Chapter 28
GRIFFIN
“You’ve lost your damned mind, you know that?” Ford’s pacing the room, one arm folded, the other rubbing his jaw.
“I’m well aware.” I set down the tablet I’ve been reading the last transcripts of Creelman’s conversations on, yawning.
They’re the last transcripts we’re ever going to get, seeing as Lionel is really going through with his plan to relocate us, which means our contact in law enforcement won’t have any reasonable rationale for why they’re still sending them to us.
They’re already risking their job for us; we can’t have them risk getting arrested, too.
“I’ve never once seen you in anything remotely resembling a normal, committed relationship, and now you’re wearing a ring.”
“It’s not—”
“It’s not real. You said that. Still, we’ve looked after several vulnerable women before and you never once offered to marry any of them.”
I run a hand over my head, glancing down at my phone.
He’s right. It makes no sense at all. But here I am, after only one night away from her and I’m asking her to send me photos of what she made for dinner last night.
“Why the hell do you have pictures of a hot dog on your phone, Griff? Some kind of sex thing?”
I clap my phone face down on the table. “You’ve got fucking spy’s eyes, you know that?”
It’s a long-standing joke with us—Ford’s got the sharpest eyes I’ve ever seen. And a photographic memory. It makes him irritatingly impossible to bullshit.
“Seriously, why is she sending you hot dogs?”
“Forget about it.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Right,” he says. “Sounds pretty not fucking real.”
I shove my phone into my pocket, tapping my fingers on the table. Ford’s in a fucking mood, and it’s not about Sasha and me.
“If you don’t want to put the surveillance on Macklin, I told you to just show me how and I won’t bother you again.”
My best friend leans back in his chair, massaging his temples.
“What?”
“Right. I’m going to let my best friend get arrested because you don’t know how to run a wire properly.”
Now that I’m losing surveillance on Creelman, I want to at least check in on what Macklin’s been up to, not least of all because there have been some worrying exchanges between Macklin and Creelman about Sasha. But tapping someone without a warrant is not only risky, it’s illegal.
“I told you I didn’t want you to risk jail time for me!” I shout. When I told Ford what I wanted to do, I said there was no way he was getting involved. He said there was no way he wasn’t.
I force myself to calm down. “You know I could figure it out.”
“You could. But you’d fuck it up.”
“You know I wouldn’t.”
He gets to his feet. “You’re right. You wouldn’t. But I can do it in a quarter of the time.”
After studying criminology and working for a private protection firm, Ford did a brief stint on the tech side of the FBI, running stings on drug dealers. He was the agency’s preeminent expert on digital surveillance and still consults for them.
I grit my teeth. Ford’s a stubborn asshole. But so am I.
“Illegal or not, I still think this is a shit idea,” Ford says after a moment. “Isn’t the Family Protection Policy enough?”
After this week, Sasha’s family will know she’s married, which means the news will get to both Sam Macklin and Vincent Creelman.
Macklin will hopefully know what’s good for him, while Creelman will be officially approached by Lionel’s law enforcement connections, warning him to back off.
That’s if her new status as a married woman doesn’t deter him first. Law enforcement assistance comes as an off-book part of the Family Protection Policy.
If he doesn’t back up, the policy says we move to level two—manned surveillance.
“What would you say if your sister was being stalked by Vincent Creelman?”
“Fuck you,” Ford says. His younger sister who gives him headaches. I wish he had a girlfriend or wife I could use for more emphasis, but Ford is the definition of no attachments—even more than me.
I don’t say anything, just fold my arms.
Ford goes back to the pile of computer equipment on the floor and begins tossing stuff into the boxes.
“That a yes?”
“Of course it’s a yes.”
“You still think it’s overkill?”
“No, actually. I don’t. I’m just sick to death of Lionel breathing down my neck, and if he finds out about this—”
“I know you’re risking your job.”
“No. I don’t give a shit about this job, not anymore. I just don’t want Lionel to have a reason to fire me, not when I’ve given my life to this company for way too long.”
He tosses a box onto the desk. We’ve given up our lives for this job. Not because we’re suckers, but because we believed in what Lionel was doing. If I wasn’t so wrapped up in Sasha, I’d share his feelings exactly.
I do—I just have other things going on.
Guilt slides over me as I get back to helping him pack up.
“So what’s the plan long term? You coming to Texas?”
“I’m asking Lionel for desk work for a bit.”
“Great, so I’m going to get paired up with Meechum. Or Yang.”
Two great guys, but neither of us like being with other people. We both prefer working alone if we’re not on a job together. Hell, we barely tolerate each other on some of those longer jobs.
“Only for as long as it takes for me to know Sasha’s safe,” I say. “Creelman has to get tired of chasing an invisible woman at some point.”
Ford doesn’t say anything, which I know means we’re both thinking the same thing. The only way Creelman’s going to back off is if he finds another obsession, which means another woman in danger.
“Listen, I don’t feel good about it either,” I say.
“But we can’t save the whole fucking world, can we?” Ford says. It’s not the first time we’ve had this discussion. It’s depressing as fuck when we do.
He grabs another flat document box and folds it into shape. “Well, hopefully a tap on Macklin will prove more useful than Creelman. Except for a couple of key moments, he’s never given us much info anyway.”
“Guy keeps his cards close to his chest.”
Ford smirks. “Sounds like someone else I know.”
I glower at him as I dump a load of files into the box in front of me.
He’s right, though. Creelman and I have some things in common.
We don’t talk when we don’t need to, we’re loyal to our organizations to a fucking fault, and we both have eyes only for Sasha Macklin.
There’s one big difference, though: Creelman’s a fucking psychopath.
And he’s never laying another finger on Sasha. I’ll die making sure of that.
When we’re finished, Ford calls transport to come get all our materials, and we walk out onto the street together.
“You heading to Houston soon?” I ask as I get on my bike.
“Job doesn’t start for a bit.”
“So what? Bahamas?”
Ford gives me the side-eye. Then he says, “Nah. Maybe head out into the woods for a bit. Catch some bass.”
“I keep telling you we’ve got the best fishing on the Quince.”
“I’m not staying at your love nest.”
“No need. I’ve got a neighbor you might like with an extra room. Could be you in the future.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. A confirmed bachelor.”
Ford would either kick my ass if he sees I’ve compared him to Chester or be honored I’ve called him a future mountain man.
“I’m good,” Ford says. “There’s a fishing lodge up in Greenville I’ve got my eye on.”
A light rain starts to prick at us. It’s September next week, and already, it feels like fall. The sense of time passing only makes me want to get back to Sasha as fast as I can. I don’t know how long I have with her, and I want to soak up every second.
I unsnap my helmet, ready to pull it on.
“You heading back now?” Ford asks.
I shake my head. “Got an errand to run first.”
Ford nods grimly. He knows what it is. “I’ll get eyes on Macklin tomorrow.”
I don’t miss the concern in his expression as he looks out into the street. But there’s no arguing with him on this point anymore.
“I appreciate it,” I tell him as I pull on my helmet. “Oh, and Ford?” I ask, flipping my visor up. “Will you check out Sasha’s apartment? I’d do it myself, but—”
“You don’t need to explain. I’ll take care of it.”
Ford knows I don’t need to be connected to Sasha in any way.
It looks almost like he’s going to say something important, then decides against it. Instead, he says, “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
Me, too, buddy.
Me fucking too.
When I text Lionel, he says he’s on his way to Queens and he’ll send me a pin to let me know exactly where to meet him. He loves sending fucking pins. My dad’s the same way. He sends pins when he’s at the grocery store.
I don’t like the way this makes me think of Lionel in a fatherly capacity again, though, so I remind myself about his part in putting Sasha at risk just to get my head back into the right place.
I hear the telltale ding of Lionel’s pin dropping in my GPS.
McCrae & Associates uses a military-type program that lets me do everything between apps by voice, and I tell my phone to take me there through the speaker in my helmet.
It’s not until I take the highway exit that I realize where he’s taking me.
Fucking asshole.
Fifteen minutes later, as I enter the grounds, I say it out loud.
Laura’s plot is at the top of the cemetery, down by the long stone fence running along the western slope. It’s on a small rise, and if you’re facing her marker, you get a good view of downtown Manhattan.
Lionel’s standing a few feet back, his hands clasped behind him. He’s still a big man, nearly as tall as me, but he looks older than I’ve ever seen him. His back is slightly hunched, and his hair is thin in the dull gray light of late afternoon.
I know he heard me come up—the Bonneville’s not quiet—but he doesn’t turn.
Unlike the last time I was here, when we put Laura in the ground four years ago, the pain in my chest isn’t just for me and what I lost. It’s not even that blame that still hovers in the background.
It’s for Lionel.