The Book of Fate

65

Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” an elderly black woman with a beaded bracelet said as she walked O’Shea to the door of her modest conch cottage at 327 William Street. “Though I do hope you find him.”

“I’m sure we will,” O’Shea replied, stepping back outside and tucking his badge back into his jacket pocket. “Thanks for letting us look around, though.”

A few steps behind him, Micah held his phone to his ear, trying hard not to look frustrated. He didn’t say a word until the woman shut the door behind them.

“Told you the kid’s sharp,” The Roman said through Micah’s phone.

“That’s real helpful,” Micah shot back. “Almost as helpful as showing up in Florida and heading into Manning’s office without telling anyone.”

“You know the rules,” The Roman said calmly. “No contact unless—”

“You telling me this isn’t a fucking emergency?” Micah exploded. “We got Wes sniffing everywhere, no bead on Boyle, and you’re waltzing into the one place that has the very best chance of asking what the hell’re you doing here in the first place? When’d you plan on filling us in — before or after they start staring at you and report you back to headquarters?”

Just as he did before, The Roman stayed calm. “I did call you, Micah. That’s why we’re talking. And if it makes you feel better, no one’s reporting me anywhere. I’m here because it’s my job, which is more than I can say about you and the half dozen people you’ve held yourself out to as an FBI agent. The Agency teach you to be that dumb, or were you just panicking that O’Shea would turn on you if you didn’t stay close to him?”

“I told headquarters my father was sick. O’Shea said he had his niece’s graduation. You think we didn’t clear ourselves for being back here?”

“And that makes you think you can hold hands in public like that? Using your real names, no less? O’Shea I understand — just in case Wes calls the Bureau to check him out. But you!? Have you forgotten how we got this far in the first place?”

“Actually, I haven’t forgotten any of it,” Micah shot back. “Which is why, when I first started smelling the flames from the Towering Inferno, I called O’Shea instead of you. So don’t you forget, pinhead — in the FBI, O’Shea’s a Legal Attaché, meaning he coordinates resources for foreign investigations. That means he’s authorized — hell, he’s encouraged—to pair up with Agency folks like me. That’s his job! So no offense, but as long as it’s my ass on the clothesline, I plan on being front and center for saving it!”

For a moment, The Roman was silent. “No contact,” he finally said. “Ever.”

Micah turned to O’Shea, who mouthed the words Hang up. After almost ten years together, they both knew it wasn’t worth the argument. When The Roman wanted something, he always went after it himself. It was the same for all of them. Personal drive was what brought them together all those years ago at War College. It was no coincidence that each was invited to attend one of the army’s prestigious leadership conferences, where top military officials and representatives from the State Department, CIA, FBI, DIA, Customs, and Secret Service spend two weeks studying national defense and military interactions. It was there that they were lectured on military tactics. There that they learned strategic leadership. And there that each realized how much they’d given to their government — and how little the government had given back. That’s where The Three was born.

No doubt, personal drive made them successful over time. It helped them maneuver through the system, maintaining their jobs to this day without any of their colleagues being the wiser. Yet personal drive, they also knew, would someday be their undoing. Boyle called them The Three, but even on their best days, they were always looking out for number one.

“Just find Wes — he’s still the only one Boyle’s contacted, which means Boyle’ll reach out again,” The Roman added. “And even with the fake address Wes gave, you should still be able t—”

With a click, Micah hung up the phone. “Guy’s unreal,” he bitched to O’Shea. “First, he snakes in without telling us, now he wants to play quarterback.”

“He’s just nervous,” O’Shea said. “And personally, I don’t blame him.”

“But to let Nico out—”

“By accident…”

“You believe him on that?”

“Micah, Roman’s a scumbag, but he’s not a moron. He knows Nico can Hindenburg at any moment, which is why he needed to see if Boyle had been in touch. But let me tell you right now, if we don’t find Wes — and Boyle — quickly, I’m done. No joke. It’s enough.”

“Can you please stop with the ultimatums?”

“It’s not an ultimatum,” O’Shea insisted. “Just being here — snooping this close and giving this kid every reason to look us up — you have any idea what we’re risking?”

“We’re being smart.”

“No, being smart is walking away now, and being thankful we made some cash and lasted this long.”

“Not when there’s so much more cash to be made. The Roman said next month in India, there’s a—”

“Of course, it’s India. And eight months ago, it was Argentina, and eight years ago, it was Daytona. It’s enough, Micah. Yes, we added some feathers to the nest egg, but the giant pot of gold? It’s never coming.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m right.”

“You’re wrong!” Micah insisted, his finely combed hair flying out of place.

O’Shea stopped at the curb, knowing better than to keep arguing. It didn’t matter anyway — he’d made his decision the moment he got the call yesterday: If they could wrap this up quickly, fantastic. If not, well, that’s why he saved his money and bought that bungalow in Rio. Eyeing Micah, he knew that if it all cratered and it came down to finger-pointing, he had no problem breaking a few fingers.

“Everything okay?” Micah asked.

O’Shea nodded from the curb, both of them studying each house on the lush, narrow street. O’Shea checked windows and doors, searching for shadows and suddenly closed curtains. Micah checked front porches and pathways, searching for footprints in the light layer of sand that regularly blew across the Key West sidewalks. Neither found a thing. Until…

“There,” O’Shea said, marching diagonally across the street and heading straight for the peach cottage with the white shutters and gingerbread trim.

“Where?” Micah asked, still searching for himself.

“The car.”

A few steps behind O’Shea, Micah studied the old red Mustang parked in the driveway at 324 William Street. Florida license plate. Registration stickers up to date. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the ratty, weather-worn Washington Redskins bumper sticker on the back left bumper.

“Go Skins,” Micah whispered, barely able to contain his grin. Picking up speed, he followed his partner up the steps to the front door with the hand-painted wooden crab sign hanging on it.

“One sec,” Micah added as he reached into his suit jacket and flicked off the safety on his gun. Signaling to O’Shea with a nod, he took a half-step back, just in case they’d have to knock down the door.

With a jab of his finger, O’Shea rang the doorbell and checked on his own gun. “Coming,” a voice called from inside.

Micah checked the street behind them. No one in sight.

The doorknob twisted with a creak, and the door flew open.

“Hey there,” O’Shea announced, purposely not pulling his FBI badge. “We’re friends of Wes Holloway and just wanted to check in and make sure he’s okay.”

“Oh, he’s great,” Kenny said, purposely blocking the doorway, even though the only thing to see was his empty kitchen and living room. “But I’m sorry to say he’s long gone.”

Craning his neck to look over Kenny’s shoulder, Micah ignored the kitchen and living room and instead focused on the far back wall of the house, where a painted screen door led out to the backyard.

“Yeah, we thought that might be the case,” O’Shea said. “But even so, you mind if we come inside and just ask a few questions?”