Chapter Four

Campbell

I’M SURPRISED THEY didn’t yank a black bag over my head before marching me onto the plane. Everything else about this spontaneous arrest has an aura of old-school menace, but half the theater. Probably because there aren’t any reporters around to flaunt their catch to.

Agent Hall, the man pressing a hand-shaped bruise into my forearm, gave up on peppering me with questions an hour ago. I haven’t said a word beyond asking for my lawyer, but I can tell the entire extraction team wants to breach the silence again. They can’t get away with idle chatter when they know I’m listening to every word, although I did hear the pilot up front mention a path to JFK. I assumed we were going back to New York, but having it confirmed clarifies our timeline.

The FBI bringing Justine along is unexpected though. It complicates matters.

As far as I can tell, she hasn’t been detained, but I can’t so much as look over my shoulder to check. If our cover story is intact, it’s only because the agency believes I brought her along as a no-strings hookup. On paper, I hold the sort of independent wealth to demand such privilege, taking who and what I want, wherever I want it.

In practice, the implication is an ulcer in the center of my gut, burning deep, layer upon layer of pain. Ignoring Justine isn’t as simple as flipping a switch in my head; it’s more like trying to keep two magnets from snapping together, violating a law of nature by sheer force of will.

“I’m moving your cuffs in front,” Hall says, finally releasing his grip above my wrist. “Don’t make any sudden movements.”

He has no idea how much I want to. The second the first cuff slips open, I could drive that elbow into his solar plexus and cut off a second of crucial air. Long enough to take Hall’s gun and put a bullet between his eyes, then the rest into his team. Every Glock Gen 5 the agency carries comes with a very generous clip size—fifteen shots—which is plenty of firepower for a double-tap on head and chest to seal the deal without having to reload. That leaves one bullet to threaten the pilot with, if need be.

But a massacre would be a temporary survival measure, too short term to be worth the ensuing consequences. So I simply breathe out relief when the pull of tension along my aching shoulder breaks, and Hall rejoins the cuffs in front of me. A firm push forces me to sit before he buckles me into the passenger seat, sending harsh, metallic clicks echoing throughout the cabin. I fight the urge to smile when Hall settles in to my left; he looks truly unhappy to be my personal escort, but it’s clear Agent Ryan calls the shots around here.

“We’ll be taking off in a minute,” she says to Justine, her voice carrying from several empty rows behind me. “Sorry there’s not any kind of in-flight service.”

“It’s okay.” Stress strips a layer of volume from Justine’s voice. “Right now, the only thing I want is to get back home.”

In a small mercy, they left my sunglasses on. At least I only have to control half my face when it comes to reactions.

“You need water or anything?” Hall grunts.

The question is obligatory; they don’t want to get a wrist slap over denying me necessities.

“No.”

“We’ve got a long flight,” he insists. “Eleven hours.”

While I imagine they already have access to my DNA and fingerprints from military records, I don’t see any reason to give them a new warrant-free sample. Important federal paperwork goes missing all the time.

“No. Thank you.”

Eleven hours provides a lengthy cushion to figure out what exactly led to my snapshot extradition. Two murders, recent or not, doesn’t automatically qualify for a federal case, much less one with international reach. I did kill Miceli La Rosa—or at least, I presume he was already a post-anaphylactic corpse when the fire in his house was set—but the blaze had nothing to do with me. Murdering his wife would have been senseless overreach; if anything, I wanted her to be the primary suspect when he died away from his bodyguards and fellow mafiosos.

Gut instinct points a finger at the Galici family, but the chain of events doesn’t line up. Stefano already orchestrated one complicated plan to force me into assassinating Miceli, and he was plainly outraged at a clean and quiet kill becoming city-wide news. I blackmailed him into a corner to keep Family hands away from trade in Flushing, but our deal is one of mutually assured destruction. If he ever gave me up to the FBI—and a dyed-in-the-wool capo would be signing his own death warrant with that kind of betrayal—I could easily do the same with my sealed bag full of Mafia trophies: a dozen guns, IDs, and cell phones, each prize laden with their prints and other undeniable personal connections.

Cesare, his second-in-command, would probably butcher me down to spare parts if ever given the chance, but the same lines of loyalty apply. In the broader scheme of things, I’m only one assassin; the Five Families haven’t survived this long by gambling their entire operation whenever someone they know is pushed into an early grave.

Of course, there could be an informant inside their ranks. Someone who drummed up enough evidence to pass my name and deeds to law enforcement, with the hope that one arrest would be the wedge to break a wide web of Mafia ties wide open. Taking a suspect from outside their direct circle is less likely to make Galici and company preemptively close ranks and start hunting for a traitor, providing valuable time to build a case.

Who, though? The number of people who know me as Campbell is minimal, yet far outstrips anyone still living who knows the name I was born with. Forging that connection requires evidence no one should have; Sofia has spent years making sure of it.

Until I see her, there’s little to do but stew and theorize.

Trying to sleep doesn’t get me very far either. I keep drifting along the edge of consciousness, only to jerk awake again whenever Justine speaks. Having her this close but completely out of reach rouses a less than charitable impulse. I’ve never thought of myself as the possessive type; my previous relationships have always been transactional, metaphorically or otherwise. There were never any plans, no presumed future, nothing like the conversations Justine and I had back in Chicago, trading pieces of ourselves to create a greater whole.

But she’s mine. Only mine, and I’m hers until the last breath leaves my lungs.

Which makes it even more mystifying that the FBI didn’t arrest her right next to me. What chain of evidence leads my way but doesn’t ensnare Justine? We were together the night I injected Miceli with a full dose of toxic allergens; she played the artist he bought an entire gallery’s worth of work from. While I’ve taken great care to avoid any lines of legal or financial entanglement between us, we always travel side by side, and my perpetual disrespect for the American government aside, most FBI agents do have working eyes. A regular schedule of surveillance should have given the whole gambit away.

Some crucial element is missing, yet I don’t have the first clue what it could be.

I play through possibilities on loop until the pilot calls out our descent. That gives me twenty minutes to restore blood flow through various subtle movements, working feeling through my wrists and trying to recalibrate every strained vertebrae back into place—the feds certainly didn’t blow any of their budget on the seats in this plane.

Hall puts a heavy hand on my arm. “You’re not going anywhere until everyone else deplanes. Got it?”

“Yeah.” When he reaches over and unbuckles my seatbelt, I ask, “Are you turning my cuffs around again?”

The question makes him pause. “Not unless Ryan orders me to.”

If anyone at the airport sees us, the optics are better if they look generous. Being back in the States doesn’t make me any less of a murderer, but I am still a notably pale citizen with the casual trappings of wealth, and that forces a lighter touch in public. The notion is ridiculous on its face, but right now, I’ll take every advantage I can get.

I also catch the smallest glimpse of Justine as she’s escorted past me. No eye contact, not even the chance to read her lips, but for a handful of seconds, we’re close enough to touch, and I hold on to that long after she falls out of view. They’re sure to question her thoroughly and take official statements, but being a witness is the safest option right now. Sofia will find a way to her, and once we’re in the mutual lock of legal privilege, the game can change.

“Come on.” Hall’s hand tightens. “Nice and slow. Stay in front of me.”

This might be a private plane, but we have to emerge on a public runway. The FBI picked the farthest gate in JFK, back where less frequent international flights come and go away from prime hours. Now that it’s almost midnight, only a handful of passengers are even allowed in the terminal, but everyone is bundled up in coats and scarves, trying to ward off the chill bleeding through the windows.

New York in December is my least favorite version of winter, throwing layers of ice and sludge onto a city already suffering from the clogged arteries of misspent development and administration. Never mind that I’m an undeniable spectacle in swim shorts and a T-shirt, sandals striking over-bleached tile with resonating slaps. Once we’re redirected around the surveillance block of TSA lanes—irony never ceases—my jaw finally relaxes for the first time in twelve long hours.

Sofia is waiting on the other side of the barricade, wearing a blood-red Burberry coat like armor. I would tease her about showing off a hundred grand of alligator skin to an airport in the middle of the night, but she enjoys the common people knowing that she’s a predator, especially if they happen to carry a badge.

The second our eyes meet, she steps forward, and Hall tenses.

“Ma’am, I need you to—”

Green eyes flash, dripping with disdain. “You have my client in custody, so this conversation is going to be about their needs, not yours. What are the charges?”

Hesitation drags Hall’s expression back and forth before he calls out, “Ryan! Lawyer on deck.”

She freezes twenty yards away, one hand on Justine’s back, and looks over her shoulder. Even behind sunglasses, Ryan’s disbelief is plain. I watch her pass off custody of Justine to the agent next to her before she closes the distance between us in a few long strides.

“Excuse me. Agent Ryan, FBI.” Sofia’s aggressive flair works as intended; Ryan is on edge just looking at her. “And you are?”

“Sofia Cattaneo, Cattaneo and Associates. Campbell’s legal representation.” Neither of them goes for a handshake. This has the pretense of a hostage exchange. “So tell me the charges, and then give me five minutes of privacy with my client.”

“Aggravated arson and two counts of first degree murder, to start with.” If Ryan expects Sofia to look shocked, she doesn’t get her wish. “You can talk to your client alone when we get to the federal building.”

Sofia’s smile cuts like a straight razor. “I wasn’t debating with you, Agent Ryan. You can stick the two of us in a supply closet and face the other way if that’s what it takes, but I am going to speak with them, and you will not be privy to that conversation.”

“Ms. Cattaneo—”

“Do not test me. I know every judge in this city, and I will call my very favorite one at—” Sofia hazards a glance at her phone. “—eleven forty-six at night, rousing her from bed with a wild story about federal overreach. Five minutes. Now.”

Ryan manages to hold the standoff for the sum total of ten seconds before relenting. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

It’s not a supply closet, but the Lost & Found office inside JFK isn’t much bigger than one, choked from wall to wall with wooden desks groaning under literal pounds of paperwork and a colorful Tetris of suitcases jammed into every possible crevice. Sofia shuts the door behind us and sets the lock before leading me over to the far corner, away from a sticker-lined front of windows.

“What the hell happened, Campbell?” she hisses under her breath. “I’ve spent half the day trying to make sure the feds didn’t stick you in a black site somewhere.”

“I was hoping you would be able to tell me. How did they get an extradition request for a state-level case?”

Sofia leans back against one of the desks and crosses her arms. “‘Special interest.’ It’s the catch-all the feds use to loop in a suspect under homeland security laws. The filing I could access said the FBI suspects you of being a Galici associate. An organized crime element means New York loses sole jurisdiction.”

Great. “Looks like I made it into the Mafia after all.”

She bites back a laugh. “Guess so. We have a long night ahead of us. Processing, interrogation. They’ll probably run out of juice around dawn, but I can’t guarantee where you’ll be sleeping after that.”

“You need to get Justine out of reach,” I say. “Her cover story has held up so far, but if the feds put a tail on her, it might not last for long.”

“They don’t suspect her of anything?” Sofia frowns. “How the fuck is that possible if they got ahold of you?”

The billion-dollar question. “Can’t say. But we have to take advantage of it for as long as the feds stay oblivious.”

“Okay.” She pinches away a snarl of tension between her brows. “I’ll have Enrico relay some information and get her a hotel for the night. But you can’t reach out to her, Campbell. Do you understand me? No codes, no near-misses, not a goddamn word. Someone is pulling strings above both of our heads right now, and until I know who that someone is, the only thing you can do is ruin her.”

Deep down, I’ve always wondered if that’s true. “I understand.”

“Good.” Sofia taps one of my cuffs. “Let’s get you away from the airport so I can make them take these off.”

A hard knock on the door warns our time is up. I leave the office in silence, Sofia moving a pace behind like she’s my bodyguard, and we both pretend Justine isn’t watching every step of the way. The terminal’s automatic exits swing open, welcoming me into the frigid embrace of the dark.