“So you think . . .” Tessa swallowed hard, trying to steady her breath. “The fact they’re both dead . . . You don’t think they were still—？”
“Tessie, if you’re asking me why they were meeting in a steak restaurant, I can’t possibly give you a definitive answer. Years ago, with Rashida, Archie made a mistake that I know he forever regretted. And I realize how it looks. But now, for them to both turn up dead . . . plus all the extra work that someone put in to make sure none of this seems connected . . . I know it’s emotional, but objectively speaking, at least to me . . .” O.J. again pushed his glasses up on his nose. “This seems less like something intimate, and more like something work related.”
It was a perfect explanation, presented with perfect logic, but as Zig stood there in the hallway, it still didn’t explain one key detail: If everything the colonel just said was true, who the hell moved Rashida’s body?
In truth, Zig had seen it before. When two of our spies were killed on a top secret mission, to protect their identities, the government would sometimes move one of the bodies so no one would know they were working together. Could that be the case here—that it was done before O.J. and the Dover folks got there? It was as good an explanation as any. But to pull it off took manpower—paperwork had to be filed, supervisors had to approve—and most important, the right undercover team had to swoop in fast enough t—
Mothertrucker. Zig missed it at first, but there it was, on O.J.’s credenza: the flight helmets. These days, the Air Force had stopped letting pilots decorate their helmets like Maverick himself—but since the colonel was older, his helmets had printed call signs above the front visor. There were a few from the Cold War era that clearly belonged to his dad. The newer ones had the word “Poptop” along the top visor—those were O.J.’s—along with various wing and squadron emblems along the sides. The very last one also had a familiar unit logo, a hand grabbing two bright yellow lightning bolts: Semper Vigiles.
Zig felt the blood rush from his face. Of course—
Archie Mint
Rashida Robinson
Elijah King
And now, Colonel O. J. Whatley
All of them in the same unit, a unit that clearly had a deeply personal stake in whatever happened all those years ago at Grandma’s Pantry.
“So at the steak place— You don’t think they were—” Tessa let out a huff, her eyes welling with tears—good tears—as a wave of relief rolled over her.
“Tessie, he loved you . . . You were his— C’mere,” O.J. insisted, crossing around his desk, arms extended for a hug.
Tessa stepped toward him, arms flat at her sides, her head sagging back, crumpling desperately, thankfully, into his embrace. As a mortician, Zig had spent decades seeing people at their best and worst. Yet there’s always that moment when a mourner reaches their physical limits and finally realizes that no matter how strong they’re pretending to be, death always sees you for who you really are, and always gets what it’s after. Fight all you want. At some point, there’s nothing to do but surrender.
“This doesn’t mean I’m forgetting about his phone,” Tessa whispered.
The colonel laughed, tightening his embrace. “You’ll get it. I swear. I’ll bring it tonight, maybe for dinner? You still have to eat, right?”
“What about Elijah? Have you heard from him?” she asked.
“We’re trying. No response. Let’s get you home,” the colonel added, ushering her to the door—both of them now headed toward Zig.
Zig tried to run, but there wasn’t time. Sliding into a nearby rolling chair, he kept his back to the colonel, quickly skating toward the assistant’s desk, which had the same Captain America mouse pad used by nearly half of today’s young troops.