"It is now at least until the Seattle PD decides what they want to do with you." His voice softened. "I'm not your enemy, McCabe, but there are people who would like to be. Don't give them reasons." He checked his watch twice during our five-minute conversation. Not nerves. Timing.
I climbed into the back of a black SUV, and it pulled away from the station with a low growl. It had windows so deeply tinted that the outside world dissolved into a smeared suggestion of heat and motion. I sat stiffly in the backseat, hands pressed to my knees, trying not to think about the knife or fire.
At the first intersection, the vehicle slowed. A crowd had gathered just beyond the perimeter of the station, penned back by a loose chain of uniformed officers.
A few held phones high above their heads, angling for a shot. Others simply stared, their faces blank with that unnerving stillness people get when they're not sure if they're watching an unfolding tragedy or only its aftermath.
A girl in a yellow and orange sundress stood near the front of the barricade. She held her phone perfectly still, camera aimed at the car with calm precision. She didn't glance at the screen or check the frame. She merely kept watching as we passed.
The car rolled forward.
A white scooter zipped alongside us for a beat too long. The driver wore a GoPro on his helmet and leaned in, clearly trying to get a view through the glass.
I turned my head enough to meet his angle. He grinned and peeled off, disappearing into the flow of afternoon traffic like he'd gotten what he came for.
The driver of the SUV never spoke. He wore mirrored aviators and a gray collared shirt with no insignia. His hands never left positions ten and two.
At a red light, I saw myself in a mirrored shop window—a dark silhouette in the back of a black car, barely recognizable. I was merely another foreigner caught in something he couldn't explain.
I pressed the side of my head against the cool glass, watching paradise recede in the rearview. Twenty-four hours ago, I'd been walking on the beach with Alex, his laughter carrying across the sand. Now, authorities were whisking me away like a problem that needed solving.
When we reached the private terminal, the gate swung open without a word. The SUV pulled onto the tarmac where a sleek, white jet waited—engines humming low and ominous.
We stopped twenty feet from the boarding stairs. The driver exited and opened my door but still didn't speak. He only nodded toward the plane.
As I stepped out, a man on the edge of the tarmac lifted a camera. It wasn't a phone. It was a real camera, professional gear. His press access badge hung crooked around his neck.
"Officer McCabe! Did you kill Lars Reeves? Was it self-defense or did it get personal?"
Two airport security guards flanked him instantly, but not before the shutter snapped in rapid succession. I turned away, but the flash still caught me.
By the time I climbed the stairs to the jet, sweat slicked the back of my neck. It wasn't from the heat. It was from the sense that the story was no longer mine to tell.
Just before entering the plane, I glanced back one last time. The photographer was still there. Still snapping.
I didn't wave or flinch as I walked into the belly of a plane that would carry me home, but not back.
Not rescued—removed.
A flight attendant greeted me with a nod that contained no warmth. Her smile was professional as she guided me into a cabin that smelled of fresh leather and money. Recessed lighting cast everything in amber, making the polished wood surfaces gleam like honey.
"Anything to drink, sir?" She gestured to a bar heavy with crystal decanters.
I shook my head. "Water."
Pain pulsed through my forearm where the blade had sliced. The resort doctor's bandage was already fraying at the edges. The stitches pulled when I flexed my fingers.
As the engines roared to life, their vibrations traveled through my bones. I closed my eyes while we taxied down the runway.
On the backs of my eyelids, I saw the masked man dragging the guard. Next, I felt the impact of his fist against my jaw.
The memory rewound itself and played through again. Could I have stopped him from falling? There had been a fraction of a second—his hand outstretched while my fingers reached out.
I'd moved to grab him, but not fast enough. Had I hesitated? Had some part of me wanted him to fall?
The plane lifted off the ground, and my stomach lurched. I gripped the armrest until my knuckles blanched white.
Tell her the deal's off.
