Today
“It wasn’t me! For the ninety-fifth time!” Zion screamed onscreen, stumbling through the living room.
Nola leaned toward the screen of Zion’s laptop. The video from the Minion nanny cam was crisp and in color—4K, she realized. Ultrahigh-def.
As Zion raced toward the kitchen, a woman with pale skin and a blue leather coat strolled behind him. She moved gracefully, almost joyfully, like she was relishing it. No question, a pro. Her head was turned, so Nola couldn’t get a good look. But her hair—a redhead.
“Zion, if you run . . .”
He ran—scrambling forward—out of the camera’s eye, disappearing into the kitchen.
From there, the rest of the video was an empty living room with far too many Japanese accessories. Once Zion and the woman reached the kitchen, the audio was muddy. Nola couldn’t hear a word. Someone yelling, then silence.
A few minutes later, a towering boulder of a man—also with red hair （though he looked more Irish）—lumbered into the frame. Entering the living room, he headed straight for the coffee table, his meaty paw grabbing the one item that Nola hadn’t noticed at first: a phone.
Now it made sense.
These redheads, two of them. They killed Zion, they took his phone, and clearly, they had a head start.
Not for long.
50
“I don’t like being manipulated, Colonel.”
“I’m inviting you to join the team. You should be excited,” O.J. said, standing and crossing around to the opposite side of the desk, toward Zig.
“Y’know who you’re reminding me of right now? In Karate Kid—the guy who runs the evil dojo? Sweep the leg?”
“Cobra Kai.”
“You’ve got his subtlety.”
“They made a Netflix series where he comes back. As the hero of the story,” the colonel said. “I’m giving you an opportunity to actually be helpful.”
“Can I just make one last point? The Netflix series is about Johnny, the student, not the sensei, who’s still a doucheface. Anyway . . . you were saying, you need a favor?”
“It’s about Roddy.”
Zig was listening.
“I know he reached out to you, Mr. Zigarowski.”
Zig sat there, not moving. Was O.J. bluffing? Didn’t sound like it, which meant that the colonel had either been watching at the funeral or listening in on Zig’s phone. Zig made a mental note, eyeing the big Hawaii photo on the ceiling.
“He’s not your friend, Mr. Zigarowski,” the colonel said, Zig now realizing that O.J. was one of those people who says your name over and over, hoping to create familiarity. An old military interrogation technique.
“I barely know Roddy. He’s a stranger,” Zig said.
“To us, too. We’d like to change that. Hence my offer: next time you hear from him, we’d like to know. That’s all we’re asking, Mr. Zigarowski.”
Zig stayed silent, flushed with that feeling he’d get when a family member would say that their dead relative was “a real character.” They were trying to keep things nice, but there was clearly so much more they weren’t saying. “And this’ll help you track down Nola?” Zig asked.
“This has nothing to do w—”
“I’m not a fool, sir. I know you’re looking for her. I know that when you tried to bring her in, one of your crew got a pen jabbed into his kneecap. And don’t tell me he’s not part of your crew, because it’s not hard to recognize hands grabbing lightning bolts,” Zig said, motioning over to the colonel’s credenza and the row of flight helmets. “Semper Vigiles, Colonel. Latin for why don’t you stop bullshitting me and tell me the truth?”