“Mr. Richardson, none of that is true, and I can explain if—”
“What do you think I am, stupid?” Richardson whirled around to me, aiming the gun at my forehead. “You’re a killer!”
“Mr. Richardson, do you know Tig? If you do, please call him. I can tell you what to say, to verify who I am—”
“I know who you are! You killed a fed!”
“No, they framed me for that—”
“You’re stone-cold crazy! You killed your whole damn family—”
Oh God. “That’s not true, I’m hoping they’re with Dom—”
“It says it in the dang newspaper!”
“They’re wrong—”
“The cops say it!”
“They’re wrong, too! The FBI isn’t releasing the information. They can’t, because of the conspiracy.” I sounded crazy, even to me. “Please get me to Tig—”
“Now, why would I take a crazy-ass killer to one of my oldest friends?”
“I think he’ll know how to find Dom and—”
“What you need Dom for? You gonna kill him, too?”
“No, listen, Dom doesn’t work in procurement. He’s an FBI agent, protecting me and my family in the witness protection program.”
Richardson blinked.
“Oh my!” Mary gasped. They both looked at me, shocked. The gun didn’t waver from my forehead.
“Mr. Richardson, for the love of God, please call Tig.”
* * *
—
“It’s ringing.” Richardson held his cell phone in his left hand and his gun in his right, trained on me. I stayed on my knees, my hands raised. I’d noticed he’d called Tig with one touch, which meant he had him in Favorites.
Richardson said into the phone, “Tig, yo, I got a White guy here, name of Jason Bennett. He killed a fed in Delaware. He’s been askin’ about you, tryna get to Dom.”
Richardson fell abruptly silent, then his graying eyebrows lifted in surprise. “No shit,” he said into the phone.
* * *
—
A brown Honda came to pick us up, and Richardson hustled to the passenger seat and I went to the back. The Honda took off, driven by an older African-American man, his features shadowed by a red Sixers cap. A short salt-and-pepper beard covered his chin, and gold rings glinted on his fingers. He seemed short, and his black leather jacket puffed around his shoulders.
Richardson turned to me. “Get down.”
I lay down in the back seat.
“By the way, this is Skeet.”
“Nice to meet you, Skeet. Thanks for the assist.”
“Welcome.”
I felt the car accelerate. We turned left, then right. My heart pounded with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to see Lucinda and Ethan.
Richardson clucked. “Tig shoulda told us Dom was in trouble.”
Skeet snorted. “It’s bad, that’s why. He wants us clear.”
“Bullshit on that. We’re here. All for one.”
“One for all.”
“The Black Musketeers.”
“The sexy Musketeers.”
They both laughed.
I smiled. They sounded like old friends, the ease between them palpable. “How do you guys know each other?”
“Poker buddies,” Richardson answered. “Before that, we were in ’Nam together.”
“Three tours,” Skeet added.
Richardson shook his head. “You always gotta say that.”
“So what? I elaborate.”
Richardson chuckled, and Skeet joined him.
I started thinking up a plan. I could count on Dom, but I needed an army.
Maybe I already had one.
Chapter Sixty
“Let’s go!” Richardson motioned to me, and the three of us piled out of the parked car and hurried down the street. Most of the houses had been abandoned. One had been torn down, leaving a pile of bricks, rebar, and plaster. No one was on the sidewalk. The streetlights were out. I didn’t know where we were and it didn’t matter. Lucinda and Ethan were here.
We hurried to a dilapidated brick rowhouse, its front window boarded up. Richardson had texted ahead, and the front door opened as soon as we hit the stoop. Richardson and Skeet hustled inside with me on their heels.
We squeezed into a dark hallway, then the front door was closed behind us. It was pitch black. I heard a dead bolt being engaged, then the rattle of a chain lock being drawn. Nobody said anything. The air felt cold. It smelled dusty.
“Follow me,” a man whispered, presumably Tig. We fell into step behind his shadowy form, left the hallway, and hurried through a large, empty living room, our shoes scuffling on gritty hardwood.
A door opened to our left, and a light emanated from the doorway, illuminating Tig in profile. He looked like an older version of Dom, with a neat balding head, round dark eyes set close together, a strong mouth, and a jawline with a cleft.
“Tig?”
“Yo.” Tig smiled quickly. “Go downstairs.”
“Thanks.” I hurried downstairs, and my heart leapt at the sight. Dom stood with a smile beside Lucinda and Ethan, who were already in motion toward me.
“Jason!” Lucinda rushed to me, her arms raised, tears in her eyes, with Ethan by her side. I swooped them both up, feeling all of my senses exploding at once, love, gratitude, fear, and relief.
I kissed Lucinda’s hair and held Ethan close, his spiny back racked with sobs in his Call of Duty T-shirt. I could feel the warmth of Lucinda’s skin under my palm in her sundress. We clung together, and I never wanted to let them go. My family.
“Dad!” Ethan buried himself in my side, and I released Lucinda to hug him, wiping his tears away, then looking down into his face.
“It’s okay, honey, it’s going to be okay now.” I held him again, meeting Lucinda’s eye. Uncertainty flickered behind her teary gaze, and I knew why, but I wasn’t about to go there now.
“I love you,” she said, with a shaky smile.
“Love you, too,” I heard myself say.
“Your face is all bruised! And your hair’s gone! What happened?”
“I’m fine.” I waved it off, then looked at Dom, throwing open my arms and giving him a big hug. “You saved their lives!” I let him go. “Thank you!”
“That’s why I make the big bucks.” Dom burst into laughter, then he gestured behind me. “Jason, meet Uncle Tig.”
“Tig!” I threw open my arms, but Tig raised his hands, laughing.
“I’m not a hugger.”
“You are now,” I said, hugging him anyway.
Dom gestured to the men. “Lucinda, Ethan, let me introduce you to Tig’s friends, Leonard Richardson and Skeet Dunwoody.”
“Nice to meet you.” Lucinda smiled, extending a hand, and while they exchanged introductions, I looked around.
The cellar was chilly and musty. The walls were of damp plaster painted a grimy white and falling off in clumps. The floor was concrete, though it had been swept. A makeshift kitchen had been set up on the left with an old white porcelain table and wooden stools, a dorm-size refrigerator, and a hot plate on an orange crate. A laptop powered by heavy-duty extension cords and power strips led to a fuse box. Four heavy blankets and mismatched pillows sat under the stairway, makeshift beds. It killed me to think of them, hiding here in fear.