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“She’s restless and eager to get off the plane.” I hear his own anxiety underlying the words.
I push past him and kneel down by Maman’s bed. Her hand is cold, and I chafe it between mine to warm it. “We’ll have you out of here soon. Right now, you’re safer inside.”
The crew is watching out the windows. I move to see Liam and Sean try to sneak up behind the van.
Clay, who has been standing on the gangway, calls back, “JL. He’s coming out.” Then he pulls out his Glock, holding it loosely at his side.
When I join Clay, Sam walks slowly, stiff-legged, toward the plane, hands out like he’s a supplicant. Instead of the usual overalls, he’s dressed in jeans, a T-shirt with a plaid button-down open over it, and a jacket. No hat. Formalwear for the occasion?
When he’s close enough for us to hear him, he yells, “Don’t shoot an unarmed man. I need to see Micki. Tell her to come out.”
“No way, you asshole.”
He glares at me, then melts slightly, like a snowman during a warm spell.
“I have to talk to her. Explain.” He forces out another word. “Apologize.”
A hand touches my back. Micki pushes through and stands in front of me, hands on her hips.
I hiss under my breath. “Get back.”
She ignores me. “This will take more than an apology.” Tremors run through her into me, but her voice is strong.
With my fingers resting against the base of her neck, I feel her relax, although at the sound of Sam’s voice, her muscles contract again.
“No matter what I do, you won’t come back to me?” What starts as a whine turns into a snarl.
“No. Even if I forgive you in the next hundred years, we’re done.”
Sirens scream and red and blue lights flash in the distance. The cavalry, in the form of the police, have arrived.
His face contorts. “Damn it. I’ll have you, even if we both die for it.” Pulling out a Glock from under his shirt, he backs up toward the van.
The cop cars pull up, out of range of the shooter. The sirens continue briefly and we all blink as the lights strobe. An officer climbs out of one of the cruisers and pulls a bullhorn out of the back. “You’re surrounded. Throw down the gun and move away with your hands up.”
Everything goes quiet. Sam seems frozen. Sean and Liam creep closer, but that draws his attention. He dives back into the van and starts up the engine. But with two flat tires, the van doesn’t move.
After a few minutes, the officer with the bullhorn calls out the same message. “Drop the weapon and put your hands up.”
In front of me, Micki hasn’t moved. She glares at the van and yells, “Give it up, Sam. You don’t want to die and neither do I. Just throw out the gun and make a plea bargain with the DA’s office.”
“Will you represent me, darlin’?” Out of the open window, his voice sails out into the darkening night. His incongruous cheeky grin shows up bizarrely as his over-white teeth gleam in the fading light.
“I thought you despised lawyers?”
“I do, but I need one now. Who better?”
“Have your father find one for you.” The rejoinder is flat, but Sam recoils as if stunned.
“What do you mean?”
“I know who your father is. I know everything, Sam. All the lies, all the betrayals.” She stops and I can’t believe what she says next. “Did you kill Samson Beaton? Drown him in Lake Michigan? Steal his identity? Is that the only death you’ve caused?”
Sam sticks the Glock out of the window. I push Micki back through the door. “Take cover, Clay.” Liam and Sean close in from either side. Clay drops to one knee and aims at Sam’s ghostly white face. The cops fan out behind the truck, moving in a phalanx while Sam’s attention stays on me.
“Where’s your friend, Philippe?” Max stands at the end of the ramp, arms folded.
“Don’t know who you’re talkin’ about.” When he raises the Glock and aims at Max, the action undercuts his words. Hand shaking, he misses everyone within range. Still, he’s not finished with his false bravado.
