PRESSURE
Cash
Sloppy exit. Not what I planned. I wanted one more breakfast with all three of us, wanted her cheeks to blush over nothing and bet on which hoodie she’d steal today. I yearned for a long, deep goodbye kiss to burn into memory until I get her back.
Would’ve been better if Stix had joined the pillow fort. Hell, we might’ve—nope. File that fantasy under not now. The way things look, not ever.
I betrayed him, told her where to find the file. That was a fuckup. I shouldn’t have done it. Too late now. I have to follow through.
Driving would take too long. I gun the quad through the forest down to the small airport in the valley.
I need speed. The kind that’s gone before anyone knows it was there.
The turboprop waiting for me is perfect.
Twin engines, six seats, matte paint that swallows the light. Built for utility, not comfort.
My hand trails along the fuselage as I circle the plane out of habit, showing her my respect. The blades catch the morning sun, and for a moment the world is at peace. I check the fuel, the flaps, the tires. Everything is in order.
Inside, the cockpit smells of worn leather and metal.
I flip the switches. The engine stirs. There’s no crew and no one asking questions.
I file the flight plan myself. By the time the wheels lift off the ground, I already have a motorcycle waiting at my destination and a place to stay for the night.
It is early evening when I get there. The motel I picked is threadbare and off the grid.
Nobody asks questions here. They don’t even glance at my fake ID, just slide the key across without eye contact.
I take my time preparing, gearing up, running my hands over the guns and knives, lining up the brass knuckles.
I left the blowtorch in the plane. This doesn’t need fire. Tonight will be fun anyway.
Whitmore’s smile stalks me from every billboard. I hate that face. On the radio, they already call him the governor-elect, though the results are not official.
Working for criminals and protecting your family don’t go together for long. Whitmore learned that the hard way, and if Michael White hasn’t figured it out yet, he will tonight. The first name on my list lives in a tidy middle-class neighborhood.
If Stix were here, he would observe the place for days. He’d make sure the wife and kid were out, enter through the back, avoid witnesses and nosy neighbors. He’d do it clean, without the risk of raising the slightest suspicion.
I don’t give a damn. I park in front of the house, take my helmet off revealing a storm mask, and head straight to the door. It’s unlocked. Idiots.
The hallway is dark, with cartoon laughter trickling from above and cooking sounds drawing me toward the kitchen. A woman in her forties turns at my footsteps and drops a plate of dinner. Shards and sauce scatter across the floor. Such a waste.
I move faster, soundless in my approach. Her scream rises, and I smother it with my palm, pressing her forward against the cabinets so hard the dishes inside rattle. “What’s your name?” I snarl, the air between us scorching her ear.
“Megan,” she gasps, words trapped beneath my palm.
“Well, Megan, tell me where your husband is and you and your kid walk out of this unharmed. Nod if you understand.”
She does without trying to fight. It’s almost unfair how easy children make these kinds of jobs. People will do anything to save their offspring. Makes sense the military wanted to prevent us from having any.
I ease the pressure enough to let her speak. “He is not here,” she begs. “Take anything, please. Just don’t hurt us.”
“Not what I asked.” I push her harder until the wood groans.
“He should be here any minute. Please—”
Tiny footsteps patter down the hall. I retreat and disappear from the doorway, sliding into the shadows with my gun raised. I keep the muzzle out of the child’s sight, but the angle is clear. If she doesn’t handle this right, someone’s getting hurt.
“Mommy?” the boy calls, voice small.
Megan bends, calmness a thin wire she forces into place. “Do you want to eat upstairs tonight and watch TV?” she asks, as if it’s the easiest plan in the world. The boy lights up and jumps in place. “Yay!”
“Only this once, okay? Because Mommy made a mess.”
She hustles a plate into his hands and shepherds him down the hall, telling him to close his door and crank up the volume. Clever. Hopefully, he’ll manage to stay put.
Back in the kitchen, I signal to the table. All the shades are drawn. No one can peer in. I methodically tie Megan to the chair at the head of the table, seal her mouth with duct tape so she won’t alert the neighborhood. The sound of the television upstairs swells through the ceiling.
I sit on the opposite side and study her. My pulse slows. This is where leverage lives and bargains begin.
“It's nothing personal,” I say, digging into the dinner she made. “Your husband’s involved with the wrong people, and I need some intel. The sooner he talks, the faster I leave. Sorry you got caught in the crossfire.”
I raise my hands in apology. She does not try to speak or tear herself loose. Her wary eyes are glued to the yellow flowers in the center of the table.
The last forkful is gone when the door opens. Michael’s face falls when he sees us.
“You should sit,” I tell him, waving the gun to underline the suggestion.
His gaze flicks up to the ceiling.
“He’s fine,” I say, rolling my eyes.
I stand to make him move. He looks ordinary, a man who blends effortlessly into a PTA meeting, his shirt tucked in too neatly and his tie cinched as if he never loosens it.
His glasses are fogged from the cold, and he clutches his briefcase like a lifeline.
A nagging thought creeps in: he might not know a thing.
Doesn’t matter. Maybe he’ll surprise me.
If he doesn’t, I’ll get some entertainment out of it. Either way, I win.
He looks more terrified than his wife as I bind him to my previous seat. I warn him to stay quiet for the sake of his son. He doesn’t make a sound.
“Tell me about the Board,” I say, deliberately setting my weapons on the table in a neat line in front of him.
“The Board of Regents?” he stammers.
“Sure, Mister White. The Board of Regents. What did you say your job was?”
I play along, already tasting the first hit.
“I lecture math at the university.”
His eyes dart from the knives to his wife. She doesn’t even twitch. Shock’s got her good. She’ll bounce back. Bet she’s tougher than he is. Understandable. She isn’t the one about to taste brass knuckles.
I slip them on, holding his panicked stare.
“I don’t rank high enough to have ever met one of them,” he says.
“Nah, not good enough.”
I swing once, making it count. His jaw takes it. Blood spatters the curtains in a spray of tiny red dots. He gags, fighting the reflex to cry out. Better not let his son hear. He is not built for this.
“I am telling the truth,” he gasps. “I have nothing to do with them. I teach math.”
I land another punch. This time his cheekbone cracks under the blow. He goes slack for a second. A single drop of crimson lands on his checkered shirt.
There’s a chance he’s only a numbers man. Criminals have accountants too. But accountants know where the money flows.
“Try again,” I say, circling behind him, smelling his fear.
I pull out a thin steel cable and loop it around his neck, winding it taut until his face flushes and his breath hitches.
I drag out the words, savoring the sound of air being stolen.
“Take all the time you need to think about your answer.”
The tremor in his shoulders signals the terror clawing at him. Right before he blacks out, I loosen my grip and step back. He collapses into his chair, eyes rolling, lungs bellowing for oxygen.
He chokes and coughs and tries to find his words again, searching his wife’s eyes for comfort.
“Well?”
I catch a slight movement across the table. A tiny shake of her head. A warning clear in her expression.
You have to be kidding me.
I slide the cable back into my pocket and fold my arms.
“Megan? You are M. White?” I ask. Who would’ve thought? I might have to rethink gender roles.
I pick up the largest knife and drag the tip along the wooden tabletop as I stalk toward her. The sound is soft and clinical, a promise more than a noise.
“Do you want to tell us what’s on your mind?” I ask, ripping the tape from her lips.
She snaps to life, shaking her head hard enough to strain her neck. “Please,” she chokes. “They’ll kill us all.”
I snort, amused. “What do you think I’ll do if you don’t talk?” I let the silence stretch. “It’s your choice, though. Either you keep quiet and die now, or you spill and I give you a chance to run.”
I turn to the professor. “Want to do the math for us and calculate the probability of survival?”
He begs her through split lips and swelling, voice ragged. One eye is already blooming purple. Worry fills her eyes at the sight of him. That’s the lever I need.
I slide the knife beneath her chin and push up, enough to make her jaw ache, not enough to cut. “Come on,” I coo. “What do you know?”
“Can you be a bit more precise?” she whispers.
“Mmh.” I ease the pressure, savoring her panic. She could be involved in more than I know. “My bad. Does the name Whitmore ring a bell?”
There it is. The name went straight to the sore spot. She swallows hard.
When she still doesn’t answer, I slam the knife into the table, making her whole body jerk.
“I lured her out of the house. Mariana was my friend. He made me call her and ask her to meet me. I thought he’d just scare her to shut her up.”
Her words tumble out in heaving sobs.
“What did he threaten you with?” I press. My gut tells me she’s not an evil person. At least not as evil as I can be if she withholds what I’m here for.
“I was pregnant then,” she cries. “A secretary at Whitmore’s office. Mendoza said he would make sure the child was never born if I refused.”
“Mendoza,” I echo. I thought she meant Sara’s father, but of course Whitmore’s right hand fits too. If he triggered Mariana’s death, he’s tied to the Board. He also set up Stix with Whitmore. That means the Board already knows Sara’s not in rehab. Which means—
A vibration rattles in my pocket, breaking through my thoughts. Stix.
I hold a finger to my lips, instructing the Whites to keep their mouths shut, then answer.
“What?”
“Did you kill him?” Stix barks.
I glance at the professor, confusion flickering. “Not yet?”
“Not yet? He died on stage.”
“The hell are you talking about?”
“Whitmore was shot.”
For a beat, the room tilts. I look between the Whites, my mind spinning.
“You there?” Stix snaps, impatient.
“I am,” I say, voice low. “Mendoza works for the Board. If Whitmore’s dead, Mendoza becomes governor.”
Silence hums on the line. We reach the same conclusion.
Sara and Whitmore were always meant to die.
Whitmore hired Stix to protect her, probably thinking that once he became governor, she could come back and life would go on.
He didn’t expect his own execution, or his ally to be part of it.
The Board wanted Mendoza in office and used Whitmore to get him there.
Sara was a liability. The rehab story played better with voters than her death ever could have.
A funeral would’ve forced him to drop out, just like last time.
“Code Red,” we blurt simultaneously, then hang up.
I shove the phone back into my pocket. The Whites sit frozen, wide-eyed, waiting for a verdict. They will not get one. I already have what I came for. No face, no name. They’ll live. I promised. Promises matter, even from men such as me.
I cut the professor’s ties and step into the night.