Chapter 35
Daisy
The road is one of those rural routes with wide ditches on both sides. We pass a massive data center, its parking lot sprawling wider than the building itself. Beyond the complex, the trees return, hemming the road on both sides.
Up ahead, the headlights catch a chain-link fence, and beyond it, a tall metal building with a sliding door.
On the concrete in front of the building there’s a small plane.
Light poles along the perimeter of the building bathe the area in light and a dirt runway cuts through straightaway past the concrete carport.
Jake pulls to a stop just inside the fence and squeezes my hand.
“Let’s do this,” he says, and I hear the resignation underneath the residual anger. He’s not happy with me—at all.
“It’s going to be fine.”
The sound that comes from deep within his chest is more bear than human. We both open our car doors, and I notice he leaves the headlights on.
I hop out of the Jeep, glancing once toward the tree line in the distance. Thanks to the floodlights around the metal hangar, the tree line’s draped in darkness. When I inhale, the sharp scent of freshly cut grass fills my nose. Seconds later, I’m sneezing.
“Daisy, you okay?” Thompson’s friendly, laid-back voice makes it feel like any other day in the office.
Except it’s well past sunset, the sky’s black, and we’re standing in the middle of nowhere beside the smallest plane I’ve ever seen. The plane has a propeller on the front—that’s how small it is. No wonder Weaver’s suggestion was to fly him to New York then to board a bigger plane.
“I’m fine,” I say, slightly surprised Thompson is here. I sniff, checking, but the initial sneezing fit seems to be over. “It’s that grass.”
“Yeah, looks like they trimmed it today,” he calls back.
Given the grass comes up past my ankles, I’m guessing “trimmed” means they left plenty of height.
Phillip Sterling exits the hangar in the same suit from earlier, the floodlights giving his white hair an eerie glow. Through the wide sliding hangar door I spot a large stainless-steel suitcase that I presume is Sterling’s.
“Daisy, thank you.” He looks to Jake as he walks, and says, “Jake, should’ve known you would come too. Thank you both. This is all unexpected. I greatly appreciate you bringing me everything.”
I hand him the folders and the cords which I placed in a small tote bag.
On the way over, I flipped through the files and snapped photos.
The files he had me get were all business contracts and agreements, and to be honest, I’m mystified as to why he asked me to bring them, as I’m certain they’re accessible online.
But they appear to be the original signed contracts between Sterling Financial and subsidiaries.
Copies of property deeds are included in one file, but the addresses mean nothing to me, and again, I’m certain he likely has access to the files online.
Chargers can be purchased anywhere, but I didn’t share my thoughts on the drive over, as Jake might’ve turned the car around.
“Thank you.” He looks down at the canvas tote bag in such a way that it wouldn’t surprise me if he strode to the nearby metal circular trash can and dropped it inside. “I didn’t want to share much on the phone, as there’s always a chance it’s tapped.”
No problem is the automatic response that almost slips out, but then I snag on the bit about him having something to say to me that he doesn’t want anyone to hear.
That’s why he has me out here. The device tucked inside my bra digs into the side of my boob, and I wish we’d run a test to ensure it’s working.
Thompson’s expression is unreadable, but there’s something off that gives me pause.
He’s not unfriendly, but he’s not friendly.
His eyes, dark in this light, feel off. Cold.
Dead. Goosebumps prickle, and the urge to spin on my heel and run back to the Jeep intensifies.
He spits a stream of tobacco juice on the ground, and I’m reminded, it’s just Thompson.
“Jake,” he says with a nod in his direction.
“What’re you doing here?” Jake asks, stepping closer to Thompson, acting like it’s a typical office day. “Thought you headed home.”
“Nah. I’m flying Mr. Sterling to New York.”
“I didn’t know you had your pilot’s license.”
“It’s a hobby that brings in a little extra.
But I’ve never flown this plane before. Never been to this hangar either.
Sterling’s got me paranoid after today’s events.
I heard movement out by the tree line. Could be nothing, but with everything that’s happened…
you mind clearing the area with me before we take off? ”
There’s something off about Thompson, but I can’t put my finger on it. Brie’s comment about trusting my gut comes to mind.
Jake hesitates.
“It’s okay. I’ll stay right here,” I assure him.
He eyes Sterling, and Sterling holds his hands up. “Do I look dangerous to you?” When he raises his arms, Jake eyes his waist.
“Jacket off. Turn around.”
“Jake,” I admonish.
But Sterling does as he asks. He looks beaten, like he’s aged ten years this afternoon. Without the jacket to augment his thin physique, he seems almost frail.
“Dude,” Thompson says. “Paranoid much?”
Jake shoots a glare Thompson’s way, then steps up to Phillip and pats him down. Seemingly satisfied–and not caring at all about awkwardness–he says to me, “Stay in front of the headlights. Right here.” Then to Thompson, he says, “Have you checked the plane?”
“Did the check,” he says. “Got distracted though. Like I said, thought I heard a noise in the woods. Probably a deer.”
“Let’s make a loop,” Jake says, his gaze canvassing the expanse of land before settling back on me.
I give him a reassuring nod and half-smile, hopefully relaying I’m good with him canvassing the perimeter. If I scream, he’s bound to hear me. There’s nothing out here.
If Thompson tries anything, Jake will take him down. Jake’s in fighting shape, and Thompson could star in a Dunkin’ Donuts commercial featuring a traffic cop.
As I watch Jake and Thompson walk side by side out of sight, going along the side of the hangar, Sterling puts his suit jacket back on and, once dressed, speaks.
“I figured out who tampered with the presentation.”
My lungs seize in a vice, but I force a casual, “Who?”
With his hands folded in front of him, with his suit and silver rimmed spectacles, he could be a lawyer or a judge. Or he could be the devil.
“I think you know the answer to that, Daisy.”
I inhale deeply, debating how to react, not because I fear for me, but because if he tries anything, Jake’s going to come around the side of the building and kill him.
“What I want to know is why?”
I step back, closer to the Jeep, readying for flight.
But no, that’s not why I’m here.
I square my shoulders to face off.
“Alvin Reed.” I let the name hang in the air between us. He knows about him and my connection to him. I don’t need to say more.
“A man entered into a high-risk investment, lost, and because he gambled when he shouldn’t have, you decided to ruin my life?” He’s calm. If anything, he’s inquisitive.
“You killed him,” I say. “If you hadn’t killed him, I wouldn’t be here.”
“He’s dead?” Phillip’s a good actor, I’ll give him that. But as his surprise morphs into a touch of fear, I’d have to grade his thespian skills as amateur and too over-the-top for believability.
He closes his eyes, then pinches the bridge of his nose, his spectacles sliding up slightly from the movement.
“How did he die?”
“Like you don’t—”
“How did he die!” He’s within inches of my face, and while he’s yelling, it’s the fear I sense emanating from him that scares me most.
“Poisoning,” I say quietly, scanning behind him for any sign of Jake. “Same as Jocelyn. That’s why—”
“Jocelyn died in a fire.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“I inquired. I saw the police report.” He’s insistent, but all the same, Brie’s warning to stand away from him has me backing up, keeping my distance.
“I found her dead in her office. I didn’t call it in. I didn’t want anyone to know I’d been in the office.”
Phillip’s long wrinkled fingers curl in on themselves.
“That woman in Singapore, I don’t believe she committed suicide.”
I watch him carefully, wondering how to pull movie magic and get him to confess to the murders.
But he looks dazed. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep inhale and exhale. “I didn’t have anything to do with their deaths. I’m not a murderer.”
“You rip people off,” I say with my best prosecuting lawyer imitation, wanting him to say something incriminating, to admit guilt.
“Some of these crypto schemes are making serious money. We took advantage of opportunities—calculated risks. The fund that failed? A major investor got cold feet and pulled out at the worst possible time. The short position should have been guaranteed.” He looks off into the night, toward Jake and Thompson.
“I’ve lost control of the situation. There are people involved now who don’t think like businessmen.
If you’re smart, you’ll disappear for a while. Don’t go back to the office.”
I study him and–I don’t want to be naive, but I’m reading him as sincere.
“If you didn’t arrange for the murders–who would?” He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me. With his back to the light, I can’t see his eyes, and I probe. “Why shouldn’t I go back to the office? Is there someone—”
Thompson emerges from behind the hangar, purposeful, deliberate. No sign of Jake.
“Where’s Jake?” I call.
Sterling steps forward. He’s tall, and his body blocks my view of Thompson. I stare at his back, processing, then scan the land surrounding the hangar.
Where is Jake?
A loud, shrill gunshot pierces the air.
A spray of red coats my fingers, the white of my tank, my face.
Phillip’s body sags, the angle to the ground awkward, and he crashes down. The white of his skull shows, and a river of red pools along the concrete.
My gaze lifts, and I take in a barrel, pointed directly at me.
For a heartbeat, I meet black, soulless eyes.
My chest squeezes, and I’m off.
Running.
To the plane.
For cover.
A bang pierces the air, but I don’t stop.
The second my boot slams the concrete it’s up again, a cycle.
Keep running.
I duck the wing of a plane.
There’s no place to hide.
I spot a door on the back wall.
And charge for it.
Sparks fly at the same time a gun fires.
He missed.
There’s no cover between me and the door, so I dive under the belly of a second plane.
“Daisy. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Maybe you should’ve tried that before you shot at me.”
“Fair point.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, not that I care, but hoping for distraction, to buy time to figure out where I should go. Where’s Jake?
“It’s a job,” Thompson says. “Supposed to be an easy job. Nothing’s ever easy. Guess there’s a reason for the saying.”
Slinking back, I scan the ground, trying to get my bearings.
A strong hand touches my arm—I scream. In my periphery, I see a shape of a man–not Jake–and I run.
Straight for the door. My hand reaches the metal knob, and I twist.
It turns. I fling the door open.
Run.
As fast as I can. Sprinting to the edge of the woods.
Gun fire sounds behind me.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Run.
To the woods.
Pitch black.
Crickets chirp.
The lights on the hangar click off.
Oh no.
My eyes burn.
Jake.
He wouldn’t let this happen.
He must be hurt.
This is my fault.
I left him.
No.
I run back.
The darkness swallows me whole. Without the floodlights, I’m running blind, arms outstretched, trying to remember the layout. The hangar’s metal wall hits my palms first, cold and unforgiving. I feel my way along it, trying to control my ragged breathing.
He walked the perimeter.
He has to be here.
Somewhere out here.
My foot catches on something.
I drop to my knees, my hands finding fabric, warmth, the solid bulk of a body. My fingers trace up—cargo pants, holster, broad shoulders, scruff.
“Jake. Jake!” My hands find his chest, feeling for the rise and fall. It’s there, but shallow. Too shallow. I touch his hair. His face. His nose.
My fingers come away sticky. Blood. How much blood? A metallic scent mixes with something else—that acrid smell of burned electronics.
“Please, please, please,” I’m whispering, pressing my hand against the tough nylon material along Jake’s side, searching for a wound.
That’s when I hear them. Footsteps. Measured. Deliberate. Not rushing like someone fleeing a crime scene. Walking like someone who knows exactly where their target is.
The crickets have gone silent. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.
This is all my fault.
I fumble for Jake’s gun, my fingers slipping on the holster. Jake’s got at least two guns—I saw them earlier—but right now, the Glock on his hip is the only one I can reach.
The footsteps are getting closer.
He’s not on the grass.
He’s on the concrete lip that skirts the building.
He wants me to hear.
“Daisy.” Thompson’s voice, calm and professional–eerie.
“I see you. We’ve got night vision. There’s nowhere to run.”
I finally get Jake’s gun free from his holster, the weight of it foreign in my hands. I shot Uncle Alvin’s handgun at a range once, but this is different. Everything about this is different.
“Just walk away,” Thompson continues. “This doesn’t have to be about you.”
But it is about me. I started this. I pushed for the investigation. I altered that presentation. I insisted on coming here tonight despite Jake’s warnings. And now Jake’s bleeding out beneath my hands because of my choices.
“We can forget this ever happened. Just drive away.”
Another set of footsteps, coming from a different direction.
I’m surrounded.
Jake makes a sound—not quite conscious, but alive. For now.
I press my back against the wall, gun raised toward the darkness, knowing I can’t see them but they can see me perfectly.
What have I done?