Chapter 22
"No further questions at this time."
I stepped back from the podium, ignoring the barrage of shouted questions from the press corps. Camera flashes exploded across my vision in staccato bursts. Microphones thrust forward like weapons. The air in the tent crackled with predatory hunger disguised as journalistic duty.
"Mr. Caisse-Etremont! Is Lucky Losers responsible for these deaths?"
"Will you resign over this security breach?"
"How many more prototypes are missing?"
Algerone moved beside me, spine straight, face composed for the cameras that would broadcast his image globally within minutes.
He maintained his perfect control and betrayed not a hint of the rage I knew churned beneath that tailored suit.
My hand brushed his elbow, guiding him toward the exit while security personnel formed a barrier between us and the shouting press.
The brief contact sent heat racing up my arm. Even here, even now, my body still responded to him like a compass finding north.
The tent flap closed behind us. Military personnel scurried around the command post established at the Oklahoma City disaster perimeter. The moment we entered the private staging area, Algerone's shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.
"That was a goddamn massacre," he muttered. "And I don't mean the civilians."
"The press always wants blood." I checked my tablet, scrolling through the cascade of crisis notifications.
Three hundred forty-seven unread messages had accumulated since the press conference began.
Board members demanding updates. Legal flagging liability concerns.
The Pentagon's office calling every fifteen minutes.
I could manage numbers and data, but the man standing beside me made my pulse stutter.
"We're fucked, Maxime." He loosened his tie with a sharp tug. "Nine hundred twelve dead. Congressional hearings scheduled. Stock down sixty-four percent. The Pentagon threatening to void our contracts."
"We've survived worse." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.
"Have we?" His eyes met mine, the carefully constructed corporate facade cracking to reveal something darker beneath, something more honest.
My hand drifted unconsciously to my throat, pressing against the collar where his marks lay hidden beneath makeup and expensive fabric. The bruises had faded to yellow-green now, but I could still feel them if I pressed hard enough. I pressed harder, letting the dull ache anchor me.
Commander Reid approached, tablet in hand. "Sir, the perimeter is secure. Xavier's team has confirmed the energy readings at the activation site."
"Where?" Algerone asked.
"Sunset Terrace. Eastern quadrant. What used to be Lot 127."
Algerone's expression flattened. This was not just any location. This was the exact spot where his family's trailer had stood, where Jackson Wheeler had killed his stepfather and remade himself into Algerone Caisse-Etremont.
"Take me there." The order came out flat and emotionless.
"Sir, the area is still being processed for evidence," Reid began.
"Now." The single word carried enough weight to silence further objections.
Reid nodded once. "Yes, sir. Transport is standing by."
"Arrange a briefing with Xavier's team for 1700 hours," I instructed Reid, keeping my voice steady despite the way my chest had tightened. "Full analysis of the weapon specifications, casualty projections, and recovery operations."
"Yes, sir."
Algerone moved toward the waiting SUV, back rigid beneath his suit jacket. I followed, checking my tablet again in the nervous habit I'd never been able to break. Another cascade of notifications lit up the screen. The world circled like vultures, hungry for explanations, accountability, blood.
The Oklahoma sun beat down mercilessly as we left the command post. The National Guard checkpoint smelled of sweat, diesel, and borrowed authority. I showed our credentials to a lieutenant whose eyes widened at the Lucky Losers logo. His hands shook slightly as he handed the badges back.
"Mr. Caisse-Etremont, Mr. St. Germain." He nodded stiffly. "The technical team is already at the site."
"Which is where exactly?" Algerone asked.
"Sunset Terrace. Eastern quadrant. The coordinates where..." The lieutenant faltered.
"Where the device was placed," I finished for him. "We know. Thank you, Lieutenant."
Oklahoma City baked under the afternoon sun, waves of heat rippling off the asphalt as we crossed the final barricade. Behind us, news vans assembled like vultures, satellite dishes aimed skyward, reporters rehearsing their standups against the backdrop of disaster.
Throughout the press conference, I'd maintained my position slightly behind Algerone's right shoulder, half a step back and half a step to the side—the position I'd held for thirty-two years.
My spine stayed straight despite the lingering ache from Xander's assault the day before.
My ribs protested each breath, a reminder of the cemetery, of Imogen's grave, of sins that could never be fully paid.
I had been the company's public face of composed competence while reporters shouted accusations about stolen prototypes and corporate negligence.
I had stood there and lied for him. I would stand there and lie again. That was what I did. What I had always done.
Military vehicles crowded the perimeter, their olive drab stark against the blue Oklahoma sky.
Medical personnel in hazmat suits moved through what had once been streets, documenting the dead.
FBI evidence teams marked locations with numbered flags.
The whole neighborhood had been reduced to coordinates on a grid, to data points and evidence markers and body bags.
The air tasted of ash and scorched metal.
No smoke, no fire. The sonic weapon left no visible destruction, just bodies where they fell, neural tissue boiled inside intact skulls.
We stepped over a child's bicycle abandoned in a driveway.
Pink streamers hung limp from the handlebars.
Algerone's face remained expressionless, but his knuckles whitened on his cane.
I wanted to touch him, to press my palm against the small of his back, to offer comfort the way I had in those quiet hours before dawn, before the news had shattered everything.
But we were exposed here, surrounded by military personnel and federal agents and the ever-present threat of cameras.
I kept my hands at my sides and my expression neutral and my need locked away where it belonged.
Xavier spotted us first, his orange and blue hair visible from a hundred yards away.
He stood in a cluster of technicians, monitoring equipment set up around what appeared to be a concrete foundation.
The sight of him still produced a complicated knot in my chest, a tangle of guilt and protectiveness and something almost like pride that I couldn't separate.
"Algerone." He nodded, eyes flicking briefly to me before returning to his father. "The energy readings confirm it," he continued, focusing on his tablet. "The activation point matches the coordinates down to the meter."
"How could Shaw know the exact location after forty years?" I asked.
"County records. The trailer park layout hasn't changed since the seventies." Xavier's mouth tightened. "The Wheeler family occupied lot 127 from 1979 to 1985."
"And the weapon itself? Was it our stolen Banshee?"
"No," Xavier said certainly. "This wasn't our prototype.
The energy signature is all wrong." He pulled up data on his tablet, angling it so I could see the waveform analysis.
Numbers and graphs I could interpret and patterns I could follow.
"This was Shaw's own design, the same inferior model that failed during his demonstration for the Russians.
Our Banshee produces a targeted, focused beam.
This thing was a blunt instrument. No directional control, no intensity modulation, no safety limiters.
He just cranked up the power and let it rip in every direction. "
"Then why is everyone blaming our technology?" Algerone asked.
"Because that's exactly what Shaw wants.
" Xavier's expression hardened, an echo of his father's face when cornered, when dangerous.
"He's using this attack to demonstrate capability to his Macau buyers.
Shows them footage of nine hundred dead civilians, claims it's the stolen Banshee, and sells them a weapon.
Meanwhile, our prototype is still locked behind my security protocols, and he's still trying to crack it. "
"So he's framing us for mass murder," I said. The logic was elegant in its cruelty. Shaw had always been clever. I had underestimated him.
"And destroying evidence of Algerone's past in the process.
" Xavier glanced at the concrete foundation.
"Three birds, one stone. He demonstrates his weapon works, he buries whatever secrets might be in this soil, and he makes Lucky Losers look culpable for a terrorist attack.
The Pentagon will be forced to cancel our contracts.
Our stock craters. Shaw swoops in to pick up the pieces. "
"The Macau buyers won't know the difference," Algerone said quietly.
"Not unless we tell them." Xavier met his father's gaze.
"The real Banshee is still out there, still locked, still valuable.
Shaw needs to crack it eventually, or his buyers will figure out they've been sold a paperweight.
But by then, he'll have our contracts, our market share, and enough leverage to finish us off. "
I nodded once. Algerone had moved away from us toward the concrete slab, his attention fixed on the foundation that had once supported his family's trailer. The place where Shane had bled out. Where Jackson Wheeler had died and Algerone Caisse-Etremont had been born.
Xavier returned to his team. I crossed the barren space to join Algerone, gravel crunching under my shoes. The heat pressed against my skin, sweat gathering beneath my collar where makeup concealed the marks his teeth had left.
Algerone stood motionless, silver-tipped cane planted in Oklahoma soil.
I stopped beside him, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched. I waited, watching the wind stir dust across cracked concrete, listening to the distant sounds of military vehicles and emergency personnel, counting my own heartbeats while he remained frozen in memory.
This was what I could give him. Presence without pressure. Silence without abandonment.
"He's done this," he said finally, his voice rough. "For what? To prove he knows who I used to be?"
I studied his profile, the harsh Oklahoma sunlight carving deeper lines around his eyes and his mouth.
The silver threading through his hair caught the light, gleaming like mercury against dark strands.
He was handsome even here, even now, even surrounded by death and destruction.
The thought was inappropriate. I filed it away with all the other inappropriate thoughts I'd accumulated over three decades.
"It's not just about who you were," I replied. "It's about erasing who you've become."
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"This is where I died," he said finally. "Every version of me that came after... this is what they were built on."
"You survived," I said simply. "You rebuilt."
His shoulders shifted slightly, the only acknowledgment that he'd heard me. The sun beat down, relentless. Sweat traced paths down my spine beneath my shirt. Neither of us moved.
"He'll destroy everything," Algerone said after a long silence. "Not just Lucky Losers. Everything I've built. Everyone connected to me."
"Only if we let him."
His head turned finally, green eyes finding mine.
"I won't let him," I promised. "Not our company. Not your sons. Not you."
My fingers brushed his. His skin was warm, dry, familiar now in ways it hadn't been a week ago. I had touched every inch of him during those eighteen months of recovery. But this was different. This was chosen.
"If Shaw knows about Shane," he began.
"Then we find out how he knows," I finished. "And we eliminate every source of that information."
The corner of his mouth tightened, not quite a smile. "Efficient as always."
"I serve at your pleasure." The familiar phrase carried new weight now, loaded with meaning beyond professional duty. The words had been true for thirty-two years. They were truer now.
"And if my pleasure requires blood?"
"Then blood you shall have," I replied without hesitation. "As much as necessary."
He nodded once, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. We stood together on the concrete slab where Jackson Wheeler had died, where Shane's blood had soaked into Oklahoma soil forty years earlier. Violence had created Algerone Caisse-Etremont. Violence would protect him now.
His fingers found mine again, the contact hidden from Xavier's team by our bodies. His touch carried heat, reassurance, possession. A physical connection that transcended words. I let myself lean into it, just slightly. Let myself have this one small thing.
"When we find Shaw," he said quietly, "I want to be the one who ends him."
"Of course. But not because of this." I gestured toward the desolation surrounding us. "Not for revenge."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Then what for?"
"For the future." I held his gaze steadily. "For what comes after Shaw. After Oklahoma. After all of this."
His jaw relaxed. He nodded once.
"After," he repeated, and I understood the weight he placed on the single syllable.
"Yes." I didn't elaborate. Didn't need to. He understood what I was offering. Not just service. Not just loyalty. But a life beyond the wreckage Shaw had created. A future I had never dared to imagine before he had placed a paper crown on my head and told me I looked like royalty.
It was personal now. Shaw had not merely crossed a line. He had drawn one in blood. Had targeted the man I'd devoted my life to serving. The man who had finally claimed me after decades of waiting. The man who had held me through the night and whispered things I was still afraid to believe.
And now it was our turn to answer.
My tablet buzzed against my hip. I ignored it for once, keeping my hand in his. The messages could wait. The board could wait. The Pentagon could wait.
But I knew what vengeance cost. I'd counted the bodies over thirty-two years.
Buried the friends. Watched violence hollow good men into empty shells.
And I feared what it might take from us, this fragile thing we had only just begun to build.
This love I had carried for three decades and had finally been permitted to name.
Shaw would pay for what he had done. That was certain.
I just prayed the cost wouldn't be everything we had left.