With the table legs out of reach, he turned, stalked halfway across the warehouse, and stared down at his boots. Counted to ten. To twenty. Then tipped his head back and shouted, “FUCK!” up at the ceiling. The explosion of breath and sound, the way the echo rebounded three times off the high steel trusses, was marginally satisfying. The knot in his chest was still there, but it had loosened enough to allow him to breathe, and to speak.
He stalked back to find Shane glancing between them, pale-faced and wide-eyed, and Albie with his arms folded and feet braced apart, ready for whatever he could throw at him.
Shane said, “How did – but what–” His head turned, back and forth, back and forth. “They got on a plane to London!”
Walsh wasn’t interested in whatever sleight of hand Tenny had helped the women execute that got them off the plane andinto whatever vehicle had borne them south. Tenny was like Fox: he could pull off the impossible, and the details were only important to him.
Just like certain aspects of this whole fiasco were only – truly – important to Walsh. He took a few more deep breaths, and the knot in his chest loosened another fraction. He called upon logic, and, as always, it came to his rescue.
First priority: safety.
“Did they get to New Orleans?” There was a chance, he worried, that Tenny hadn’t kept in touch.
But Albie nodded, posture easing with obvious relief. “Yeah. They hooked up with Colin and Alex on the way – total coincidence – and they checked into a hotel downtown. Alex and Ava each had contacts they were going to reach out to.”
Walsh thought about what Ghost would say to his daughter reaching out to contacts, investigating shit…but no one had ever been able to control Ava, and Walsh certainly wasn’t going to take responsibility.
“They’ve got Colin and Alex, too?”
“Yeah. It’s the six of them. And I can’t imagine they won’t meet up with Mercy and the others.”
Walsh scrubbed both hands through his air. “Jesus.” But it was a mutter instead of an exclamation. Everything else was upside down, why not this, too?
“Your problem,” Albie said, “is dealing with everyone in that clubhouse when they find out the truth.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
Albie’s gaze took on a concerned edge for the first time. He looked almost nervous. “They might strip your patches, King.”
“Yeah.”
Shane said, “Ghost’snot dead?”
~*~
Ghost was not dead, but he wondered if this was what it would feel like when he went, because he’d always assumed the next and last time he’d wear a suit would be in his coffin. And even then, probably not: Maggie already knew he wanted to be buried in his boots and cut.
They’d spent the night at a cheap motel, and Fox had been up and at ‘em before first light, clicking away on his laptop and drinking shitty instant coffee. When Ghost rolled over and sat up, he’d said, “Get dressed. There’s a Macy’s a few miles from here.”
And now here Ghost sat with his hair severely slicked, wearing an off-the-rack suit, white shirt, and maroon tie. Wingtips that made him feel severely ill-equipped for action should he need to run, or fight, or shoot someone.
They shopped. They did recon – additional recon. Fox had apparently gotten up around three to make some phone calls, including to Eden across the pond, and done some digging on their mark for the day: Deputy Director Deborah Sawyer.
She had a driver who picked her up at one-fifteen every afternoon and whisked her away to whatever errands she’d deemed necessary. If she had any other work to do for the day, she conducted it from her phone, or her home office, only returning to HQ if it was an absolute emergency. Fox got into her financials, and she spent a shit-ton on expensive dinners, and even more expensive shopping trips. Tiffany’s, Cartier, Saks, etc.
Fox, dressed in a similar suit, expression crafted to something officious and dickheadish, sunglasses flat and black on his eyes, used a pair of convincing fake IDs to get rid of the driver, and then Ghost slotted their rented black Tahoe along the curb where Sawyer usually climbed into her car.
She exited the building in a gray skirt suit that doubtless cost almost as much as Ghost’s bike. Clipped along in her spike heels, gray hair gleaming in the sun where it was pulled backinto a tight knot. She walked with her head bent over her phone, ID badge slapping against her waist, and didn’t even slow as she neared the car. Never lifted her head to ensure it was in facthercar.
Ghost had the window cracked, so when Fox slid out of the back seat and joined her on the sidewalk, he could hear his perfect Beltway accent when he said, “Excuse me, Deputy Director?”
She huffed with annoyance and lifted her head. “Yes? What is it? If this is about the Peterson…” She trailed off when she got a good look at Fox, who was flashing his credentials. “Who are you?”
“Special Agent Anthony Charles, Mrs. Sawyer. I’m with the Justice Department. I’m afraid I need to ask you a few questions.”
~*~
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Agent Nowitzki said after she slid into the opposite side of the booth. It was in the corner between two windows, and Aidan had put his back to the wall so he had clear sightlines of the door, the parking lot, and the rear exit. He could tell right away that she was going to at least begin this meeting playing the sympathy card. Her shirt had two more buttons undone that was strictly necessary, though, so he figured she’d shift into more sultry tones at some point.