It had been painful to realize that her decision to step away from Mac after Brock’s funeral had cost her every single one of the people sitting around her in perfectly matched lawn furniture.
As the light had begun to dwindle, she’d seen Six and Lou head home, but not before Mac had hugged his friend, gripping his shoulders tightly as he said something that was obviously important. Six had looked down at the ground and then over at Lou, who had been too busy hugging Sylvie to notice. Mac had followed his gaze and said something to Six that had him standing an inch taller. Then Six had put his hand out for Lou, and she’d slid under his arm.
Something about the way Mac had watched the two of them walk up the street to their own home had her swallowing deeply. She could see the concern for his friend, who was off to a place that was volatile, and hostile, and constantly evolving. But she had also seen something else. Something she’d felt too after a day spent with the couple.
Longing.
To have what Six and Lou had found.
To not be alone.
* * *
“You okay, Delaney?” Mac said, putting the screwdriver down on one of the boxes. He’d asked her the same question on the drive home when she’d curled up against the window, not to create distance between them, but so she could fall asleep and escape the questions running around in her head. Over coffee when they’d returned home from his parents’ house, he’d challenged her logic on moving out. He’d not meant to go back over the topic he’d already agreed was a good thing, but goddamn, something about the tears in her eyes on that beach had broken him. And he wanted to protect her, be there for her now more than ever. And when she’d explained that this was the only way forward, he’d insisted on helping.
“I’m fine.” She repositioned her laptop on her lap and studied the map on the screen. Major drug routes from Mexico into America. Meth from Asia. Cocaine from Colombia, Venezuela, and Brazil. Something told her that if she followed the drugs, she’d find the money, and if she found the money, she’d find the weapons supplier. And she’d woken up with a sense of urgency. What if her abduction wasn’t opportunistic? What if someone had betrayed her? What if trouble hadn’t followed her back from Afghanistan? What if it had been in the U.S. all along?
Mac sat down on the floor next to her and looked at the screen. “If you could put a fraction more energy or enthusiasm into the “I’m fine” sentiment, I might be more inclined to believe you,” he said.
“Yesterday took a lot out of me,” she answered honestly. “All of this has. My editor doesn’t want me to return to work for a week, but I need to do something before my brain atrophies.”
“Most other people would do something like make up their bed or fill the fridge on the day they move in.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” she said, finally finding the courage to look at Mac straight on. His eyes had always been intense. When she’d been younger, she’d sit in his arms and they’d just look at each other. Really see each other. Like they were doing now. She forced herself to hold his gaze.
“I probably haven’t said this yet, but I’m proud of you, Delaney. What you do. How smart you are. The confidence you have. I’ve wondered a lot through the years about the kind of woman you’d become and—I’ve got to be honest—this wasn’t it.”
Delaney laughed. “How did you think I’d be?”
Mac rubbed his hand over his stubbled jaw. She knew he’d been up early to see Six and the team off and lock up their large warehouse building so Six had one less thing to worry about, but she couldn’t argue that the scruff looked good on him.
“I don’t know, you were always so … well, not settled, exactly … but I never got the sense of wanderlust. So, I guess I figured you’d be married, two kids, picket fence. Teacher, because you were always smart.”
Delaney leaned her head back on the wall and closed her eyes. Maybe those had been her dreams once. Married, but to the man sitting next to her. Not quite a picket fence, but maybe a family home in a nice neighborhood. And probably a teacher, maybe a professor. But life had thrown her a curveball, and she’d spent the last decade trying to catch it.
“I love my work,” she said, squiggling the touchpad on her laptop to bring her screen to life again so she could enter her password. “I guess there’s always been too much to do. And then the election happened, and I knew there had to be a more honest approach to media. That’s how I came up with the idea behind Honedia.”
“It’s your company?” Mac asked.
Delaney shook her head. “No. Well, not exactly. I didn’t have the experience or know-how to set up a news organization. But I knew some people who could. Plus, it’s a bipartisan nonprofit organization. We all agreed the truth shouldn’t come with a price tag or political control—which I know sounds so obvious, but it’s part of our basic tenets.”
Mac leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. “Are you a shareholder then?”
“No. While it’s technically possible for a nonprofit to have shareholders, we don’t. We have a board of directors, which I’m on. We have months when we barely break even because the expenses of wrestling down the truth can be huge.”
“Like you out in Afghanistan?”
“Yeah. And who knows where the investigation might take us. It might spread further afield, it might have government reach if we can prove any of the illicit activity is sanctioned. So now I’m checking out known drug and gun routes to see if there are any similarities with the patterns I am looking at.”
“Like this?” he said, pointing down at the boat routes. “We have a new shipping client out of Uruguay. They were telling us what they are seeing. The late-night runs, the illegally registered vessels, the piracy … just how bad it is. How come you’re looking at this?”
“It’s just a theory I have. What’s the most basic thing arms dealers need?”
Mac turned slightly. “Money.”
Delaney smiled. “Yep. I might have to triangulate this to make sense of it all, but if an arms dealer needs money, it’s got to be gained illegally, whether through weapon sales or some other illegal business—”
“Like money laundering from the sale of drugs,” Mac said excitedly. “Makes sense.”
“If this dealer isn’t one of the big boys, it has to be someone relatively new. Viktor Bout, allegedly one of the biggest arms dealers, is estimated to be worth billions, way more than the collective gross domestic product of Sierra Leone and Liberia, two of the countries his weapons helped destroy. Before he was sent to prison, he could have bought a giant nuclear installation made of pure platinum, if he wanted to. But new dealers, those without Bout’s reach who are just making the connections by stealing the jobs away from the big boys, they’re going to need cash. They’re going to need to buy supplies up front and get cash for them after the sale.”
“So if you can find the income trails to see where they lead, then overlap it with access to aviation, and flow of inventory—whether it’s weapons or drugs…”
Delaney nodded, getting excited by the potential of the conversation as she always did. “Exactly, I can look for points of convergence.”
Mac stood up and returned to the doorframe, picking up another piece of the lock. “Sounds a lot easier than it probably is though, right?”
She tried to ignore the way his T-shirt pulled tight around his bicep as he screwed whatever he had just picked up into the frame. “Yeah. But I think it might be worth doing. And it’s mostly research-based, so I can rest my ankle. I would have thought it would be better after almost three weeks.”
“Why don’t you get it X-rayed? Check that they didn’t miss something in your initial exam.” He closed the door and checked that the lock closed properly.
An email notification popped up on her screen, and she clicked it out of habit. “Yeah, I might do that if it doesn’t feel better after the weekend.”
“You know the difference between ‘concealment’ and ‘cover,’ Delaney? If you
do go out?”
Delaney shook her head. “Not really. Well, I mean probably not in the context you mean.”
“‘Concealment’ is hiding. Like, behind a curtain. No one can see you, but if they realized that was where you were hiding, they could easily shoot you or grab you. ‘Cover’ is making it impossible to get at you.” He looked at her fiercely. “Remember the difference.”
She nodded, understanding what he was trying to tell her. To stay safe. “When do you leave?”
Mac glanced her way. “As soon as I’m sure you’ve got a decent set of locks on this shit-tastic door.”
For a moment, she wondered if what he was going to do was dangerous, but didn’t ask, because that would lead to worrying. Or worse, caring. Instead, she glanced down at the email.
Stay the fuck out of shit that doesn’t concern you. We thought you’d learned your lesson in Kunduz. Obviously not. Don’t make us finish what we started.
The words brought her to an abrupt halt, as did the image. Of her. On the ground in that godforsaken house she’d been taken to. Mac was still talking, but his words became a buzz in the background. She hadn’t googled herself since she’d gotten back, but she knew from her boss that there had been some news coverage. The email had come to her Contact Me address from the company website rather than her personal one.
Forcing herself to control her racing heart and focus, she swirled the cursor over the email address.
It was probably from a burner email that wouldn’t be able to be traced, but she’d send the threat to the Honedia’s tech expert anyway. In their line of investigative reporting, it wasn’t unusual to find information that needed tracking and tracing. It wasn’t the first time she’d been threatened, but somehow this seemed more menacing.
Her immediate reaction was to tell Mac, but he was going off on a job, and she didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily when she could run it by Honedia’s tech and legal teams first.
“I’m done,” Mac said, closing his toolbox with a bang.
Delaney slammed the lid of her laptop. “Thank you,” she said, clambering to her feet in a way that she knew looked ungainly.
“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” Mac asked, reaching for her elbow to help her. “You look a little gray.”
“I’m fine,” she said, brushing his arm away. “Just stood up on my ankle a little funny. Thanks for doing this.” The door now looked like it could give Fort Knox a run for its money.
“Anytime.” Mac looked down at his watch. “Shit, I’ve got to go, Delaney. Listen, you have my number if you need me.”
Sadness filtered through her fear, and Delaney hated it. “You’re going to be safe, right?” she asked as he unlocked all her new locks and opened the door.
Mac cupped her cheek. “Always, Buttons. I’ll see you when I get back.”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” she said, but she couldn’t help leaning into his palm. She needed something. Some warmth, some connection to ground her after the shock of the email, after seeing herself in that photograph.
Mac leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. “It wasn’t a question,” he said as he walked down the hall. “It was a statement. And lock your doors.”
* * *
Delaney leaned back on the sofa that she’d repositioned to face out of the large window and closed her eyes. Shell companies should be outlawed. Or at least limited to one or two tiers of deception.
She wasn’t sure what time it was. Or when she’d last eaten a normal meal, although the extra-large bag of barbecue crinkle-cut chips she’d made her way through had filled the hole in her stomach.
It had been three days since Mac had left for his job to who knew where. If she thought about it for too long, she’d start to panic. She’d get texts from him at odd hours of the night, not that she’d see them until morning. Part of her would be frustrated that he was thinking of her in the small hours—because that was when he was on her mind. She didn’t want to believe that it was some giant cosmic sign that they thought of each other at the same time of day. The other part of her would just be relieved he wasn’t hurt.
So she’d thrown herself into her work. The net she had cast was wide. She had a bunch of feelers out, trying to work backward from the airfield. Her contact there had told her that the guy who’d brought the shipment had told him that it had been a long series of pickups. Some of the containers had come from an old warehouse on the outskirts of San Diego, and another set had been transferred from a truck outside of El Centro about twelve miles north of the Mexico border.
She’d been picking at the San Diego lead like an annoying scab. Her phone vibrated, but she ignored it. Her mom had clearly been drinking, given her earlier texts already riddled with spelling mistakes. She’d been over to visit Delaney’s new place the day before, and the disappointment had been etched on her face as clearly as the spidery veins that covered her cheeks from all the alcohol she’d consumed.
It vibrated again, and as she checked her phone, she noted it was nearly time for dinner.
4 across. A society ruled by men. Moral authority and control of property exclusively in male hands. A_ _R_ _ _A_Y
Mac!
Since when do you do the crossword? And it’s androcracy.
Just got off my shift. Too wired to sleep.
He’d sent her messages like this the last few days. She’d tried to keep her distance. Until now. And now she needed to know why he was wired.
Where are you? Are you safe?
There was a pause as little dots flashed at the bottom of her screen. Washington. You worried about me, Delaney?
Now it was her turn to delay answering. Washington? After she’d been worried he’d gone to a war zone or something, like Six.
The only thing likely to kill you in Washington is dying of old age trying to get anywhere in traffic.
Sorry I worried you. It’s confidential but I didn’t realize not telling you was an issue.
Delaney tapped the side of her phone before she responded. I wasn’t worried. But good to know you are safe.
There was another lull, this one so long that she put down her phone and went back to work. Investigating every shell company she found was driving her insane.
Hey. Do you remember those lilies that made you sneeze?
Did she ever. Her prom. She’d loved the corsage he’d bought her. Embarrassingly, the night had been spent with her sneezing and Mac apologizing while demanding she throw the damn thing away. But she hadn’t been able to. Despite the watery eyes, she’d thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world.
I do. She didn’t expand. The unexpected trip down memory lane hurt her heart. Especially when she remembered that the first time Mac had come to her house officially as her boyfriend was to ask her to the prom. For years, Brock had warned all his friends to stay away from his baby sister. He’d even tried to tell her to walk away from Mac, explaining that it wasn’t that he didn’t think the world of Mac, just that he wanted more for her. But that night, when Mac had officially asked her in front of her parents, Brock had finally accepted the two of them, reducing her to a puddle of tears.
You’d hate being here then. Attached was a photograph of a large, luxurious hallway with a large table. On it was a giant vase of gorgeous lilies.
It shouldn’t have made her laugh, but it did. He was right, her sinuses would have exploded.
The phone rang in her hand, and she answered it. “You’re right, I’m glad I’m not there,” she said with a laugh.
“Well, that’s charming,” her mother said.
Crap. Delaney looked down at the phone. She’d fully expected it to be Mac, and now she was stuck. She stood up and wandered to the window. “Sorry, Mom. Thought you were someone else.”
“Was it Mac?” There was a needle-sharp edge to her voice that reached through the phone.
“Yes Mom,” Delaney said as she twirled the plastic rod that opened and closed the blinds on the window. “He fitted some new locks f
or me today.”
“That was good of him.” Reba’s voice went up and down, as if she were unable to decide whether she was shocked, surprised, or angry.
“He was being overprotective.”
“I’m serious, Delaney Shapiro. You remember Annelle?”
Annelle was her mom’s least favorite character in Steel Magnolias, so if she was about to get a lecture, it wasn’t going to be a good one. “Not today, Mom.” It was her standard answer when her mom was drunk. Debate was futile, and her mom wouldn’t remember making the call in the morning anyway.
“Listen to me. I’m your momma,” Reba slurred. “Annelle arrived and was nice enough, took to the church too hard, then had to back off to become a good person.”
Delaney rolled her eyes. “Spoken like a good Presbyterian.”
Her mom tutted. “You know what I mean. Malachai was a good boy. Then Brock … I guess what I mean to say is, maybe we’ve all been too entrenched in our positions. And he gave you security as a gift,” her mom sniffed.
Oh, God. Please don’t let her start crying. Delaney couldn’t deal with that. Nor could she understand her mom’s analogy, but her tone told her there was progress in accepting Mac.
“So, you’re happy that Mac is around? And yes, I am grateful for the new locks.”
She looked over at the door that now had a reinforced frame and several new security locks, which, given the size of her tiny apartment, made the space feel even more like a prison cell. But at least she could sleep at night knowing she was secure.
“A man like that wouldn’t arrange for new locks for someone he didn’t care about.”
Delaney stepped away from the blinds, walked to the cheap wood bookcase, and continued loading the books and papers she’d transported from Mac’s but had left sitting on the floor in the three days since he’d left. “Doesn’t it bother you, though, Mom? What happened to Brock? That Mac was up there on that cliff with him?”
Final Siege Page 10
