Killian
I might’ve looked casual—elbowhooked over the back of the chair, fingers tapping my coffee cup—but I was keyed up beneath the surface as Caleb presented his findings. I couldn’t blame it on the nightly visits from Jamie or the constant sex my body couldn’t believe it was having. I was trying to concentrate on the map of people on the wall in the Cave, but the espresso beside me had gone cold fifteen minutes ago, untouched as I stared at photos and forced myself not to think about Jamie. Across the room, Caleb stood and paced in front of the big screen, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to signal he was past polite.
“In summary, I’m still unpicking threads from the access codes Robbie recalled,” he said, pointer flicking from one cluster of names to another, “andcorrelating it with what Enzo, Rio, and Jamie pulled from John Mitchell’s system. Layers of garbage routing, but there are consistencies. All linked to one word.Lyric. And Lassiter? His name keeps orbiting the edges enough that it trips my searches.”
Sonya sat silently nearby, laptop open on her knees, eyes narrowed and tracking fast. I didn’t need to prompt her. If she had something, she’d say it. Caleb, on the other hand, always circled his point like a hawk.
“And?” I said, voice clipped.
Caleb clicked the remote. The screen changed to a timeline with financial trails, maps, and key org names.
“We know that Edward Lassiter’s a walking press release on paper. Weekly church, spotless home life. Mortgage-free. Tax-sheltered. No personal debt. Every public move paints him as a golden boy for federal justice. Potential political moves. He has the Kennedy sheen, and at first glance, it seems real. But look here—” He zoomed in on a financial path winding through three shell companies, one of which was tied to acommunity resiliencenonprofit in Arizona. “They’re moving money through adoption assistance charities. International ones. Two of them were flagged when I searched on thatLyrictag.”
“Any movement of minors?” I asked.
“Three cases. At least. No names are in the open, but the pattern is there. Same donation amounts. Same transfer timing. The IRS flagged it, then backed off. Someone fixed it, and the name I got was from Robbie’s list, Emmerson Dran at the FBI. ThisLyrictag is tied to the movement of minors, using charity fronts and international adoption organizations as covers. Their operation is sophisticated, including shell companies, encrypted transactions, and digital laundering. It’s a maze.”
Before I could speak, my phone buzzed hard across the table, a call transferred from Sylvia.
“AUSA Lassiter for you, sir,” she murmured in introduction.
“Lassiter?” I said, and the room went deathly quiet. Caleb waved at me and flicked buttons so we could record on multiple devices. “Thank you, Sylvia, put him through.”
“We need to meet, McKendrick,” Lassiter said without preamble.
I glanced at the clock. “Can I ask?—”
“Scarlet Grapes,” he interrupted. “An hour.” Then the phone went dead.
All three of us were quiet.
“What the hell?” Caleb muttered.
Sonya raised an eyebrow. “Why is the man at the center of our takedown callingyou?”
We exchanged glances. “I have no idea.”
Caleb stalked over to me, fists on the table. “Unless he has proof you were at that fire? If he does, Killian, you can’t meet him. It’s dangerous.”
“You know I’m going,” I said, and Caleb muttered and started to pace again.
“Go into it with your eyes wide open,” Sonya said, “and get your game face on.”
Caleb passed something to me. A small, sleek Pride lapel pin. “Wear this,” he said.
“Mic?”
“Records locally, uploads remotely.”
I pinned it to the lapel of my charcoal suit, fingers pressing it flat. Then, I rolled my neck, slowly and deliberately, trying to bleed some of the tension out of my spine.
“I’ll be less than a minute away if you need me,” Caleb added as he slipped his jacket on, carefully over the sidearm now holstered at his hip, his training as an operator with Delta Force in every line of him.
“Okay, but do not approach unless shit is going south.”
“Got it.”
Lassiter sippedhis water as if he were tasting fine scotch, then set it down and steepled his fingers. The top button of his shirt was undone, his tie loose as if he’d pulled it free in the car and forgotten to fix it. He looked sharp, dangerous even—polished with just enough fraying around the edges to suggest the pressure was getting to him. Maybe he was nervous, or he knew where I’d been and was angry. It took everything I had not to think about what he’d done to Robbie, and the violent urge to leap across the table and shove a glass into his smug face clawed at my gut.
