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Startled, I whispered, “Why?”
“Seemed to think I’d be the one who’d bring you back.”
My knees felt weak at that.
My kid was worried about me and he’d comforted her.
Self-control shot to hell, I squeezed his hand. “That’s why you’re here?”
“It’s one of the reasons.” His arm dropped away, breaking the bridge we’d made with our fingers. “I’m pissed at you.”
“I deserve that.”
“You do. The first time I saw you, I was supposed to hug you and kiss you. I wasn’t supposed to be attacked by a chair and then have to defend my goddamn honor.” He huffed.
“Everyone betrays me, Conor. I don’t inspire loyalty in people.”
He snorted, but before his disregard could sting, he waved a hand at me. “Yeah, because I’mnotstanding here. I got a fucking concussion from Maverick because he thought I stole Kat—” That same wafting hand motioned at his forehead where the smudge from a bruise was still apparent as well as a goose egg. “—and I got on a plane for you, Lodestar. A plane. I don’t do that for many people.”
Confused, I asked, “You’re afraid of flying?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I like my feet on terra firma.”
“You live in a penthouse.”
“So. It’s morefirmathan a plane,” he grouched. “Then I had to deal with that bitch Temper for the whole flight, andthenI had to get into a private jet to land here! Private jets crash, Lodestar.”
“Not often. Planes are safer than cars.”
“I rarely drive.”
Though our conversation was bizarre and I was still standing in a jail cell, I rolled my eyes. “But you do it.”
“If I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t. It was a lot easier when my parents lived closer to the city.” He pointed a finger at me. “None of that takes into account the fact that I got my ass involved with a CIA/United Brotherhood-sanctioned hit on—”
“I didn’t ask you to,” I snarled, not letting him finish.
“You didn’t have to!”
More confused than ever, I questioned, “Wait a minute. Who was the sanctioned hit on?”
“Sheridan Reinier.”
I gaped at him. “The Director of the CIA?”
“Yes,” he hissed. “It’s one thing killing and hiding the body. It’s another job to shit on the CIA’s doorstep and not expect them to stand in it. He’s alive and kicking in a container, just waiting for you to—”
“Let me get this straight,” I interrupted before he could go down a tangent. “You had the chance to kill Reinier but didn’t?”
“You want to kill him. Who am I to accomplish one of your goals for you?” He sniffed.
There were bigger fish to fry than this, but… “Where is he?”
“Somewhere in the Catskills. You’ll have to ask Temperance for exact coordinates.” He grimaced. “That container has been there for a while. Probably not the first time it’s been used as a jail cell.”
