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That was more than I’d had when I woke up this morning, and I’d accomplished plenty with a lot less.
“Star,” I muttered under my breath. “I’m coming to get you.”
15
CONOR
It waswith actual relief that I boarded the commercial jet.
My tickets had been accepted at check-in, my permission to fly hadn’t been revoked, TSA hadn’t gotten a hard-on for me, and once I was settled in my seat, I had to reason that this was it—I was allowed to leave the States.
The CIA hadn’t figured out that I’d had a hand in storing their director in a shipping container in the Catskills, or if they had, then they weren’t going to hold a grudge against me.
Preliminary scans on several servers prior to departing for the airport had let me know I wasn’t about to get my ass arrested, and my penthouse was untouched when I arrived, my security measures still in place—both of the high and the low-tech varieties—and the door hadn’t been knocked down either, but you never knew sometimes.
That whole shit at Langley had come as a complete surprise to me, so no source was perfect.
At the moment, I figured it was best to take everything with a grain of salt until I had more of an idea of what was going on.
Once I was buckled in, I stared over the concourse, not even turning my head when someone took a seat beside me.
I was probably the only person in my family who didn’t hate flying commercial. The rest of my bougie-ass brothers would have taken a private jet, but statistically, this was safer.
I’d done the math.
I’d also bought out the rest of first class apart from my neighbor’s seat which had been scooped up while I was busy reserving the others, so I’d be traveling pretty much alone anyway.
Refusing to admit that I was nervous, I checked my phone when it buzzed.
Goldstein: McClure’s got a sex slave.
Goldstein: Wait for it.
Goldstein: In the basement. Of his HOUSE.
Me: The arrogant asshole. These goddamn senators just think they can do whatever the fuck they want.
Me: Leave it with me.
Goldstein: Leave WHAT with you? I’ll collate the evidence and start putting together records for an Interpol investigation.
My eyes narrowed.
Me: Sure. Thanks for keeping me updated.
He replied, but I ignored his text channel and, instead, hit up Dead To Me.
Me: Senator John McClure.
Dead To Me: Doesn’t believe women have rights to their uteruses, thinks we should be stuck in a kitchen, and was pivotal in that deal that fucked Alaskan reservations up the ass and is going to turn it into oil soup…
Dead To Me: That the Senator John McClure we’re thinking of?
Me: Sure is.
Me: He needs to be gone.
Dead To Me: Any reason other than the above.
