What Lies Behind. J.T. Ellison

subtle. Then she thought about it, and changed her mind.

      “No. I’ll go. I have a key. It will save us some time. Where is the phone now?”

      “After the call, it drops off the grid.”

      “Destroyed?”

      “Most likely. Listen, Robbie, you have to operate under the assumption that whoever has, or had, that phone knows where you are. Knows who you are.”

      She patted the Glock under her arm, though he couldn’t see the action. “Worry not. I’m ready for anything. Just so you know, I put a call in to Atlantic. We’ll see if he knows anything about this.”

      “Good, that’s good. Do I want to know what HAZMAT is going to find?”

      “I haven’t the foggiest. But I’m going to go take a look in her files, see what I can dig up.”

      “Has Metro been in touch yet?”

      “I would assume they’re having a hard time finding me. I’ll go to them once we know what’s really happening.”

      A surge of red filled the air. Mop up your mess, little sister. Followed by a swirl of canary yellow. How dare you die on me!

      “Be careful, Robbie. Stay in touch.”

      “Always.”

      * * *

      Robin logged in to her secure home system and immediately went to her email account. Checked to see if there was anything from Amanda officially, saw nothing. She logged out, crossed platforms, went to Gmail and tried Amanda’s account. Prayed she hadn’t changed the password—not that it would matter; Robin could get in, it would simply take more time—but she was lucky. The password was the same, and moments later, her sister’s private correspondence was open.

      She ignored the inbox, went directly to the drafts folder. It was a common trick—give two people access to a single account, and communicate through the drafts without ever sending the email, thus ensuring absolute privacy.

      There was a single draft email in the file, dated three hours earlier. Addressed to Amanda, no subject. Five innocuous words.

      Did you get it in?

      There was nothing else in the folder.

      Robin quickly scanned the remaining emails, saw nothing outside the norm.

      Did she get what in? And to where?

      She itched to get her hands on Amanda’s laptop and her phone. There wasn’t much Robin could do accessing remotely on her own computer, but with Mandy’s, if she’d not erased the history each night as she should, Robin might be able to re-create the drafts folder, see what other messages might be in there. Better yet, her phone might have a cached version of the drafts inbox, which would hold the earlier messages.

      What could she have been trying to bring in? The vaccines, yes, Robin knew about that project. Was there something in them? Something deadly, or earth-shattering?

      Something worth dying for?

      Drumming her fingers on the table, little puffs of slate rising from the taps, she decided.

      She’d go to Mandy’s house, look around a bit, then it was time to see what Metro had discovered.

Chapter 12

      Teterboro Airport New Jersey

      BELOW XANDER, AS the tarmac exploded into action—a cacophony of shouts and screams and the background roar of a plane’s engines reversing as it landed—Xander slid down to the roof, rolled to his back and stared at the sky. He hadn’t thought this through, had only reacted. From the moment the SIG was in his hand, his forefinger caressing the trigger, the end was clear. He’d gone into a trance of perfect focus and eliminated the threat. What he was trained to do.

      Clouds scudded past, lacing the blue sky with billows of white. Calming, comforting. Skies were all different. Some forbidding, some beautiful. He’d lain on roofs and grounds across the world, waiting, planning, watching—frightened and cold and overwhelmed at times—and the sky had always been with him.

      He thought back to the moment Chalk approached him about starting the firm, realized that he’d never fully conceptualized what might happen. He’d known intellectually he might be forced to kill again, but he was supposed to be in protection now, damn it all. Saving lives, not taking them.

      For a life he’d just taken, no question about it. He rolled over onto his stomach again, looked over the edge to the target. The man he’d shot was slumped over the parapet, arms dangling. A rusty smear was giving in to gravity, spreading slowly down the concrete.

      He came back to himself, realized Chalk was going mad in his ear.

      “Mutant, talk to me. What’s wrong? I can’t hear you, repeat, I can’t hear you!”

      “Chalk,” he said quietly, and his friend calmed immediately.

      “You okay, buddy? That was one hell of a shot. You want to come on down?”

      Come down, face the world, the scrutiny. He didn’t know what upset him more, that he’d so calmly negated the threat, or that he’d never questioned the only course of action was to take the threat down. Could he have done something different? He’d reacted, unthinking, and the fallout was going to be insane.

       Face it, Whitfield. You’re a stone-cold killer. Always have been, always will.

      Killing is my business, and business has been good.

      “Coming.”

      He shoved down the dark thoughts, forced himself to his feet. Climbed down the ladder to the scene below.

      * * *

      Their principal was out of sight, but the Teterboro Airport security was not. Chalk had clearly been trying to explain what was happening, but the Teterboro cops were more inclined to arrest the two men with concealed weapons, especially the one who’d done the shooting, and ask questions later.

      Xander handed over his SIG, suffered being slammed against a yellow cinder-block wall, legs and arms spread-eagled and roughly frisked. He let them put cuffs on him without a fight.

      Chalk wasn’t being nearly as calm. He’d managed to get James Denon isolated before they started the Gestapo act with Xander, and was dancing around the cops trying to explain their role in the situation. Denon was finally tapped to confirm who they were, and with his testimony, the cops relaxed a bit. They took off Chalk’s cuffs, but kept Xander chained, seated at a chipped table that looked like it had been recycled from a prison.

      Xander heard sirens coming closer. They’d called the New Jersey state police, probably the FBI, too. An ambulance, though it wouldn’t be necessary. A meat wagon was more appropriate. News trucks would follow. Xander knew they needed to get Denon out of there immediately.

      After a few more minutes of chaos, their bona fides were established, and Xander was uncuffed for the time being. He stood, rubbing his chafed wrists. The last time he’d been in cuffs was during counterinsurgency training. They made him feel caged, something he fought against. Once, the comforts of the military, its regimented days, worked for him. Now, he simply wanted to be free.

      Threats were still lingering in the air, the Teterboro cops glaring and bristling. When the state police arrived, they would make the call. Xander had a feeling he knew how this was going to go down—the cuffs would go back on, he’d be transported, arraigned, bail set. He would have to call Sam to come get him; Chalk didn’t have the means to spring him, not yet.

      Not how he wanted things to go today.

      Finally, Xander and Chalk were escorted to Denon’s isolated room; the door closed quickly behind them. Denon shot a hard glance at the handle as the lock thunked home, but shrugged and took a deep breath. He was