Chapter 25
Callan
The drive is in my pocket.
Bennett’s body is face down in the dirt track, and whoever put a bullet in the back of his skull is somewhere in that tree line with a clear line of sight to the farmhouse doorway where Annabelle was standing thirty seconds ago.
I move.
Not towards the tree line. Not yet. I cut back behind the sedan, keeping the vehicle between me and the shot’s trajectory, and I work out the angle in my head. The bullet came from the north-east. Elevated. Someone positioned themselves quickly while Bennett was talking to Annabelle.
Someone knew he was coming here and followed him.
I press my back against the car and scan the tree line. Nothing moves. No second shot. They either came for Bennett and got him after they got Jack, and we aren’t the target at all, or they’re waiting.
Waiting is the one thing I genuinely cannot stand.
The logical part of my brain says Bennett was the target. He knew things. He walked into an open field and stood still while someone lined up the shot. Professional. Clean. One round. No follow-up. The second shot was Aidan.
The other part of my brain says Annabelle is in that farmhouse with one locked door and Maeve, and I don’t like that equation at all.
I check my angles again. The sedan is parked at a slight angle on the track, which gives me cover to the north-east but none to the south.
If the shooter is still here, I’m exposed the moment I move right.
I file that away and decide the movement is worth the risk.
Staying still is only useful when you don’t know where the threat is. I know where the threat was.
I move.
I break left around the rear of the sedan at a low sprint, cutting across the track and into the long grass on the south side before the position in that tree line can adjust. No shot follows me. I drop into the grass and go still, listening.
Wind. Flies. The creak of a door swaying somewhere near the barns.
Then Ethan’s voice, low and controlled, somewhere to my right. “Callan.”
“North-east,” I say, barely above a breath. “Elevated. Single shooter, one round. I don’t think they’re still there.”
“Why?”
“Because Annabelle was standing in that doorway for three minutes and they didn’t take her.”
A pause. Ethan processes that the same way I did. “Bennett was the target.”
“Was always the target.”
“You heard what Bennett said. Maeve got the wrong one. Briggs knew he was here.”
That lands between us like a stone dropping into still water. If Briggs knew Bennett was coming to this farmhouse, it means he knows he is about to be exposed.
That makes him ten times more dangerous.
“We need to move.”
“How do we get Annabelle out of here without cover?”
Ethan breathes through his nose. “We take Bennett’s car.”
“The keys are in the ignition,” I say. “I saw them when I checked the glove box.”
Ethan is quiet for a second. “He was making sure he had a quick getaway.”
I lift my head just enough to check the tree line again.
Still nothing. The grass at the edge of the field moves with the wind, not with a body.
My read stands. The shooter came for Bennett, made the shot, and pulled back.
They didn’t linger because lingering leaves evidence, and these are careful people.
“Get to the farmhouse. Get Annabelle and Maeve to the car.”
I rise from the grass and move parallel to the track, staying wide of Bennett’s body. I don’t look at him. Looking at him right now is a waste of the seconds I need to reach the farmhouse.
I get to the door in under twenty seconds. It lists on one hinge, half open, half useless. I push through it and find Annabelle in the corner with her knees pulled up and her hands over her ears, eyes shut, and Maeve crouched at the window with her weapon raised.
“Clear,” I say.
Maeve turns first. Her face is tight but controlled. Annabelle’s eyes open, and the relief that moves through them when she sees me is so immediate and unguarded.
Love.
Is this what Ethan and Aidan feel?
It’s hardly the time to unpack it now.
“Can you stand?” I ask her.
“I’m fine.” She’s already pushing to her feet before I reach her. Her legs are steady. Her hands are not.
I take hold of her wrist, not her hand, because her hand will shake and I need her to move, not feel. “We’re going to Bennett’s car to get you out of here. Pretty sure the shooter was here for Bennett, so chances are, we’re alone.”
“Keys,” she croaks, looking at his dead body.
“He left them in the ignition.”
“Oh. Where are Ethan and Aidan?”
“Coming.”
Maeve is already moving past us, weapon up, scanning the doorway before stepping out.
I move Annabelle with me, keeping her close, my body between her and the open ground as we cross the threshold. The sun is brutal after the gloom of the farmhouse.
Bennett’s blood is already dark in the dirt, spreading in a slow, patient circle that the dry ground is swallowing.
Annabelle doesn’t look at him. She keeps her eyes forward and her breathing deliberate, and I note that with something that isn’t quite pride but sits in the same neighbourhood.
We reach the sedan. I open the rear door and put her inside, then take the front passenger seat. Maeve is already at the driver’s side. She doesn’t ask if she’s driving. She just gets in and wraps her hand around the keys in the ignition without turning them yet.
Smart. Engine noise covers other sounds. We wait.
Forty seconds later, Ethan and Aidan appear from the right, moving fast and low. They pull the rear door open and get in beside Annabelle without a word.
Nobody speaks.
Maeve turns the key. The engine catches, and she reverses off the track in a tight arc, wheels biting into dry grass before she straightens onto the lane and drives.
Not fast. Fast draws attention. She drives like someone who knows the difference between urgency and panic, and right now I could almost respect her for it.
Annabelle is pressed between Ethan and Aidan in the back. Her hands are in her lap. Still shaking. She is staring at the window but not at the passing hedgerows. She is somewhere else entirely.
I turn back to the road.
“The drive,” Ethan says.
“Still in my pocket.”
“If Bennett was telling the truth—”
“He’s dead either way,” Aidan cuts in. “Truth or lie, it doesn’t change what’s on it.”
“It changes how we use it,” Ethan says. “Get me to my Porsche. I’ll drive Annabelle back from there. We need to ditch this car.”
Maeve doesn’t acknowledge Ethan’s instruction. She just drives, which I take as agreement.
The lane spits us back out onto a road wide enough for two cars, and she turns left without indicating.
The drive takes three minutes. She pulls into the layby where they left their cars and cuts the engine. Nobody moves immediately. The silence in the car has weight and edges. I can hear Annabelle breathing in the back.
Then Ethan opens his door, and that’s the signal for the rest of us.
I get out, and with Annabelle’s hand tight in mine, walk to Ethan’s car without waiting for directions. Ethan takes the keys from his pocket and unlocks it. I help Annabelle in.
“We’ll see you back at the penthouse.”
Ethan nods and climbs in.
I step back and watch Maeve, already heading off.
“And then there were two,” I say.
“You up for some brotherly bonding?” Aidan asks, setting off in the direction we left his car.
“What did you have in mind?”
“I’m fucking done with this bullshit. We are calling the real Briggs out.”
“That’s bold.”
“It’s smart. This ends now, one fucking way or another.”
“Do it,” I say, knowing Ethan will throw a fit the size of Europe, but it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.