Chris speaks up again. “Lincoln, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to talk to the cops.”
“Do it,” Lincoln agrees. “We have to board our flight anyway—but message me with any updates.”
Chris’s voice is low, his tone dangerous when he says: “We need to deal with this. We need to hit back hard.”
Lincoln assures him, “We will.”
True feels the pressure of Alex’s arm around her shoulders. He whispers, “Come on. We need to board.”
But she resists, unwilling to retreat in the face of Lincoln’s quiet anger because she knows what it portends. “You want to believe it’s Shaw,” she accuses.
He wants to get on that plane. He doesn’t want airport security brought in. So he speaks softly, his words confined to their circle. Even so, True feels his fury straining at the leash when he says, “Renata is dead. A fucking car bomb.”
True gulps air. Renata was a good person, a good friend, but she is not going to cry for her. Not here. Not now. “He didn’t want a war,” she insists. “He gave you a peace treaty. Out of respect for the past.”
“Maybe he changed his mind,” Alex says reasonably.
Miles jumps on this. “Yeah. If he worked out where we are and who we’ve talked to—he might not like it.”
“Al-Furat took credit,” True insists. “Not Shaw. Not Variant Forces.”
Beneath Lincoln’s scars, the muscles tighten, drawing seams across his face. His anger is contained, but when he speaks, acid edges each quiet word: “There is no such thing as Variant Forces. It’s not a company. It’s a syndicate. Independent operators. Maybe Shaw didn’t order it but it doesn’t matter. Al-Furat must have used his network, his connections. They don’t have the reach to do something like this on their own.”
True listens—and with each word she can feel Shaw’s existence, never quite real anyway, dissolving into thin air and everything he knows going with him.
“You want him to be responsible for it,” she says. “You want all the doubt scrubbed away. Make it easy for yourself when you finally corner him, when you finally have a chance to make up for your silence about what happened in Kunar. You don’t want to bring him home.”
“Jesus,” Alex whispers. “Come on. You’re upset. We’re all upset. Let’s just go.”
It’s good advice. They need to go. The last of the passengers has disappeared into the jetway. But she is not going to retreat. She wants to hear Lincoln confirm or deny what she has said, but he does neither, only watches her with a predator’s intensity. She feels it, the threat. It’s a chemical in her bloodstream, sending her heart racing, pushing a sickly heat through her pores, but still she doesn’t back off. She raises her chin instead, daring him, Deny it.
He says nothing.
Her lip curls as she guesses why. It’s Alex. Lincoln is furious with her but he is not going to risk a confrontation with Alex minutes before their flight is due to leave.
Miles tries to tip the balance. “Does it matter?” he asks with startling bitterness. “Even if that bastard had nothing to do with this, he’s done enough. He—”
The public address system interrupts: “Last call. All passengers booked on flight 422 bound for Los Angeles should now be aboard.”
Alex reacts first, a paramedic accustomed to de-escalating volatile situations. “That’s it,” he says. “You can fight this out when we get home, but right now we are getting on that plane. Let’s go.”
True cooperates this time as he steers her toward the gate. Lincoln and Miles fall in behind them. She gets out her tablet, calls up her electronic boarding pass on the screen, and lets the red laser light of the scanner read it. The rest of them brandish their phones. They walk quickly, boots thumping the jetway, until they catch up with a line of passengers still queued at the boarding door.
After that they shuffle forward, making slow progress as the aisle clears. True’s seat is on the aisle, close to the front. She hugs Alex, kisses him goodbye, while Miles slips past.
“We’ll get through this,” Alex murmurs.
“I know. Don’t worry.”
He moves on toward the rear of the huge aircraft, leaving her to face Lincoln’s cold gaze.
Lincoln says, “When we get back, we’re going to talk.” It’s not a friendly invitation.
She nods and takes her seat. He moves on.
For a few seconds True just sits there, hugging her pack, with her tablet still in hand. She is flushed, nervous. Afraid. She glances at the young woman in the seat next to her who is steadfastly ignoring her presence. Then she looks ahead, toward the boarding door. The aisle is clear. No one else has gotten on, but the door remains open. She leans into the aisle and looks toward the back. Several passengers are still on their feet, frantically sorting through their bags in the overhead compartments. Alex has already gone past them. She can’t see him. She can’t see Lincoln, or Miles.
A resolve comes over her. She doesn’t examine it too closely. The circumstances call for action. Quick action. Right action? No time to judge.
She gets up, shoulders her pack, and moves swiftly, quietly, toward the boarding door. What matters now, what matters most, is that she finds Shaw first, before Lincoln can get to him.
Two rows ahead, a short, round, aged woman shoves herself up and into the aisle. She tries to lift a bag into the overhead compartment. “Let me,” True says quietly. She lifts the bag, shoves it into place, then squeezes past the woman, ignoring her effusive thanks.
A flight attendant is the next obstacle in her path. “Miss, we need everyone—”
“The term is ‘ma’am’,” True says softly. “Not ‘Miss.’ I’m not a child. And I’m getting off the plane.”
“Yes, uh… ma’am, there’s no time. The boarding doors are about to close.”
“I know.” Her voice is still very soft. “That’s why I need to get off now.”
“Ma’am, you’ll delay the flight.”
“I don’t have checked baggage.”
She looks stunned. “But if you’re getting off, we need to scan your boarding pass.”
True holds up her tablet. “I’ll scan it at the end of the ramp.”
“Are you… flying alone?”
True doesn’t answer. She turns sideways and forces her way past the flight attendant. Steps through the door, strides up the jetway. Thinks, Jesus, Brighton, you are a fucking idiot.
But she learned to read Lincoln years ago and she knows: The worst kind of war is a civil war, brother against brother, and that’s what’s coming. It’s what she read in Lincoln’s glare.
And Miles is no ally. Does it matter? he asked, not caring what crime Shaw hangs for, so long as he hangs.
But the truth does matter. It matters to her. She needs to know, not only what happened in Burma, but why, and who’s responsible. Shaw Walker may be the only one left alive who can help her find out.
Behind her, the boarding door closes. Ahead, a security officer waits. She walks boldly up to him, shows him the tablet with her boarding pass displayed. “Emergency,” she says. “I need to fly to Morocco instead.”
The officer scans it as other officials converge. The tablet is handed back to her just as a text from Alex arrives: I’m next to an infant! God help me. I’ll come visit you when we’re in the air.
She thinks maybe she just threw her marriage away. She thinks maybe she’s going to vomit. This was a stupid, stupid, stupid thing to do. But none of her inner turmoil can be seen in her face or heard in her voice. She speaks softly, her tone calm, words measured as she persuades the officials that she needs to book a flight to Morocco. After some discussion, they decide to help her. After all, her credit is good and the sooner she’s gone from their jurisdiction, the better. The tide turns her way, and she gets a seat on a plane bound for Madrid, leaving in ninety minutes. Easier to get to Morocco from there.