It’s way too early for lunch but I remember the Italian sub I had here a few weeks ago—a taste of home, something real, comfort food—unfortunately I have no money left to pay for one. I sit down at an empty outdoor table and rummage through my pack. Could I barter with the two unused phone tabs? I notice the knife in the bottom. I should have given it to Raine last night. It’s the only thing left of her father’s—
I freeze.
I don’t even have to look.
He carried that thing with him everywhere he went.… His father gave it to him.… It’s the one Karden left at my house the day before he disappeared.
Karden did have a backup plan and Carver had it all along.
I grab the knife and instinctively pull out the smallest blade. Sometimes it’s the smallest and most innocent things you have to watch out for. I run my finger across the tiny engraved numbers that might pass for a product code.
Carver and Xavier need to be told right away. I flip my palm to call when it ripples. I’m about to swipe my iScroll, thinking that for once Carver finally has good timing, but then I see it isn’t him.
It’s Raine.
I hesitate, almost afraid to know why she’s calling, but I swipe anyway, more afraid to miss a chance to talk to her.
I immediately see desperation in her eyes.
“My father’s leaving for an appointment in twenty minutes,” she whispers. “He’ll be out of the house for two hours. Come and get the information you need. I don’t want your death on my hands. I’ll have the front desk let you up.”
She clicks off before I can say a word. It all happens so fast. A few seconds and she’s gone. Breathless instructions that leave me breathless too.
I don’t want your death on my hands. These last few words reverberate louder than anything else she said. Was she calling only out of a sense of duty, or is she trying to protect something she still cares about?
Twenty minutes. I throw the knife back in my pack and run at breakneck speed, dodging cars and pedestrians, my coat flapping behind me like black wings. I make it to the Commons in fifteen minutes, gasping for air. From a hidden vantage point, I watch the apartments. Just as Raine said, in a few minutes I see the Secretary’s car emerge from the garage and drive away.
I call Carver and Xavier. I talk fast, not giving them a chance to speak. “It’s happening today. Now. I have to move fast. The Secretary’s gone and Raine’s giving me access to his office. I’ve found the missing account numbers too. They were on Karden’s knife. Meet me at the entrance to the Arlington station. I don’t know what kind of shape he’ll be in when I bring him out.”
Assuming we make it out.
They sputter and try to ask questions but I don’t give them a chance. I sign off and tell Percel, no calls. None. From here on out, I don’t want a single moment of distraction.
* * *
After racing across town in the crisp air, the elevator ride is slow and suffocating. The nine floors up seem like nineteen. It’s only paranoia setting in, I tell myself. It’s all happening too fast.
But really, it isn’t fast. It’s been months and years in coming. It’s happened in skipped meals, sacrificed freedoms, crumbled homes, and slivers of hope clutched in broken hands. And because of these past weeks I’ve spent with Raine, for me it’s been a lifetime.
The elevator finally stops.
One, two, three endless seconds.
And the door slides open.
Calculated Control
She’s there.
Waiting.
Her eyes are as wide and open and beautiful as I’ve ever seen them. No distance. Her brown irises as deep as night, shadowed by lashes that refuse to blink. The green eye of Liberty is cupped in her hand, like it hasn’t left that spot since I threw it to her last night. She doesn’t have to say a word. I know. She didn’t call me just because she doesn’t want my death on her hands. I step out and she takes a hesitant step toward me. I shake my head, unable to say more than a hoarse “Raine.”
She falls into my arms, hugging me so tightly, I think that she’ll never let go. I don’t want her to. Not ever. I squeeze her back just as fiercely, my face lost in her hair, breathing in every lost moment. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
She says the same thing to me through tears, and then she’s kissing me, her cheeks and lips salty and wet. She finally pulls back, her wet lashes clumped together, her eyes fixed on mine. There’s so much more to say, but there isn’t time and we both know it. She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the stairs that lead down.
Midway on the stairs, she stops abruptly and turns. “Locke, my mother—my adoptive mother—wasn’t part of it. She didn’t know what he did. She really did love me. I know she did. All she ever wanted—” Her voice cracks and she swallows. “All she ever wanted was a baby and she said I was her answered prayer. A gift from heaven.” Her eyes glisten with tears she forces back. “She was a good mother.”