Chapter 33
-
Havana, Cuba
Flint stood near a window, listening. Shouts echoed from the streets outside. Distant sirens rose and fell like an urban heartbeat.
The abandoned building sported broken windows and peeled paint. Discarded furniture was scattered across stained concrete floors. Unoccupied, but not safe.
The window frame held jagged glass remnants that caught the smoke-hazed darkness. Three blocks away, flames licked at a rooftop. The sound of running footsteps clattered against pavement somewhere below.
The city was coming apart at the seams, which meant the departure window was shrinking by the minute.
Behind him, Lizzy sat on the edge of a battered metal desk. The thing had been gutted for salvage years ago. Drawers hung open like empty mouths. She stared at the floor. Hadn’t said a word since they’d arrived.
Flint assessed the room again. Two exits.
The door they’d entered through and a window that led to what looked like a fire escape.
He smelled rust and old water damage. Brown stains ran down the walls where rain had leaked through holes in the roof.
Dust motes danced in the weak light. Everything about this place screamed decay and abandonment.
Perfect for hiding but hell to fight his way out of when things went sideways.
He crossed the room, boots scraping against concrete littered with chunks of fallen plaster. The sound echoed off bare walls.
“You’ve been hiding a long time,” he said. “But things like this never stay buried. You had to know someone like me would come eventually.”
Lizzy didn’t look at him. Her shoulders hunched forward. Hands folded in her lap like she was praying. Defensive body language, trying to make herself smaller.
Flint had interrogated enough people to know she was holding back. Her stillness was self-preservation, not ignorance.
He’d have to break through her defenses first, fast and blunt.
“Jason Fisher hired me. He thinks his siblings survived the fire.”
Nothing. No flicker of recognition. No denial. The silence stretched between them like a wire under tension. But her breathing changed slightly. Became more shallow.
She knew things she didn’t want to reveal.
Question was whether he could persuade her to give them up willingly.
“Jason’s not chasing ghosts. He found a concrete trail. He hired me to do the rest.”
Still nothing from her.
But Flint caught the subtle shift in her posture. She was fighting the urge to respond. Good. Meant she wanted to talk.
“He wants answers,” Flint said. “He wants the truth. He’s entitled to that, surely.”
Her eyes lifted to his for the first time. Hollow. Haunted. The kind of look that came from carrying secrets too heavy for one person to bear.
Flint had seen that expression before. Survivors. People who’d made impossible choices and lived with the consequences.
“You don’t know what it cost to keep them safe.” Lizzy’s words came out barely above a whisper. Raw. Like they’d been scraped from her throat with a blade leaving years of pain underneath.
“Then tell me what happened. I can leave you here and not tell Jason where you are and you’ll never see me again,” Flint said calmly. “But Jason and Bruce and their mother deserve to know. The kids do too.”
She didn’t speak immediately. Her shoulders rose as she pulled in a breath and held it. Flint waited. Sometimes silence worked better than pressure. Give her space to fill the void herself.
“We weren’t supposed to be in the house that night,” she said finally. “Frankie tried to stop it.”
Flint waited for more. The words had cost her something. He could see it in her white-knuckled grip on the edge of the rust-stained metal desk.
But she’d opened the door. Now he had to decide how hard to push.
She didn’t continue.
Before he could ask anything else, he heard boots on concrete outside. Heavy. Deliberate. Male, based on the weight and stride pattern. Not trying to be quiet.
Then three short knocks on the door followed by two long knocks.
Recognition signal. Prearranged.
Lizzy said quietly, “It’s him.”
Flint drew his weapon. The Glock settled into his palm.
He moved beside the door with his finger indexed along the trigger guard.
The angles were covered. Good field of fire. They weren’t trapped. Not yet anyway.
The door squealed open slowly on rusted metal hinges, a noise so loud that it cut through all noises inside and out.
Flint was ready to fire.
Frankie Tantanella stepped inside.
Shirt torn at the shoulder, the fabric dark with blood that had soaked through and dried to a rusty brown. His movements were careful. Controlled. Like a man who knew he was hurt but wasn’t ready to show weakness.
Flint saw one hand hovering near the grip of a knife sheathed at Tantanella’s belt.
Operational but compromised. Dangerous but bleeding.
The kind of wounded animal that could still take them down.
Tantanella scanned the room methodically. Gaze landed on Lizzy first, then shifted to Flint. Taking inventory. Calculating distances and angles. Threat assessment.
Since he left Kentucky, Frankie Tantanella had acquired some training.
No one moved.
A man accustomed to being obeyed, Tantanella said, “Give her back.”
But he was wounded and exhausted, too. Running too long with too much weight on his shoulders, probably.
Flint didn’t answer. Silence made people uncomfortable. Made them fill the void with information they shouldn’t share.
Tantanella tilted his head slightly. “Who are you and what do you want with my wife?”
Flint watched as he waited. Tired people made mistakes.
When Flint failed to respond, Frankie nodded once as if he’d made a decision. “Devon Cole.”
Devon Cole?
The name seemed to fill the entire building.
Devon Cole. Tech billionaire, one of the most powerful men in the world, worth billions, and connected to everyone who mattered. Running a wide-ranging conspiracy for decades, ordering arsons and murders and more? Not likely.
But Flint’s expression didn’t change. “What about Devon Cole?”
“He’s the reason everything happened,” Tantanella said. “Back then, he was a congressman. Cole told me to burn the Fisher place. Destroy everything in it to persuade Fisher to quiet things down.”
Flint studied Tantanella’s face for deception markers. Steady eye contact. Consistent body language. Either he was telling the truth, or he was a five-star liar.
Given his apparent background, could be either.
“You set that fire at the Fisher house?” Flint asked.
Tantanella didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. “It was supposed to be vacant.”
“But Lizzy and the younger Fisher children were there when you arrived that night.”
“Unfortunately.” Frankie cast a meaningful glance toward Lizzy.