Page 65 of Concerted Chaos

My calves are getting sore from squatting in heels while balancing my skirt on my lap and trying to keep from brushing against anything. I can imagine the fit René Butón would throw if there are any smudges on my dress when I walk the red carpet, assuming there still is a red carpet to walk.

Finally, after an interminable and indeterminate amount of time—in all honesty, probably less than ten minutes—Mike places a hand on Vernon’s forearm and tells him to put the gun away.

“It’s over. They’re taking care of it now.”

“Taking care of what?” I ask loudly, trying to be heard over the sounds of Mason making kissy noises at his baby.

Mike sighs and reattaches his radio to his belt. “That was a close call. There was a bomb in the green room. Not a sophisticated one; the bomb squad is disarming it as we speak.”

“I didn’t see it,” Powell breaks his vow of silence. He doesn’t have a choice, since he dropped his white board when we started running. I didn’t notice either, but we aren’t experts in bomb identification.

“It was disguised as a camera lens.” Mike’s words make my heart drop and I am momentarily lightheaded. I grab Powell for support. Tanner was the only photographer in the green room so far today. He left that lens on the table. Was it him, all along? Was Tanner the one who tried to kill us? That doesn’t make any sense. He says he’s my friend. And his background check was clear.

“How did it get there?” Powell asks. He was occupied with his massage, so he missed the pre-show visit from his favorite paparazzo.

“Tanner. It was Tanner’s lens. He was taking pictures of the food, he had his camera bag...” I think I might throw up. He zipped me up and told me I was pretty, all the while picturing me dying in that dress. I hug Powell, burying my face in his chest and probably staining his shirt and smearing my makeup. This is my fault. I invited Tanner, I gave him the tickets and allowed him backstage. I provided a murderer another chance at my brother.

Mike summons the local FBI agents in charge of the case immediately. They aren’t our usual field agents; these are two older men wearing bulletproof vests and FBI ball caps. I thought those were just a television gimmick, but evidently not. Powell is looking at them with envy. I suspect at some point he will pull out a wad of cash and acquire one of those hats.

They want to know everything, but what am I supposed to say? I made friends with a stalker who was lurking in my bushes and he happened to be a mad bomber? I briefly allowed myself to trust someone and he tried to kill my brother? And me? Crap, I trusted that man, and he tried to kill me.

“His name is Tanner Smythe—that’s with a ‘y’—and he’s in the audience tonight,” I tell them. “He’s a photographer and he came by the green room earlier to say hello to me, before it was open to everyone. He and his girlfriend had some snacks from the buffet and then were going to find their seats.”

“Do you think you can get him to come out and talk to you?” one of the agents asks. They want to take him down quietly. The bomb has been neutralized, but Tanner doesn’t know he’s been caught yet. The explosion was timed to go off in thirty minutes, when the remaining Last Barons would be gathered for a pre-show pep talk and vocal warm-up.

I agree to lure Tanner to a meeting, so I text him and tell him I need to see him. It’s tricky. I need to get him someplace private for the arrest, yet he can’t be made aware of all the FBI agents and police officers swarming around. Powell, whose eyes are glowing with excitement—perhaps because he has not fully processed Tanner’s epic betrayal—offers his dressing room for the sting operation.

Unfortunately for Powell, Mike forces him off to a secure location, so he won’t be in the vicinity if Tanner has additional explosives. I can sense his disappointment that I’m the only one risking my life as he gives me a quick hug and wishes me luck. Three officers escort me there and hide inside ready to jump out and seize Tanner. The rest of the backstage hallways are kept clear so that he isn’t spooked by security.

I pace the room, waiting. My stomach is in knots. Tanner was the mastermind behind everything. A little voice in my head insists it couldn’t be him—he was in the car explosion with me. But that could easily be explained. He’d placed the device expecting Powell to drive, and when he saw which car I was driving, it was too late to argue. That’s why he suggested the scenic route, and why he claimed he saw someone messing with the car. He knew the timing on the bomb. He cut our escape a little narrowly, warning me when he did, but I guess that benefited his diabolical plan. It helped him trick me into trusting him.

When he knocks, I swallow my fear and answer the door. He enters and stands a little too close to me.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asks in a husky voice. Oh my god, he’s turned on by this. He thinks in a few minutes his bomb will explode and kill everyone in the green room, and meanwhile, he’s going to put the moves on me. Sick bastard.

I try not to let my eyes betray the hiding spots of the concealed agents. I need to be bold and call him out. Maybe if I tell him I know his evil plan, then, like a Bond villain, he’ll reveal everything. I’m safe, the other men in this room all have guns.

“I know what you did,” I say, forcing myself to remain calm.

“You do?”

“Of course. It was obvious.” Is that vague enough? It must be too vague because he frowns.

“Did Whitney text you?”

Hmmm. Should I pretend she did? Is that possible? Did he reveal his bomb-dropping to her and she tried to warn me? She should have called 911 instead. Or alerted one of the many guards.

“No. I just knew anyway.”

“Because you feel it too?” He steps closer and I back away.

“Feel what?” I’m confused now.

“Are you talking about my ending things with Whitney?”

He did? When? After he told her he was a psychopath that was out murdering people for fun? Or did he do it because he’s a gentleman and wanted to save her from being known as the girlfriend of a killer?

“Cass,” he continues, and his voice drops to a more intimate register. “There was never anything happening there anyway. I let Whitney mislead you, but ...” He brings up a hand as though to touch my face. I edge away.

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