Page 111 of Trust

Chaos erupts. A woman in heels climbs off the stage while security swarms it from both sides, barking orders. Screams rise as the audience flees, stumbling over chairs, dropping red and blue flags in their hurry to get out.

The cameras cut out, leaving two stunned anchors staring at each other. For a long moment they’re at a loss, then they compose themselves and promise their viewers more updates after the break.

“That cannot happen.” Sara’s voice trembles. “That cannot happen,” she repeats, as if saying it twice might undo it. “There’s no way I can lose him like that. This isn’t fair.”

Her wide eyes find mine. She’s about to collapse. I move over fast, pulling her into my arms. At first, she stiffens. Then she breaks, burying her face against my neck, sobs tearing out of her.

The television blares on, indifferent to the incident. A commercial jingle, a celebrity showing off jeans, laughter spilling from speakers too bright, too loud. Sara flinches at the sound, as though every noise is another insult. A world selling denim and soda while hers crumbles for the second time.

When the anchors return, their faces are grave. The woman struggles to keep her composure. Her co-host takes over. “Unconfirmed reports from law enforcement sources indicate that Governor-elect Whitmore has succumbed to injuries sustained in a rifle attack. The scene is evacuated, the shooter remains unidentified. Police are questioning witnesses but have not yet released a formal statement. A press conference is scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

Sara turns to stone in my arms. She shoves me back, her hands slamming against my chest. Her eyes are wild, shining through her tears. “Do you have anything to do with this?”

“No. Of course not. I would never do that to you.”

Her breath comes in quick, uneven bursts. “And Cash? Would he? Is that why he disappeared?”

I hesitate. Images of Cash flash through my mind. Pictures of him recklessly interrogating potential terrorists. How he lost himself in the bloodlust. How he killed even after he got the answers. For one terrible second, I see his finger on the trigger.

“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly.

The question gnaws at me. If Cash didn’t do it, then who did?

PRESSURE

Cash

Sloppy exit. Not what I planned. I wanted one more breakfast with all three of us, wanted her cheeks to blush over nothing and bet on which hoodie she’d steal today. I yearned for a long, deep goodbye kiss to burn into memory until I get her back.

Would’ve been better if Stix had joined the pillow fort. Hell, we might’ve—nope. File that fantasy under not now. The way things look, not ever.

I betrayed him, told her where to find the file. That was a fuckup. I shouldn’t have done it. Too late now. I have to follow through.

Driving would take too long. I gun the quad through the forest down to the small airport in the valley. I need speed. The kind that’s gone before anyone knows it was there. The turboprop waiting for me is perfect. Twin engines, six seats, matte paint that swallows the light. Built for utility, not comfort.

My hand trails along the fuselage as I circle the plane out of habit, showing her my respect. The blades catch the morning sun, and for a moment the world is at peace. I check the fuel, the flaps, the tires. Everything is in order.

Inside, the cockpit smells of worn leather and metal. I flip the switches. The engine stirs. There’s no crew and no one asking questions. I file the flight plan myself. By the time the wheels lift off the ground, I already have a motorcycle waiting at my destination and a place to stay for the night.

It is early evening when I get there. The motel I picked is threadbare and off the grid. Nobody asks questions here. They don’t even glance at my fake ID, just slide the key across without eye contact. I take my time preparing, gearing up, running my hands over the guns and knives, lining up the brass knuckles. I left the blowtorch in the plane. This doesn’t need fire. Tonight will be fun anyway.

Whitmore’s smile stalks me from every billboard. I hate that face. On the radio, they already call him the governor-elect, though the results are not official.

Working for criminals and protecting your family don’t go together for long. Whitmore learned that the hard way, and if Michael White hasn’t figured it out yet, he will tonight. The first name on my list lives in a tidy middle-class neighborhood.

If Stix were here, he would observe the place for days. He’d make sure the wife and kid were out, enter through the back, avoid witnesses and nosy neighbors. He’d do it clean, without the risk of raising the slightest suspicion.

I don’t give a damn. I park in front of the house, take my helmet off revealing a storm mask, and head straight to the door. It’s unlocked. Idiots.

The hallway is dark, with cartoon laughter trickling from above and cooking sounds drawing me toward the kitchen. A woman in her forties turns at my footsteps and drops a plate of dinner. Shards and sauce scatter across the floor. Such a waste.

I move faster, soundless in my approach. Her scream rises, and I smother it with my palm, pressing her forward against the cabinets so hard the dishes inside rattle. “What’s your name?” I snarl, the air between us scorching her ear.

“Megan,” she gasps, words trapped beneath my palm.

“Well, Megan, tell me where your husband is and you and your kid walk out of this unharmed. Nod if you understand.”

She does without trying to fight. It’s almost unfair how easy children make these kinds of jobs. People will do anything to save their offspring. Makes sense the military wanted to prevent us from having any.