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If Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but backward and in high heels, Shay did the same with JSIVA—with an M16 slung over her shoulder. Everyone in the unit respected her. Some feared her. Only one had dared to love her, and she married him.
“You know he delights in pushing my goddamn buttons…”
“Maybe. But when the chips were down, where did he go?”
Wade allowed himself a small smile. “I was surprised to read his letter and this harebrained plan of yours. Too much flair.”
“Maybe. But I’ll say this: Chase loves me and the kids with everything he has. And right now, he’s risking it all.”
“He did it!” Madison interrupted. “He’s in! I’m in! Rubber Duckie, you’re the one!”
“What?” asked Wade. Luke ran back into the room, Titus on his heels, one ear up, the other inside out, like a pig’s.
Madison cocked her headphones back and her hands flew across her keyboard. “I have control of Gillen’s terminal and I’m rummaging through his financial closet.”
“What’s happening in the room?” asked Shay.
“The guy is monologuing Dad to death. So lame. He’s, like, one step away from threatening the world with a weather machine. Now everyone shush.”
Minutes passed, and Shay fought the urge to pepper Madison with questions. She knew her daughter was hard at work, infiltrating as deeply into Gillen’s personal network as she could. But it sounded like Chase had actually managed a confession and Mads was collecting information.
Suddenly, Madison threw her headphones down. Even as they clattered across the Formica top, the sound of repeated gunfire coming through them was unmistakable. Everyone fell silent.
Madison put her headphones back on. “Damn, that was loud…”
A low, visceral rumbling filled the kitchen. Titus was growling.
A moment later, light flooded Wade’s yard.
CHAPTER 24
CHASE WALKED OVER to the CEO, plucked the pistol from his grasp, and smashed the shocked man in the nose. The blow sent him sprawling.
But Gillen did not collapse. Instead, the man rolled into a reverse somersault, kicking his legs high up. He snapped at the waist and was on his feet again, facing Chase. Gillen’s muscles were engaged, his upper lip peeling back in an angry sneer. Blood streamed from his nose.
Gillen charged, coming low.
Chase pulled the Glock tucked at the small of his back and whipped it around in front of him. Gillen halved the distance between them but stopped short before his forehead kissed the Glock’s muzzle.
The CEO’s eyes went wide.
“The last one fired blanks,” said Chase, “but I’m guessing this one that I took off your security detail works just fine. They’re zip-tied to your fence, by the way. Try not to hold it against them. They’ve had a bad enough night as it is.”
Chase waved Gillen back and ordered him to sit on the floor. Gillen crouched, still ready to pounce, but Chase said, “Uh-uh. Crisscross applesauce. Pretend it’s yoga.”
Gillen stared daggers at Chase but complied. As he settled into position, he wiped his nose with his sleeve.
“Sleight of hand,” said Gillen as he daubed his nose. “Cute.”
“More sleight of foot. It’s called a nutmeg.”
“It’s going to take more than a little misdirection and a punch in the nose to stop me, Chase,” Gillen said.
Suddenly, a disembodied voice came from everywhere and nowhere. The ubiquitous voice of Ava, feminine and soothing, filled the suite, announcing “Protocol, calling.”
Before Chase could stop him, Gillen said “Answer” in a firm voice.
Chase glimpsed the ceiling. Like FIRST’s conference room, Gillen’s ceiling—the entire suite—was likely embedded with invisible speakers and microphones, more sophisticated than FIRST’s budget would allow.
