Sixty-four

Kootenai Canyon, Montana

The parachute was unmarked. Most recreational jump schools marked their chutes because they were expensive. Run for profit, they took great care to protect their equipment, which meant that leaving a spent rig behind was practically unheard of. The Halo helmet tossed into the grass next to the tangle of nylon lines and straps confirmed that the person who landed in his canyon wasn’t a weekend adrenalin junkie looking for a fix. The person walking around unchecked was a trained operator, and their landing here hadn’t been an accident.

Michael looked up. As usual, the sky was clear. Because of its previous presidential owner, their canyon had long ago been removed from commercial flight paths, but a Halo jump maxed out at 35,000 feet. A small civilian aircraft could be easily missed at that altitude.

Gathering the bright green chute, he rolled it with a haphazard precision that said he’d done it a million times. Under normal circumstances, an operator would be careful to roll the chute and tuck it under a bush or rock so that it wasn’t readily visible. That this one was left to drift and billow in the breeze told him one thing: Whoever had landed in his canyon wanted him to know they were here.

Or they wanted to mark their landing site.

Stuffing the chute back into its pack, Michael slung the strap of it over his shoulder. Next to the dumped helmet was the starting point of a trail, nothing more than a slight bending of the knee-high grass. It snaked eastward, parallel to the trail he and Alex had been following, hidden from view. Their uninvited guest was heading for the house.

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The trail ended at the bridge, veering out of the grass in order to cross the river. Now he could see the impressions leading him across the water, toward the cluster of buildings that lay beyond it. He stood there for a moment, watching. Weighing his options.

The deep, shaded porch that housed a pair of wicker armchairs and a table was unoccupied. The yard that surrounded it was undisturbed. The house looked just as he’d left it an hour before. That left the barn. Whoever it was would be smart to take the barn first. It offered the best vantage point from which to watch the house while waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

He’d been stupid to assume that once he’d found him, Livingston Shaw would send an army. He knew better. Shaw wasn’t a full-court press kind of guy. He was too sneaky to come at him head-on. Instead of looking straight ahead, Michael should have been watching for Shaw from the corner of his eye.

Dumping the pack, he crossed the bridge at a fast clip, formulating his plan on the fly. He’d clear the house first. Get Miss Ettie and the kids into the bunker and seal it. The barn was wired with explosives, just like the bridge. As soon as they were safely below ground, he’d blow it.

Mounting the porch steps, Michael put on a show, stomping the mud off his boots while he listened. He could hear his family moving around inside. The click of Avasa’s toenails across the hard wood of the floor. The clank of dishes being washed in the sink. Alex and Christina talking about who was beating who at rummy.

The scrape of a fork against a plate as someone finished up a late breakfast.

He nearly kicked the door in, pulling the TAC off his shoulder in a fluid motion that brought it up into position and had it aimed at the intruder almost before Michael saw him. The face staring back at him was one he’d never expected to see again.

“Alex,” he said in a casual tone, “is there a reason he’s still breathing?”

“Vy skazali, chtoby strelyat’, kogo ya ne uznal.” You said to shoot anyone I didn’t recognize. Obviously Alex wasn’t ready to admit to everyone else what he already knew—he spoke better English than he was letting on. Michael wanted to ask him why. He also wanted to ask him what the hell that was supposed to mean, but instead he stored both questions away for later. There was plenty of time to ask Alex what was going on. After he got rid of their uninvited guest.

The man at the table laid his fork down carefully before lifting the napkin in his lap to wipe his mouth. “Thank you for the pancakes,” he said to Miss Ettie. “They were delicious.” He was wearing a jump suit, unzipped and peeled down to the waist, its sleeves tied around his waist to reveal a thin white undershirt. He appeared to be unarmed.

The old woman stood frozen in his peripheral, stunned by the sudden turn of events. “You’re welcome,” she said, phrasing it almost like a question before turning in Michael’s direction, waiting for him to tell her what to do.

“Take the kids into the living room, please,” he told her. As soon as they were hustled out of the room, Michael flipped the safety off on the TAC. “Who the fuck let you out of your box, Dunn?”

Noah Dunn placed his napkin on his plate and stood. Michael placed his finger on the trigger and waited. “Ben Shaw,” Dunn said, lifting the plate before carrying it to the sink.

His finger tightened slightly. “Bullshit.” He spat the word out like there was no way it could be true but he knew better. Unlike his father, who measured every move he made, Ben was an odd mixture of calculation and recklessness. Releasing one of his father’s prisoners without considering the repercussions was absolutely something he would do.

“He said you’d say that,” Dunn said, slipping the empty plate into the sink full of soapy water. “Pink pony.”

It was an old safe word. One he’d used with Christina years ago when he’d been her bodyguard. He’d shared it with three people since then and Ben had been one of them. One of them had also been Church—who just happened to be, last time he checked, Livingston Shaw’s favorite FSS operative. “What did you say?”

“Pink pony,” he repeated, turning toward him as he wiped his hands on a dishtowel. “He also told me to tell you that he spoke with Sabrina a few hours ago. She’s still in Yuma and, all things considered, she’s safe.”

The last of his message had Michael wavering. Again, as far as he knew, Ben was the only one who knew where Sabrina was. But that didn’t make it so. He’d been flying blind for days now and he was getting sick and fucking tired of operating on assumptions. “Who’s Sabrina?” For all he knew, Livingston sprung Dunn himself and dropped him in his backyard just to mess with him. Maybe to confirm Sabrina’s whereabouts so he could send in a team to snatch her up. Either way, he wasn’t telling Noah Dunn shit.

“You always were too smart for your own good, O’Shea,” Dunn said, a slow grin spreading across his face as his gaze flickered to the platinum band on his finger before finally focusing on the rifle aimed at his face. “I could have killed them, you know. The kids. The old lady. The dog. That I didn’t should count for something.”

“It does,” Michael said from behind his TAC. “It’s the only reason I’m not dragging your dead body into the woods and leaving it for the wolves.”

“I could’ve killed them and you, O’Shea,” Dunn countered, “long before you and the boy found my chute. So how about we stop measuring dicks and get down to business.”

“Business?” he said, shaking his head slightly. “You and I don’t have any business, Dunn.”

“Sure we do,” Dunn’s tone hardened slightly, telling Michael the man was a hell of a lot more pissed off than he wanted to admit. “The way I see it, you owe me.”

“Seems like all that alone time has left you confused,” Michael said. “The only reason you’re even here is because I decided to bring you in instead of kill you like I was ordered to.”

“Four years in The Box.” Dunn chuckled. “Thanks for that.”

“Better than a bullet.”

“Guess that depends on who you ask.” Dunn shrugged. “Either way, you’re gonna help me now.”

“Last time I helped you, I got myself into a bit of a pickle.” Michael smirked, despite the ever-present pressure of the device Livingston Shaw had grafted to his spine—his punishment for bringing Dunn in alive instead of carrying out his kill order. “I think I’m finished helping you.”

“Did you ever wonder why he sent you after me?” Dunn said as he turned, giving Michael his back. “Why he had to?” Lifting the shirt he wore, he revealed a neat, horizontal scar across his lower back, as thick and long as his finger.

Michael took his finger off the TAC’s trigger, lowering it just enough so that he could see Dunn’s back. He didn’t have to ask what it was. He knew what the scar meant. Dunn had been chipped; now he wasn’t. That’s why Shaw had to issue the kill order instead of just making a phone call. He had to because there was no other way to get him.

Dunn had removed his own chip somehow.

“How? How did you do it?”

Dunn turned, lowering his shirt while giving him a grim smile. “Still think we don’t have any business together?”