30. Silas
THIRTY
SILAS
The clock on the dashboard of Vaughn’s car ticks toward ten.
After I left my statement with Dale this morning, I went back to Vaughn’s house to pack my suitcase.
The house was too quiet without him. I moved through it quickly, not letting myself look at things too long. The wooden bear is no longer on the windowsill. Both it and the candle are wrapped between my clothes.
Dale said I shouldn’t leave the state until the investigation is over—or at least until the FBI declares I’m of no interest to them. I can’t stay at Vaughn’s, so I booked a room at the Cozy Corner B and B, which is on the edge of town but on the other side from Vaughn’s farm.
Then I dropped by the Sunrise Bakery to get a selection of Rowan’s favorite pastries and ended up leaving with a considerable amount that Maria refused to let me pay for. I’m not even sure Rowan will be allowed to eat them—or at least not this many.
My suitcase is in the trunk, and now I’m sitting in the parking lot, watching the clock.
9:58.
9:59.
My phone rings at exactly ten.
I answer and wait. The sound of a conference call is distinctive.
“I want it noted,” Zuza says, “that I was awake and ready for this call despite the time zone, and I am not impressed.”
“You don’t need beauty sleep,” Draven says.
Zuza laughs, and the fact that Draven produced it tells me they’ve spoken before this call.
“Silas,” Draven says.
His voice is what it always is, measured and neutral. Everything I tried so hard to be but never managed. How could I be when my brain stores so much information that isn’t measured or neutral?
“Draven,” I say.
“I owe you an apology,” he says. “For the mess we’re in.”
Draven has never apologized to me. He’s never had cause to apologize.
“After two weeks of no contact from you,” he says, “I was getting pressure from the client to eliminate the target. Significant pressure. I made a decision to send another operative.”
“His name,” I say, and I hear the edge in my own voice, “is Vaughn Reeves. He’s a scientist. He’s been developing soil regeneration technology that could help millions of farmers.
He’s a good man, and he’s an innocent man, and I’d like to know at what point the agency decided we were in the business of killing innocent people. ”
“Silas,” Draven says. “I need you to listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“The client wasn’t the only one applying pressure.
There was someone within the agency that was pushing it through too,” he says.
“It made me look more carefully at the brief. Within twenty-four hours of sending the second operative, I found enough to understand that something was wrong with the original intelligence. The evidence against Vaughn that was presented to justify the contract was fabricated.”
This is proof this job has been a clusterfuck from the beginning.
“I tried to recall the operative,” he says. “He was unresponsive, so I dug a little deeper and found out that someone else paid him separately.”
“He was working for two clients.”
“Yes,” Draven says. “That’s what it appears.”
“Who was the client?” I ask, even though I know.
“Vertex Holdings,” Draven says.
“Fuck,” I say. “Jordan was right.”
“Jordan?” Draven asks.
“Someone who helped Vaughn with the investigation. What’s the current status?”
“Vertex Holdings is under active FBI investigation,” Draven says.
“The scope of what they’ve been doing, not just with this contract, but across multiple states and multiple targets, is significant.
They falsified intelligence about Vaughn Reeves specifically.
They presented documentation suggesting his research was designed to deliberately damage agricultural soil in order to create dependency on expensive remediation contracts.
The intention being to make him appear to be a threat rather than a benefit. ”
“That’s complete bullshit.”
“I know that now,” Draven says. “The fabrication was sophisticated enough to pass initial vetting. It shouldn’t have been.
That’s a failure on our part, and I’m taking steps to address it.
The contact within the agency who accepted the contract without proper independent verification is being dealt with internally. ”
“The threat to Vaughn Reeves, is it neutralized?”
“Completely,” Draven says. “The operative is in custody. Vertex Holdings’ senior leadership is under federal investigation.
The contract is dissolved. The agency’s involvement is concluded.
” He clears his throat. “I want to commend you both for following your instincts. The outcome could have been significantly worse.”
“It was significantly worse,” I say. “Rowan Reeves is in a hospital bed.”
“Yes,” Draven says. “It was. I’m aware of that.”
“Draven,” Zuza says. “Are we keeping our jobs or not?”
“You’re not being fired, Zuza,” he says.
“Excellent,” she says. “I’ve grown attached to the income.”
“And Silas,” Draven continues, “as of this call, you are a free agent. The retirement stands as you requested. Your service record is exceptional. What you did in Warsaw and in the weeks following was the right call. I should have made it easier for you to make it.”
“Yes,” I say. “You should have.”
“I hope,” Draven says, “that you won’t be an agent in any capacity going forward. Not even as a traffic warden.”
I look at the bag of pastries on the passenger seat. “That’s not my intention.”
“Good,” Draven says. “Zuza, I’ll be in touch.”
We end the call, and I sit in the car for a moment.
Just long enough for the information to wash over me.
I’m retired.
Actually, officially, finally retired. Not one more job retired.
Not we’ll discuss terms retired. Done. Free.
The agency has no claim on me, the contract is dissolved, Vaughn is safe, and I have a healthy bank account.
I also have a suitcase in the back of this car and absolutely no idea what comes next.
Not knowing feels different from what I expected.
I expected relief, and I have relief. But underneath it, there’s something else. I’ve been driven by a single purpose for ten years, so now the absence of it feels simultaneously like freedom and vertigo.
I pick up Rowan’s bag and get out of the car.
The guard outside Rowan’s room is young and alert and takes his job seriously, which I appreciate for the sake of Rowan’s safety.
“Name?”
“Silas Cross.”
He checks his phone. Then he steps aside.
I push open the door.
Rowan is on his phone, his good hand holding it above his face, his shoulder immobilized. When he hears the door, he looks up, and his expression changes immediately.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say.
I cross the room, lean down, and hug him carefully. He puts his good arm around me and holds on. I close my eyes for a moment. We were so close to never being able to do this again.
“You scared me to death,” I say against his shoulder.
“Sorry,” he says.
I pull back, then sit in the chair beside his bed and put the bag on the side table.
“A gift from Maria.”
“You’re my favorite person,” he says. “Also, one day I’m going to marry the hell out of that woman.”
“You can try.”
He opens the bag, which takes longer than usual and which he refuses help with, and eats two pastries. I try not to think of his surgeon’s reaction to it.
Then he gives me an expression that means the preamble is over.
“Dad said you’re keeping secrets,” he says. “He said there are things you need to tell me yourself. So. Tell me.”
I look down at my hands and then at him.
“What I’m about to tell you,” I say, “is confidential. I mean that seriously. You may be obliged to do something about it, but I’m going to ask you not to.”
Rowan watches me steadily. “Okay.”
I take a breath.
And then I tell him. I tell him all of it.
He listens completely, without interrupting.
When I finish, the room is quiet, Rowan is staring at the ceiling.
Then he drops his gaze to me.
“You’re a hit man.”
“I was a hit man.”
He blows out a breath.
“Silas.”
“I know.”
“You’re a hit man.” Maybe he thinks saying it twice will help it land differently.
“Was.”
“I’m really proud of you.”
I didn’t think I could be caught off guard, but the praise floors me.
“I mean—not the killing people part,” he says quickly.
“Obviously not that part. But the reason you did it. The people you went after. The fact that you spent ten years doing something that needed to be done and that no one else was going to do.” His eyes are soft.
“And the fact you had to keep it a secret even from me. That must have been lonely.”
That also takes me by surprise. “It was at times. I have a friend in the organization. Zuza. She’s really cool. I think you’d like her.”
“She pretty?”
“Stunning. She’d also eat you alive and spit your bones out without flinching.”
“When can I meet her?”
“Never.”
He laughs but has to stop because of his wound.
“Everything I said about you being an old man—all the teasing—I take it back. You’re a fucking badass.”
“I’m retired,” I say. “As of about twenty minutes ago. Official.”
“I take back my take back. Now you’re a retired old man,” he says.
Then we’re both laughing, and the relief after interminable hours of stress has tears building behind my eyelids. Vaughn may never want to see me again, but Rowan and I are okay. It’s not a perfect ending, but it’s as good as it gets. My life has never been perfect anyway.
Well, maybe apart from the last four weeks. That was pretty perfect.
“What are you going to do now?” he asks.
“I’m going back to Atlanta as soon as I’m allowed to leave the state.”
“Are you sure?” he says.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to say goodbye to my dad?”
I look out the window. “I don’t think he wants to see me.”
“Give him some time,” he says.
“Yeah.”
I stand up, then squeeze Rowan’s good shoulder gently. He puts his hand over mine.
“Silas,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t disappear. Whatever happens with Dad, don’t disappear on me.”
“I won’t,” I say. “I promise.”
I pick up my jacket and walk out the door.