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“But you said—” I protest.
“It’s the only way we can be safe.”
“—I didn’t give you enough to go after—”
“Best worked with what he had.”
“Worked where?”
“Long Island. Where Jonas and Ansel live.”
I heard the chaos on that call. “But Best’s men failed.”
Trap nods. “Seven men down. And four missing.”
“Oh God, Trap. That’s what you’re watching? Sawgrass men being killed?”
Trap finally seems to remember the video still flickering on his screen. He taps the phone. His face bleaches in the frozen light.
“That’s not Sawgrass. It’s you. Us.” He turns the phone toward me. “The Herzogs released their fucking video.”
21
TRAP
* * *
So much for escaping to the most magical place on earth.
Within an hour, Alix and I sneak out the back door. We surprise a sleepy security guard who asks if we’re unhappy in any way. He volunteers to call Samuelson, but I don’t see any reason to get our personal liaison out of bed. I tell the guard that he’s welcome to the breakfast I ordered for delivery to the castle.
The drive back to the airfield seems to take forever. Alix reaches for her phone at least three times, but she doesn’t have it—I made her leave it at home.
Once we get to the plane, we have to wait half an hour while our pilot files his emergency flight plan. Alix ignores the excellent cup of coffee that materializes at her elbow, courtesy of the bleary-eyed flight attendant. Instead, she extends her hand toward me. “Please,” she says. “I need to see it.”
She doesn’t. She already knows every fucking frame of the video.
But I’m not her father, and I’m not her shrink.Ithink it’s a bad idea for her to watch the goddamn thing, but she’s a big girl. She gets to make her own decisions.
I hand over my phone.
The video’s spreading like wildfire.
“Well,” Alix says after scrolling through a dozen links. “At least they spelled my name right.”
They spelled my name right too. And Klaus Herzog’s. His is framed by a memorial wreath, with his birthday and date of death printed in stark black letters.
Alix starts to watch the fucking video for the thousandth time. My fingers twitch. I want to take my phone and throw it out the airplane door. Shattering its screen on the tarmac, though, won’t destroy what’s already out there on the internet.
“Wait,” Alix says, pulling the screen closer to her face. What could she possibly be looking at? What detail doesn’t she know by heart?
She shoves the phone toward me. I hold up a hand in the universal sign for stop. I’d be happy never to see Klaus Herzog’s blood painting my dining room again.
“Look!” Alix says, freezing the video mid-spurt.
I look.
The freeze frame shows Herzog’s face, contorted in the pain that cocksucker deserved. Alix crouches over him, her expression as flat as a chopping board. I’m visible to her right, my mouth open, like she’s caught me mid-word.
