Page 54 of The Ghost Assassin

“Better safe than sorry, especially after Kane’s chopper went down.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re informed that we have a new chopper. “Check the one meant for us before you use it again.” On that note, I exit the building to the runway area, with Jay on my heels.

When we’re finally buckled in, Jay looks like he wants to throw up, clutching his chair during takeoff. I’m not nervous. There’s no point. It’s too late to change what happens next.

Chapter Forty

Nice guys die first.

I’ve seen it time after time. And Jay is one of the nice guys. I can’t say that about all that many people, either. And that’s exactly why it’s a good thing he’s sitting on the other side of the chopper. I really do want to punch him for being so stupid.

The chopper roars around us and while I like silence a whole hell of a lot more than I do chitchat, right now, the sound irritates me almost as much as Jay trying to get killed again. I have questions I want answered, and the only way that’s going to happen right now is by text.

I open my computer, connect to the internet and text Tic Tac: Did you make it to New York?

Yes. I’m with your brother, Lucas, and Jack.

My brows dip. What? How did Jack get there? I type.

I invited him, is his reply.

Tic Tac is learning a little too well from me, I think. He leaves it at that and moves on, continuing with, The diner has no camera feed, his message reads. We’re checking street cameras. The owner is almost seventy, which doesn’t have to mean she’s not shady, but so far, no connections to anyone that feels relevant. And nothing shady in her background either.

This is going nowhere and slowly. I’ll have to go to the diner myself tomorrow and see where that leads, outside of me eating strawberry pie. I also need to see Pocher and my father, and dig for what they know, which is something. Of that, I’m certain. It’s just strange that they haven’t called, but then neither has the mayor or present governor.

I text Ellis: Have local government and law enforcement been told Murphy was the victim?

He replies instantly: They have not. That’s why we pushed out the locals. They believe there was a terrorist suspect.

The degree to which the government goes to keep the public in the dark is incredible, but suddenly my father and Pocher aren’t as suspiciously silent.

I text Kit: Did you connect with Rich?

No answer.

This time he probably really is with Kane, holding that meeting with one of the cartel members. This makes me nervous and I’m not a nervous person. In fact, nervous people agitate me, and I tell them so. What I cannot control is a poison to my mind. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, they say. I take that to mean, because you killed it first.

With that need for control burning through me, I itch to text Rich, eager for the search of Murphy’s house, but that opens a sealed can of worm soup. And worm soup is pretty darn nasty. I settle for messaging Tic Tac: Did you hear from Rich? Did he search Murphy’s LA home?

Yes, he answers. I heard from him. He’s headed there now. He’s not happy about it. He’s just not a happy person. Jeez, Lilah, what did you do to that man?

Just be me, I reply. Some people can’t handle all the sunshine.

It’s true, he answers. I’d move to New York, but the Sunshine Princess and the Kingpin are just too much joy for me. It’s blinding.

It’s blinding.

Those words linger in my mind, and I shut my computer. Bullshit is meant to do just that—blind the recipient. The question is, who’s bullshitting me? Is it Ellis and the President, Calvin Adams, or is it Ghost? Or maybe it’s everyone. Maybe no one is telling the truth. People lie so much the lies become the only truth. I don’t like being lied to. In fact, it pisses me off.

Liars lie and they just might die.

Chapter Forty-One

Just before I lose the chopper’s internet connection, my messages flash with an update from Tic Tac, related to the search of Murphy’s home in LA. Rich found nothing useful. And Rich’s observation, per Tic Tac, was that Murphy’s house was so sterile, it seemed as if someone cleaned up. It’s an interesting comment. Maybe Murphy was Mr. Clean and Detached. Or maybe anyplace he’d called his own is now scrubbed. I frown. Except his pocket and that one desk drawer?

That doesn’t really align well with the scrub premise.

But the bottom line here is that I can’t say if a sterile environment is unusual for Murphy since I spent very little time with him, and the President of the United States won’t let me talk to anyone. It’s as ridiculous as all this trendy re-emergence of the bell-bottom bullshit. Do they not think a rat can crawl up your leg in New York City? Bootcut people. Boot. Cut. Or boots. Period. We land, and I’ve decided on an investigative path, which leads to Pocher. I’ve discounted how well-informed that man is at all times. He knows Murphy is dead. He knows more about my ex-boss than I will likely ever know. He probably knows who had him killed, if he wasn’t behind it himself.

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