Page 140 of Pretty Savage: Defy

“Move,” I tell him.

“No.”

I consider shoving him aside. In my current condition, I could probably manage it, but not without losing time and possibly consciousness. Thomson recognizes the calculation in my face. His shoulders shift, feet positioning themselves as he gets ready to fight in a hospital room.

The door opens before either of us decides how far we’re willing to take this.

Two men enter wearing dark suits.

The older one has brown hair going gray at the temples and a placid face that immediately puts me on guard. His calm doesn’t read as natural to me. It’s constructed, chosen for the effect it has on people who mistake blandness for kindness.

The younger man closes the door behind them and remains in front of it. His coat bulges over the weapon at his hip. He looks from my hands to the blood trailing from the IV site, then to the fact that I’m standing instead of lying in bed. His hand moves to the butt of his gun.

The older man removes a leather wallet from inside his jacket and displays a gold badge.

“Carrson Rowe Ashford?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Special Agent John Bowey, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” His voice is so deep it rumbles. “This is Special Agent Harris.”

I look through the narrow window in the door. Two uniformed officers wait in the hallway, positioned where they can see the room and both ends of the corridor.

“Unless you found Laurel Turner, you’re in my way.” I look past him, searching for my pants.

Bowey puts away his badge. “Carrson Ashford, you’re under arrest.”

The statement is so disconnected from the problem in front of me that it takes several seconds to make sense of it. Long enough for me to wonder whether the fire damaged more than my lungs.

Then I laugh in his face.

“Good luck with that.” I turn my back on him. “Why don’t you call Director Greenberg first? Ask him how he liked the martini he drank at my father’s estate during the ball a few days ago.”

Bowey isn’t amused. “Greenberg is no longer director.”

I turn around. “Since when?”

“This morning. Clark is acting director now.”

“And Clark’s first decision was to send you here to arrest me?”

“Oh, no.” He grins. “His first decision was to stop protecting you.” Bowey moves closer and lowers his voice so Harris can’t hear. “You aren’t above the law. Not anymore. There are people inside the government who are tired of The Order’s bullshit, the corruption.”

I give him a closer look. Few people have the nerve to say that name aloud.

His suit is forgettable. His shoes aren’t expensive. His hair is neatly trimmed, but nothing about him suggests money, influence, or power.

So why does he believe he can say that name to my face and survive it?

“Are you Order-born?”

“No, thank God. But my father was once called Anson Markham.”

He waits as though I should recognize the name. I don’t.

“Your father removed him from the path. He lost everything, moved away, and changed his name.” Bitterness twists his face. “You’ll find any excuse to confiscate another man’s property, won’t you? Take it and add it to your own fortunes.”

I see Laurel’s father at Shady Grove again, the one time he stood up and got angry.