Page 153 of Only the Wicked
“Rooting out the bad guys. Doing good.”
In the distance, floodlights bathe the Lincoln Memorial’s classical columns in light, a stark reminder of the fragile democracy we just helped protect. It’s been one hell of a weekend.
“I like the idea,” I tell him, squeezing his hand. What he’s proposing needs to be discussed with Caroline, and I need to learn more about this organization I’ve joined that prefers to not be mentioned in debriefings.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says. “I think we’re going to make a hell of a team.”
As the SUV meanders through the streets, weaving through traffic to return to our hotel, I can’t help but hope.
When we pull up at the hotel, several government-issued sedans and SUVs are parked along the street, out of the way of the hotel’s valet. A man approaches and Rhodes lowers the window.
Jake, Daisy, and Hudson are in the vehicle behind us, so I’m not concerned. Noah, who is sitting in the passenger seat up front, positions himself to observe and react if needed.
“Mr. MacMillan?” The man says.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Special Agent Rozwell. I know you’ve had a long day, sir, but we have Miles Johnson in custody. We were wondering if you might be willing to join us for the initial questioning. At this point in time, we have yet to press charges, and we won’t be able to hold him for long unless we do.”
He looks at me. “You up for more?”
Before I can answer, Noah says, “Hudson wants us to head back for a debrief. Out of D.C.”
If he wants us to stay low, getting out of D.C. is probably a good bet.
Rhodes squeezes my hand. “You go. I might be in for a long night anyway.”
Chapter
Forty-Two
Sydney
When we pull up to the rental in the Highlands, our headlights sweep across two steel-gray Tahoes with North Carolina tags parked in the gravel drive. The vehicles look oddly official against the rustic cabin backdrop—a reminder that we haven’t fully escaped the events in D.C.
“Who’s here?” I ask Jake, tension creeping back into my shoulders. After everything that’s happened, unexpected visitors trigger wariness even in this peaceful setting.
“I’ve been with you in D.C. Know as much as you.”
It’s about ten o’clock at night, and the mountains embrace us with their particular symphony—crickets at peak chorus, the distant rush of the creek we crossed on our way in, the whisper of wind through pine needles. A full moon hangs low and heavy over the ridge, bathing the clearing in silver light that transforms the ordinary house into something almost magical. After the harsh fluorescent lights of government buildings and hotel rooms, the natural illumination feels like a homecoming of sorts.
As Jake turns off the ignition and we step out, the cool mountain air fills my lungs—clean, restorative, untainted by city pollution or political machinations. For a moment, I pause to look up at the stars, impossibly bright and numerous here where light pollution can’t reach them. They remind me of the diamonds on my wrist—Rhodes insisted I put the bracelet back on before I left D.C. I agreed, because him knowing he can track me is one less thing for him to worry about as he confronts his business partner.
Jake presses a code into the keypad on the rental and twists the knob.
“Howdy,” he says in greeting. I step inside behind him, as he adds, “Those are some grim faces.”
Sitting at the kitchen table, all three facing the foyer, are Hudson, Noah, and Quinn.
“Hi,” I say. “Have you guys been back long?”
We split up at the private landing strip. Some might call it an airport, but that name feels like an undeserved embellishment. Jake had to go to the restroom, and I called to check in on Rhodes, but didn’t reach him. The others jumped in Hudson’s car and came straight back here.
Hudson insisted he wanted all of us out of D.C. It feels like overkill to me, but he is the boss.
“Not too long,” Hudson says.
“You guys get some updates?” Jake asks.
