The Inner Circle

106

"That’s not… No…” Dallas stutters, barely able to stand and still not registering his wound. “You told me… you said I was in the Culper Ring-”

Ignoring him, Palmiotti steps in close and snatches the file from Dallas’s hands. “You need to know you were serving your country, son.”

Dallas shakes his head, his body still in shock.

I try to take a breath as the stale air fills my lungs. Tot had it only part right. Yes, Dallas was in the Plumbers. But he didn’t know he was in the Plumbers.

“Beecher, you see what these people are capable of?” Clementine snaps as all the doubt, all the sadness, all the weepiness she just showed us is suddenly gone. For the past few days, every time Clementine had a mood shift or revealed a new side of herself, I kept saying it was another door opening inside her. She had dozens of rooms. But as I look at her now, I finally understand that it doesn’t matter how many rooms she has. It doesn’t matter how striking the rooms are. Or how well they’re decorated. Or how mesmerizing they are to walk through. What matters is that every one of her rooms-even the very best one-has a hell of a light switch. And it flips. Instantly. Without any damn warning. Just like her father.

On my left, Dallas looks down at his chest, where the blood puddle has blossomed, soaking his shirt. His legs sway, beginning to buckle.

Wasting no time, Palmiotti turns his gun toward me. I see the blackness of the barrel. I wait for him to make some final threat, but it doesn’t come. “My apologies, Beecher,” he says as he pulls the trigger and-

Ftttt.

The air twists with a brutal hiss.

Palmiotti doesn’t notice. Not until he looks down and spots the singed black hole, like a cigarette burn, that smolders in his forearm. A thin drip of blood begins to run down.

It’s not like the movies. There’s no wisp of smoke twirling from the barrel. There’s just Clementine. And her gun.

She saved me.

Palmiotti stands there, stunned. His gun drops from his hand, bounces along the floor, and makes a dull thud near Dallas’s feet.

Dallas can barely stand, but he knows this is his chance. His last chance. He spots Palmiotti’s gun.

But before Dallas can even bend for it, he grabs his own chest. He’s bleeding bad. His legs buckle and he crumples, empty-handed, to the dusty floor.

“I’m leaving now,” Clementine says, keeping her gun on Palmiotti and once again tightening her finger around the trigger. “You can hand me that file now, please.”