this through to the end no matter the outcome. He'd risk all for me, and I’d do the same for him. There would be no regrets in that decision on either one of our parts. It doesn't matter the muddy water under the bridge that chipped away at the both of us. There are no hard feelings, no bad blood.

"Jesus fuck," Wren mutters.

"I swear to god, Nelson. If you don't stop with that shit," I growl.

"Authorities just found Christopher Preston's roommate dead. They're saying suicide by hanging right now, but I bet if they dig further, they find something else."

I shake my head. How many people has this boy killed?

"The dad died of a heart attack," Wren says as if he can read my mind. "But I don't see how. Everything points to asphyxiation."

"He suffocated his own father?" Jericho snaps.

"The kid was like fourteen when his dad died," I say, recalling the facts from the family profile I was given when I first started looking for Sadie.

"He probably used drugs. Abrin or aconite. Hell, succinylcholine would be perfect, but he'd have to have access to someone in medicine for those things," Wren says, truly a man of vast knowledge about all things.

"Hockley's son is a doctor," Jericho says.

"You're implying that Christopher Preston has had a connection with the Full Deck Killer for more than five years?" I say, unsure that tracks. "I bet there are a lot of connections he could've made in that prep school of his."

"True," Jericho says.

"You know who he does have a connection to, well, sort of a connection?" Wren asks. "Nathan Adair."

"What?" Jericho growls, and I swear the man is seconds away from climbing over the seat to get to the fucking stereo system.

"The cabin he attempted to hide under a shell company was purchased from former Senator Robert Dyer."

"What the fuck did you just say?" Kincaid growls from Jericho's phone, still on the line to hear this conversation.

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