Page 3 of All Saints Day
We have kept a pretty aggressive schedule of moving around in order to avoid detection or capture—but the pressure has honestly begun to feel pretty lax. It really does feel like Lowry and Compton have fully invested in the idea that we aren’t a problem as long as we stay away from Louise and keep our mouths shut.
Caz was the one who finally made contact with Dennis a few weeks after Louise’s capture. Ironically, Caz messaged Dennis under the auspices of being a fellow racer from a charity half-marathon hosted every summer in Vermont. Quickly,Dennis picked up on Caz’s coded messages and began talking with him in earnest through more secure channels.
After months of failed connections, near misses, and careful planning—we locked in a meetup in Boston for the world-famous Marathon. Dennis, a known marathoner and triathlete, would have no problem justifying his use of his time off to compete in such a well-known race. The whole city would be crawling with locals, event staff, commercial athletes, and spectator tourists. It would be remarkably easy for Dennis to very visibly participate in the Marathon and then retire to his room for the evening. Surveillance by the Feds and the Windmill could only do so much under the circumstances.
In a stroke of luck, one of my dear former CIs and dear friends had a fabulous apartment for us to occupy in style while waiting to make contact with Agent McBride.
“I shouldn’t have made the tea until after he arrived,” Sébastien grumbled under his breath, lifting the delicately quilted tea cozy to press the back of his hand to the ornate china pot.
“It’s going to be lukewarm by the time he actually gets here. Assuming themaudit cochonhasn’t decided to rescind his aid,” Seb sniffs with disdain.
“C’mon, he’s another one of us,” Caz pleads, wringing his hands together as he paces back toward the table. “If he were to know about it—” Caz starts up again, but this time both Sébastien and I jump in with a firm, “No!” Before he can finish.
Caz is winding up to give Seb and I a piece of his mind when the loud sound of the apartment buzzer erupts from an intercom video screen embedded into the wall beside the sliding door to the terrace.
On the miniature black and white screen stands a man in sleek athletic pants and a tight-fitting t-shirt; a Red Sox cap tucked over his distinctive hair.
Caz practically sprints to the buzzer and lets him in—flinging the sliding door open wide as he makes a beeline to the penthouse’s elevator entrance in his impatience.
Seb and I exchange a glance. This could either go very well… or cataclysmic.
Both of us push back from the tea table and hurry after Caz, awaiting Dennis’ arrival at the large brushed stainless steel doors of the private elevator.
Dennis explodes from the parting doors, energy pouring off of him in palpable waves; his alpha aura expanding into the space along with his scent—herbal thyme and hyssop with a crisp clean sea salt finish. Bracing, verdant, and masculine—a brighter expression than the faint whisper of greens and ocean that we could glean from his handkerchief.
It’s more reminiscent of the sharp, demanding freshness of Louise’s scent than I expected—and my eyes well with tears.
“Have you found her yet? Where is she? Do you already have a rescue plan?” Dennis’ words overlap one another, his hands reaching out for Caz—gripping him by the rounds of his shoulders, stopping just shy of shaking him.
Caz collapses forward until his face presses against Dennis’ chest—Caz’s bug-eyed sunglasses pushing up onto his forehead as he buries his face in the gray cotton of McBride’s t-shirt—his body racked with sobs.
“We need your help,” Caz gasps through snot and tears. “We need access to the Windmill—and we’ve got nothing,” he keens miserably—Dennis looking down at the hysterical Caz in bewilderment.
Before Sébastien or I can intercede, Dennis’ posture sags slightly—his grip on Caz’s shoulder softening before Dennis outright folds Caz against him in a tender embrace—one hand cradling the shaved crown of Caz’s head, his other arm wrapped protectively around Caz’s shoulders.
“Just breathe,” Dennis soothes, his sea-glass green eyes finding mine over the top of Caz’s bowed head. “We’re going tofigure this out.”
Once Caz has gotten a hold of himself, and the rest of us settle in at the small metal table stacked high with goodies no one quite has the appetite for, we begin to discuss the finer points of our plan to rescue Louise.
“Compton is our conduit; there’s no question.” I lay our cards on the table in the interest of time.
Dennis rakes a hand back through his hair and blows out a long breath.
“I mean, you’re right of course—but maneuvering Compton isn’t going to be a walk in the park.” He shakes his head.
“Will it be easy? No. Must we do it? Yes.” Sébastien sniffs, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his chest pocket. “None of us are dogs of the military, so that leaves you to do the dirty work.”
To his credit, agent McBride composes himself—opting for a calming deep breath before he turns his gaze to me, circling Sébastien’s bait.
“Does that mean that you are no longer affiliated with Her Majesty’s Secret Service?” he asks me cooly.
“Let’s not do this song and dance, Dennis,” I sigh, lifting the tea cozy to finally serve myself some of the beautiful first flush Darjeeling with bergamot oil that Sébastien has provided for our rendezvous. “I understand that you have plenty of reasons to be distrustful of me, especially after what’s happened with Frank.” I do my best to keep my voice even, my heart aches in my chest as I bring the bone china cup to my lips.
“We don’t have time to be at each other’s throats if we’re going to get Louise back,” Caz cuts in, his eyes still swollen with freshly shed tears.
Dennis shifts uncomfortably in his seat—but Caz’s earnestness has clearly captivated him since that first tense moment where Dennis welcomed Cazimer into his arms.
“I’m fully committed to The Saints, as such—I’ve found myself on the outside of all of my official government channels; here and across the pond,” I admit, spreading my hands wide. “While I retain nearly all of my former CI’s and shady underworld connections—none of my contacts have any conduit to The Windmill,” I continue, though it costs me more than a sliver of my pride. “Compton makes sense, but we don’t have access to him. You do.”
