“The crossbearer carries the weight!” Smiling sweetly, he points his gun at his own head. “Will you catch my body when I fall?”
“Nico, don’t—”
“Will you catch me when I fall, fall, fall from grace… the crossbearer to bear witness…?” He lowers his gun, then raises it up again, pressing it against his temple. I hear Lisbeth moaning.
“God sent you to save her too, didn’t He?” He stares at me, transfixed, the gun still at his head. “Save me as well, my angel.”
Behind us, the train whistle howls, so close it’s almost deafening. Nico presses his lips together, trying to look like he’s not cringing. But I can see his jaw tightening. For me, it’s noisy. For him, it’s overwhelming. Wild-eyed, he points the gun back at me to keep me from running.
I don’t care. “I’m innocent,” I tell him as I step toward him. He knows it’s a warning.
“Nobody’s innocent, Dad.”
Dad?
“Lord have mercy on my son,” he continues, his gun moving from my chest, to my head, back to my chest. He’s crying again. He’s in agony. “You understand, Dad, right?” he begs. “I had to do it. They told me… Mom said to follow the Book! Please tell me you understand!”
“Y-Yes,” I say as I put a hand on his shoulder. “Of course, I understand. Son.”
Nico laughs out loud, the tears still streaming down his cheeks. “Thank you,” he says, barely able to contain himself as he clutches his rosary. “I knew… I knew you’d be my angel.”
Turning left, I glance through an opening in the shrub. The Roman’s aiming his gun down at Lisbeth.
“Nico, move!” I say as I shove my way past him. All I need to do is—
Blam!
I jump back as The Roman’s gun explodes. Down the path, a tiny supernova of light breaks the darkness like a burst firefly, then disappears.
I run as fast as I can.
Lisbeth’s already screaming.
108
You don’t believe me, do you?” Boyle asked Rogo as the white van skidded out of the parking lot and swerved onto Griffin Road.
“Does it matter what I think?” Rogo replied, gripping the console between their bucket seats and staring out the front window. “C’mon, make this light.”
The van blew through the 25th Avenue intersection as Rogo checked his side mirror to see if anyone was following. So far, all clear.
“You still need to hear it, Rogo. If something happens t— Someone needs to know what they did.”
“And you couldn’t just write a letter to the editor like everyone else?” When Boyle didn’t respond, Rogo shook his head and again glanced in the side mirror. The Marshals’ white building was barely a dot in the horizon. “So all this time, you were in Witness Protection?”
“I told you, version 2.0. Witness Fortification,” Boyle clarified. “Not that they’d ever acknowledge its existence. But once I told Manning what was happening — usually, it takes the President one phone call to make something happen. It took Manning three separate calls to get me inside.”
“And they do this a lot? I mean, c’mon, making families think their loved ones are dead?”
“How do you think the government prosecutes their terrorism cases against these suicidal maniacs? You think some of those witnesses would’ve talked if the Justice Department couldn’t absolutely guarantee their safety? There are animals in the world, Rogo. If The Three, The Four, whatever they call themselves — if they thought I was alive and hiding, they’d slit my wife and kids’ throats, then go out for a beer.”
“But to lie to people like that…”
“I didn’t choose this life. The Three chose me. And once that happened, once they tossed me aside for the First Lady, this was the only way to keep my wife safe, and my kid — both kids — alive.”
“You still could’ve—”
“Could’ve what? Taken the family into hiding with me? Put everyone at risk and hoped for the best? The only absolutely unassailable hiding spot is the one where no one knows you’re hiding. Besides, The Three have single-handedly compromised our top law enforcement agencies, picked apart our databases for their private use, and collected thousands of dollars in Title 50 money for confidential tips about terror attacks — all without us ever knowing who the hell they were.”
“Until two days ago when they panicked and went after Wes.”
“They didn’t panic,” Boyle said as he slowly pressed the brakes. Two blocks in front of them, the three lanes of Griffin Road narrowed into one. Something was definitely blocking the road. “Is that construction?” Boyle asked, craning his neck and squinting through the dark.
“I think it’s an accident.”
“You sure?”
“Isn’t that an ambulance?
Boyle nodded as the cars came into view — an ambulance, a tow truck, and a silver car turned sideways from the collision. Boyle glanced to his left, already eyeing the side streets.
“Something wrong?” Rogo asked.
“Just being cautious.” Refusing to lose his thought, he added, “Anyhow, The Three didn’t panic. They got greedy and fat — thanks mostly to The Roman.”
“So what the First Lady told Wes was true,” Rogo said. “That they started with all these small tips — VX gas in Syria, training camps in Sudan — and then used that to build credibility until they could find the monster threats and ask for the multimillion-dollar let’s-all-retire paydays.”
“No, no, no. Don’t you see?” Boyle asked, quickly pulling out of the single-file line of traffic and rechecking what was causing the accident. But all was normal. Ambulance. Tow truck. Wrecked silver car. Flipping open the console between them, Boyle checked on a small box the size of a videotape, then closed it just as fast. He tried to hide it with his elbow, but Rogo saw the word Hornady in bright red letters on the box’s side. Growing up in Alabama, he knew the logo from his dad’s hunting trips. Hornady bullets. “Once they established The Roman as a solid informant, they didn’t even need the big threat. Why do you think people are so worried about agencies working together? The Roman would bring his info into the Service, then Micah and O’Shea would serve it again from their outposts in the FBI and CIA. Now, each one’s confirmed the other. That’s how informants get verified: You check it with someone else. And once all three agencies agree, well, fiction becomes fact. It’s like that bombing threat on the New York City subways a few years back — not a single grain of truth behind it, but the informant still got paid. Meanwhile, is this the only way to get to I-95?”
Rogo nodded and cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t get it — they made it all up?”
“Not in the beginning. But once they built that reputation for The Roman, they could sprinkle bad tips in with the good and earn a little more cash. And with the big stuff — you think six-million-dollar tips just jump in your lap?”
“But to make something that big up—”
“It’s like making the Statue of Liberty disappear — it’s the kind of magic trick you pull off once, then disappear until the dust settles. So when their first attempt…”
“Blackbird.”
“… when Blackbird was set up, they had it perfect: hold a fake NSA computer hostage and reel in the cash. It was big enough to get serious money, but unlike promising that a building was about to blow up, there was no penalty or suspicion if the White House decided not to pay. Then when Blackbird failed and we didn’t pay, they were smart enough to realize they needed an inside track at the White House just to make sure the next request went through.”