But what about Royce? Did he partake? Is he saying he was always just an innocent bystander?
Their conversation eventually shifts to menial things, and then nothing at all, and after four hours in the chair, Royce is passing over a wad of cash. “I’ll wanna come in next week to finish this piece up here,” he says, tapping the top of his shoulder. “Same time, same day?”
“Sounds good.”
Ivy’s uncle sits at his desk and stares at the door for a while, long after the guy has left. Processing everything Royce just admitted to, I’m sure. Clicking a key on the keyboard, he waits for his computer monitor to light up. Then he types something into Google. I can’t see what it is, but when a website comes up that I know like the back of my hand—with a black background and a picture of founder and CEO John Bentley on the left-hand side—I know that the wheels have begun to churn in Ned’s head.
He gets up to pull the metal screen across the entryway, locks the front door, and disappears down the hall, to the back where there is no surveillance.
And then the tape cuts out.
And I’m left staring at my reflection in the monitor.
Royce may have deserved to be punished for his part in all this, but he didn’t deserve a bullet to his head to shut him up.
And Ned . . . well, he was a fucking fool to get involved, but he definitely didn’t deserve to be killed over this either.
But Bentley was telling the truth about one thing: If this confession—from a Medal of Honor recipient, no less—gets into the hands of the American public, Alliance is finished.
The bigger question is: Do Bentley and Alliance deserve that end? Is this just a case of a contractor or two going rogue? How often is shit like this happening over there? How many of these guys, with God complexes, are doing inexcusable things to innocent human beings?
I’m about to hand over the only evidence that might ever spark an investigation into those questions.
Dammit.
I shouldn’t have watched the tape. I can’t simply unsee that, unknow that.
And yet Bentley’s paying me to do a job.
I need to finish it.
The sun is just cresting over the horizon when Bentley meets me at the front door of his Napa villa. I wordlessly hand the tape to him and his shoulders sag with relief, while mine hum with tension.
“Where did you find it?”
“Her tattoo kit, which she brings everywhere. Her uncle taped it to the inside, under the foam.” So obvious.
He snorts, shaking his head. “And she had no idea?”
“None.”
He heaves a sigh. “As always, you’re the most proficient man I know at getting the job done.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed you felt that way as of late.” I don’t hide the sarcasm.
He hangs his head and offers me a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry about that. It was a moment of panic, I suppose. I just finally squashed that civilian shooting issue, so having this to worry about was more than even I could handle.”
Because this will destroy everything you’ve worked hard to build .
“I’ll have the money wired to your offshore account in the next hour. You can go back to your Greek haven, and we can get back to regularly scheduled programming.” He turns to head back inside.
“What about Scalero?”
Bentley stops. “What about him?”
“Is he going to cause any more issues?”
Bentley turns slowly, his face expressionless, impossible to read. “What issues?”
“He made contact yesterday in a restroom.” I hold up his wallet as evidence. “Made some comments about her being a loose end that he needed to tie up.” I watch Bentley closely, looking for a sign that tells me he already knew about this.
He holds my gaze. “He had strict instructions not to go near you or the girl.”
“And yet he broke them.”
“I’ll deal with him.”
“Like you dealt with him before?” If Royce’s confessions to what he saw are true and Bentley knew about it, that means he brought me in here to help bury evidence that would put him and his company in the wrong, and rightfully so. Nothing about what I heard last night is what we stand for, why I do what I do. None of it is for the greater good of our country.
It’s for the greater good of Bentley’s pockets.
I’m struggling to believe that this could be true. That’s not the man I went to war with. That’s not the man whose life I fought to save.
That’s not the man I’ve trusted all these years, when I’ve trusted no one else.
“If he comes near Ivy again, I’ll assume it’s to hurt her.” I give him a knowing look. I shouldn’t have to spell out what’ll happen. I’ve never killed an American soldier before, but the more I learn about Mario Scalero and his partner in crime, the more I believe they need to be put down. And, for once, I don’t feel the need to be ordered to make that happen.
Bentley raises an eyebrow. “Ivy?”
“She’s not a threat.”
“She’s a witness.”
“Who didn’t witness enough to be a threat to them.”
He presses his lips together and offers me a curt nod. “As long as it stays that way . . .” He holds out his hand. “Peace offering?”
I toss the wallet into it. I don’t need it anymore. I’ve already memorized Scalero’s driver’s license info. I know exactly where he lives.
“How soon will you be on a plane?”
“Not sure yet.” I pause, wondering if he’s going to keep tabs on me. Wondering why he cares. “I may stay for a while. Visit my parents.” The thought flickered briefly through my mind, but I haven’t committed to the idea.
Sympathy passes over Bentley’s face, but I see the distrust lurking there. He doesn’t believe me. “Good, Sebastian. I think that’s a great idea. You need to hold on to the people who are important, who keep you grounded. Let me know what you decide. And don’t worry about Scalero. I’m sending them overseas again soon, on another contract that’s about to come in, so they won’t even be around to cause any issues for you, or for her. Now get some sleep; you look like shit. You know what to do.”
Drop my piece into the bay and leave the car in a long-term parking lot for pickup. Yeah. I know the drill.
Just like that, my official purpose for being in San Francisco is over. I’m free to slip back into anonymity, to find a little slice of peaceful paradise and detach myself from human connection. To live simply and without feeling.
Normally, I rush to get the earliest flight out.
But for the first time, I don’t feel the same urge to run.
TWENTY-FIVE
IVY
“How does it feel this morning?”
Dakota struts into the greenhouse in a gauzy tank top and turns her shoulder toward me, the fresh ink boldly displayed on her arm. “Perfect, as expected from my talented friend.”
“Everyone’s my friend when they want some ink,” I mutter. I have tattooed almost every last one of my closest friends, and if I haven’t inked them, then I’ve designed their work. Jesse Welles was the first person to ever take my design and actually put it on his body, back in my sophomore year of high school. I inked Dakota’s design on Alex’s shoulder. I’ve done six of Dakota’s seven tattoos, which she designed herself, and I embellished because it’s a compulsion. I even did Amber’s Irish fling’s tattoo—for free—just to keep him occupied one night last year, while I was in Dublin. The only good friend who won’t let me near her skin is Amber.
“So you said it was four hundred an hour?”