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July 2015 · AIIB Mission Month 13

Even if the cops come calling

I’ll never talk

Even if you wreck me, even if you waste the youth I’ve got

Baby if the cops come calling

I’ll never talk

— —K. Flay (“The Cops,” 2013)

On the morning after the Lefebvre job, the stretch of highway between the hotel and the penthouse managed to erase the fear and doubt that had blossomed in Dust’s chest.

Slip ups would be unavoidable. But he had Carrow’s trust — and that was what mattered.

The woman at the hotel only reminded him how urgent it was for Dust to get back on track. He had to make concrete steps towards what he’d begun to think of as his ultimate proposal: a new life for the two of them.

If they left The Company — left Las Abras and took on new identities, it would soothe both of their deepest fears. Carrow could leave the rest of the members of The Company with enough money to retire far away from Las Abras — making sure, at last, that they were safe.

And Dust could leave behind the paranoia, the fear that Abe would rear its ugly head and take everything from him.

Maybe in a few years, they could become a family again. The Company itself could start over, once the smoke cleared, in a new city. Maybe even a new country.

The only piece missing — the thing he always hit like a brick wall — was how to explain to Carrow what he was escaping from.

They pulled into the private parking bay. The tech van from the previous night’s heist was there, so obviously everything had gone off without a hitch in bringing the gold up to the 45th floor. One of the nicer sedans was missing — the red one Leta favored.

“I bet they went for brunch,” Carrow said, nodding at the empty parking space.

Dust smiled. He would’ve liked to join them. Days after heists were always good ones. The adrenaline wore off overnight, but the elation at a job well done was something that stretched for days afterwards.

Maybe Dust would volunteer to cook that night, he thought. He’d like an excuse to get everyone around the table and in a good mood.

“Emerson ? ”

Dust’s heart seemed to drop into his stomach when he heard Carrow say the name.

Carrow had entered the penthouse first, Dust pausing at the entryway to look at some damage to the door jamb that had probably happened while the rest of The Company was bringing up the bullion the night before.

But then Dust heard Carrow’s voice, and he couldn’t get inside fast enough.

The man was standing in their dining room.

Undercover AIIB Agent Neil Emerson did not belong there.

And yet there he was.

Carrow had already pulled his gun and aimed it at the man. Dust came to stand beside him and did the same. There was no sign of anyone else from The Company in the penthouse. Emerson looked unconcerned about the two guns pointed at him — and a smile slid across his face as Dust joined his boss.

Slowly, he raised his hands in surrender.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Dust asked.

His heart was racing. There wasn’t a single good reason why the undercover agent would show up unannounced at Carrow’s place.

“I came up with the gold,” Emerson said casually. “Your people were distracted enough getting the bars up that they didn’t notice someone slipping in behind them. I’ve been waiting for you two all morning.”

“So sorry to keep you waiting,” Carrow said through gritted teeth. “What can we help you with?”

Dust wondered if the penthouse had ever been infiltrated like this before — though from the stress in his boss’ voice he could guess that it had not.

“I have an offer for you concerning our mutual friend, Charlie Judge,” Emerson said. Dust’s blood ran cold. On any other morning of any other goddamn day, he could’ve called Emerson a liar — at least bought himself some time to explain. But the name was still fresh in Carrow’s mind from that woman in the lobby he entered training with, so many years ago. Damn her memory.

Dust squeezed around his gun involuntarily — and though he didn’t flinch, Emerson noticed. He produced a manila folder from his jacket.

“Lest you think you can solve this problem by getting trigger happy, Charlie, just know that I came with plenty of proof of who you really are,” Emerson said. “You can shoot me, but you can’t make these go away.”

Emerson slapped the folder down on the dining room table — the place that Dust had only just been thinking about serving dinner to his friends — and several sheets of glossy paper edged out and onto the table. Dust could recognize them from here: field reports he’d made several years ago back at the agency, a glossy photo they’d taken of him for the last AIIB ID card he’d ever had.

It was over. This was all over.

Dust lowered his gun but Carrow kept his leveled at Emerson.

“What can’t he make go away, Neil?”

“All of the proof that Dustin Wrenshall is Charlie Judge. Every bit of documentation that you’ll need to erase any doubts that you’ve had an Abe agent living under your roof for the past year.”

“Dust is AIIB?” Carrow said, his words incredulous despite the reality that had to be sinking in.

“Yes,” Emerson said. “ I am too. I got him in, and now it’s time for me to take him back out.”

Dust jumped at a sudden sound behind him. The rest of The Company was returning. Wayles’ high laugh reached them first and then the sound of Herron murmuring something in response.

“We’ve got a guest in here,” Carrow announced loud enough for them to hear. The conversation stopped as the others rushed to join them. It was all of the remaining members of the crew. They entered and drew their own guns when they saw Carrow. The boss didn’t take his eyes off of Emerson.

Dust could barely look at them.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Vashvi asked.

“I was just telling your boss about the Abe agent you’ve been working with,” Emerson said with a casual shrug.

No one moved but Herron. Their aim shifted, and then Dust was looking down the barrel of their gun.

“Hey — Herron —” Vashvi cautioned.

“Wayles, go take the folder and give it to Leta,” Carrow said, his voice tight and uneven. Nobody told Herron to lower their gun.

Carrow would be putting things together in his memory, Dust thought. The way they’d met, the holes in his past, the bank job and the way Dust had been so fucked up afterwards.

The hundreds of times he’d told Carrow that he loved him, maybe.

The times Carrow had said it back to Dust. To a person who must now feel like a stranger.

Wayles moved cautiously, looping around on Carrow’s side and retrieving the folder from the table. He passed it to Leta, who sheathed her gun and opened the folder.

Everything he had worked for was over. Carrow was going to have him killed today — the man that he loved — and he couldn’t even blame him for it. Dust had left him no other choice.

The air was heavy and still as they waited for Leta’s verdict. She shuffled through the files, the photos. Emerson would’ve had access to everything . He could’ve gotten the files without even raising an eyebrow at the bureau.

“ Dust …” Leta said, sounding tremendously sad. “It’s true.”

“Put your gun down,” Vashvi said, taking a step towards him. She was aiming at him now, too. He wanted to vomit. With one hand raised to indicate that he wasn’t going to try anything, he drew the gun slowly, turned the muzzle away from his friends, and placed it on the kitchen counter. “Now step away from it. Go stand by Emerson.”

With both hands raised, he did as he was told. All of their eyes were on him now. He could hardly bear it.

“Wayles, go get some zip ties,” Carrow said. The man nodded and left. They waited for him.

He remembered, then, the way he had viewed Carrow. Dust had walled off that part of his memory, but it came back in a flood.

Suddenly he was back in his old apartment with the binder, looking at the pictures of Carrow, his blood running cold. He could remember how Charlie Judge had felt something beyond fear of Carrow. Awe, maybe, at how completely the man could erase him if he wanted to.

Carrow hadn't been that man to him since the moment they met. Even in his worst moments of doubt, he had felt something more than that for the man. He had felt respect and attraction and love — but never that same fear.

But in that moment, the specter of Carrow — the larger-than-life portrait of a cruel and cunning man — came back to him. And as much as Dust knew that Carrow must feel like he himself was a stranger in light of the new information, Dust couldn't bring himself to wonder whether or not he'd been right — whether or not, when provoked like this, Carrow could be cruel to him.

Under the eyes of the entire crew, Wayles returned, binding Dust’s hands behind him. Dust didn’t protest. He couldn’t if he wanted to. Every muscle in his body felt enormously heavy, as if he were already dead as he waited to hear his fate. Wayles was gentle with him.

“Emerson too,” Carrow said before Wayles could get far.

Emerson smiled and put his wrists together, turning to make it easy.

“Can’t be too careful,” Emerson said. “I understand.”

Wayles bound him and then joined the rest of The Company. With the two men bound, they lowered their weapons. Dust worked to control his breathing.

“I’m going to be perfectly honest,” Emerson said. “I started out with Abe while Charlie here was probably still cheating on math tests in middle school. But I’m tired of being out in the field getting shit on while Charlie shares champagne and caviar.”

“What do you want ?” Carrow demanded.

“I want to make you an offer,” Emerson said. “AIIB sent Charlie to take you down. Now obviously, something happened. I guess it was a little too tempting to leech off a billionaire. The bureau chalked him up as a lost cause after he stopped feeding them information this year.”

“It’s true,” Dust shot in, unable to stop himself. “I haven’t been in contact with them since December.”

“That was an idiot move,” Emerson said. “They’re already planning your replacement back at the bureau. They were going to take you out just like they took out Nick Short.”

“Nick?” Wayles asked. Dust could see the horror wash over him. The reality of those words seemed to sink into the lines in the faces of The Company.

“Oh, yeah — they executed Nick to make a neat little opening for Charlie. And as usual, I had to do the rest of the work,” Emerson said.

“You fucking bastard —” Wayles started, his hand shooting to the gun at his hip. Carrow held up a hand .

“Russell,” he cautioned. Wayles stood down, biting his lip and visibly fighting tears.

“Instead of sending me in after all I’ve done for them, they’ve got another kid coming your way. I’m getting zero out of this deal — of course. And I’m tired of it. I didn’t see it at first, but Charlie was smart: you work for the people with the money. So I’m coming here to tell you about the spy in your midst, to warn you about the threat coming your way, and to propose a deal that would be lucrative to all of us.”

“Which would be?” Carrow asked.

“Put me on the payroll and I’ll work for you instead of Abe,” Emerson said. “I realize I don’t have much bargaining power here — I didn’t come armed with anything but information. This is a show of good faith. You can execute me today if you’d like, but AIIB is going to keep coming for you. They’re going to keep throwing everything they’ve got at you and trying to wreck the family you’ve built for yourself. The Kettle Syndicate — part two.”

Carrow frowned deeply at his words.

“Although,” Emerson continued, his tone going sickly sweet. “I guess Charlie has wrecked it pretty well for the time being. I’m only sorry that I couldn’t warn you sooner — before he seduced you all.”

Carrow clenched his jaw and shook his head just a little, as if he had an awful taste in his mouth.

“You don’t have anything to say, Dust?” Carrow asked.

His tone was softer than Dust expected — as if he were pleading with Dust to tell him that Emerson was lying, that it was all a trick. He sounded broken.

“He’s right,” Dust said. He stared at the floor — couldn’t bear to see Carrow’s face. “I came in as an agent. I was supposed to deliver intel and figure out how to take The Company down. ”

In his peripheral vision, he could see his friends’ postures change, sagging under the weight of his admission.

“But I turned. You know I turned. I saw what I really wanted — and that was to be a part of this. I am a part of this — you all know I am. I would die for this family. I love you —”

For the first time, Carrow turned away, holding up a hand for Dust to stop, as if he didn’t want to hear any more. Dust couldn’t stop. All he could do was pardon the man he loved for the thing he knew that had to be done.

“I understand. I can’t fix this. Emerson is right. I understand what you have to do. They’re going to keep coming for you. It’s my fault and I —”

The world exploded around them in a chaos of broken glass and gunfire.

Dust had only barely registered the sound of a helicopter approaching as they spoke. Everything had felt so surreal that he wasn’t processing background noise.

Out of pure instinct, Dust threw himself to the ground before he knew what he was doing, before he felt the concussion of the first gun blast. He landed hard because he couldn’t catch himself with his hands, the zip ties cutting into his wrists. The quiet scene had erupted into the pulse of helicopter blades and automatic gunfire.

Emerson hit the polished wood floor a split second after Dust did. Blood pooled around them and Dust realized he didn’t know whose it was — his or Emerson’s. He tried to comprehend what was happening. It was as if the terror and chaos inside of his chest had grown so strong that it manifested there in reality, literally blowing the world apart to match the way the life he had built for himself was ending there in those moments.

The shattering continued. Whoever was shooting was taking out the entire front of the penthouse, opening up every floor to ceiling window with a machine gun. Dust struggled to look up, to see The Company. They were gone.

The gunfire moved to the west, focusing on the living room. He tried to move to safety, shimmying along on his belly. Then there were hands on him, dragging him across the floor in a smear of broken glass and blood. Carrow. The man was shouting something Dust couldn’t make out — the gunshots and helicopter were deafening and his ears felt full. Dust pushed with his legs to help them go faster as Carrow pulled him.

Goddamn it, Carrow, he thought. The man was going to get himself killed trying to drag Dust away.

They made it behind the kitchen bar, Carrow falling back heavily as he pulled Dust the last few feet. The Company was assembled there, crouched and holding their guns. Vashvi clutched her shoulder, her shirt blossoming with blood. Everyone else looked unharmed — must have ducked in time behind the kitchen bar.

The gunfire stopped. The helicopter drew back, but they could still hear it.

“They’re landing on the roof,” Leta said.

“Vi?” Carrow asked, still squatting but holding her by the shoulders now.

“Yeah, no, I’m fine,” she said quickly, hissing with pain. “They clipped me is all. It’s gonna look nasty but there’s nothing vital to hit there.”

She removed her hand and they saw that she was right. The bullets had shorn off skin and muscle at the top of her shoulder, but it looked like she’d mostly been grazed. Impossibly lucky.

“What the fuck is this, boss?” Wayles asked, his voice shaking.

“I’d wager someone wants their gold back — and it’s not goddamn Lefebvre. ”

“We should fall back,” Leta said.

“No. If they knew where to find us, they’ll know how to block an escape. We stay and fight.”

“What about Charlie?” Herron asked, their mouth curling in an ugly way around his name.

All eyes fell back to him. Dust was curled uncomfortably on the floor. He’d worked out by then that the blood he was covered in was Emerson’s. The man had taken too many bullets, his blood flowing out too quickly. He was almost certainly dead. But Dust had fallen to the floor fast enough to avoid the strafing shots from the helicopter. He was unwounded but still bound, the ties cutting sharp into his skin.

He wished in that moment that the assailants had taken him out, too. He didn’t want to die by Carrow’s hand. Dust didn’t want to be added to the nightmares the man carried around in his head.

Carrow produced a knife from his hip and flicked it open with one hand.

As he leaned over Dust with his knife, the younger man going wild-eyed, the helicopter cut its engines. Everyone froze to listen.

Somewhere through the upstairs door of the penthouse — or maybe through the blasted-out windows — Carrow heard men shouting in Spanish.

He could only pick out two words: “oro” and “comandante.”

It was enough for him to make several leaps in logic. The gold belonged to the cartel — the elder Lefebvre must have been sitting on it for them, maybe waiting to smuggle it over the border, tasked with keeping it safe in his vault. The jeweler had never told his youngest son that they were in bed with a cartel, and so Antoine Lefebvre didn’t know to warn them about the bullion when he hired The Company to rip his father off.

Carrow had stumbled into a clusterfuck, and then he’d taken cartel gold.

El Comandante had sent men to retrieve it. No one else would have the balls to mount an operation like that against someone with billions at his disposal to strike back. No one else would be dumb enough to think that he could erase The Company.

Quickly, he told the crew what he knew — or at least what he guessed. They nodded, and each face that looked back at his seemed to become hardened as they prepared to fight for their lives.

The men El Comandante sent would be well armed, but they would be cocky, too — assuming they could take out a measly team of six.

No. A team of five, now , he reminded himself.

Carrow pulled Dust roughly to get to his wrists. He cut the zip tie and Dust sagged to the ground.

“What you do now is up to you,” Carrow said.

Dust was up to his feet before anyone could stop him, before Carrow could even fully register what was happening.

And then he was gone. They heard the heavy front door shut behind him.

“That answers that question,” Herron said, gritting their teeth.

“Come on,” Carrow said. He could mull over that reality later. There was no time to even consider how deep the wound was that he felt in that moment — the realization that Dust was gone, had fled, would rather leave them to die than stand by his side and fight. There was no room in his head for those thoughts. “We’ll fall back to the armory and regroup. ”

The voices were getting louder.

Herron was the first to stand, providing cover as the rest of The Company made their way from the kitchen to the hall. The last rooms — past Dust’s demolition lab, past Leta’s office — at least had armored doors. They could hole up momentarily and regroup in the armory, and from the adjoining tech lab, they could monitor the ground and see what they were up against in terms of reinforcements.

There was no time to waste.

Dust could already hear men on the other side of the door by the time he made it to the ground floor. Rushing through the motions, almost working on autopilot, he found what he needed and set up everything he could find.

The second wave of cartel men were still trying to get through the big armored door into the garage — and from the sound of their firepower, the door wouldn’t hold them for long.

Dust made his way back to the elevator. He tapped the “45” button, praying that Wayles would be somewhere to take the call, to turn on the security screen.

The screen flickered to life. Dust’s breath caught in his throat. He saw his own image reflected in the monitor, covered in grime and blood. Dust noted with a deep sadness that he was still wearing the jacket the hotel had furnished. His life had been something completely different just an hour ago.

“Dust?” someone said through the speaker. It was Wayles.

“Can you take their helicopter? Can Leta fly it?”

“If we can get through them, I can damn well try,” Leta said, her voice odd and tinny through the elevator speaker.

“I’ll stop the ones on the ground. Just get yourselves out.”

“That’s suicide , goddamn it,” Carrow said, leaning down to the mic.

Dust stared into the monitor, jaw clenched. He looked immensely sad.

“It’ll buy you time,” he said finally. “You need to get going.”

“Dust —”

“I love you, Ansel. I’m sorry.”

There was the sound of a blast somewhere off screen and then the squeal of the garage door being pried open.

“ Dust —”

They watched him exit the elevator.

“Fuck,” Carrow said. He balled his fists and sucked a deep breath. It would buy them time, and if it meant the rest of his family would survive, so be it. He owed them that.

He turned to the people gathered behind him — to the people he loved more than anything else on earth.

“Let’s go.”

Maybe it was Dust’s sacrifice that gave the team a renewed sense of confidence.

Maybe it was the gesture, the reality of what Dust had been all along, how deeply he had betrayed their trust, and the absolution gained through giving up everything.

Redemption. Maybe he’d found redemption in their eyes, Carrow thought.

But together they blew through the armory, slapping on padded vests and loading up with every weapon they could carry. Leta hurried to patch up Vashvi’s wounds.

( Dust doesn’t have anything but a goddamn handgun, Carrow thought. Not even a vest. El Comandante’s men had come armed to the teeth — and they would take the kid out in a heartbeat. The Company needed to work faster.)

The sound of men kicking at the tech lab door reached them. The kicking became gunshots as they tried to blast past the reinforced entryway.

Herron calmly unlocked the door of the armory and shot the men in the back. They fell back and then turned to assess the hall, finally giving the all clear signal back to the rest.

Quiet and rehearsed, Leta, Vashvi, Herron, and Wayles fell into step as Carrow led them through the penthouse that had been their home for years, transformed now in less than an hour into a battlefield.

Dust had made it easy for them by slowing down the men below. They didn’t have to worry as much about covering their backs, and each of them knew the penthouse by heart. They knew where the best vantage points were, where crossing a room would leave them exposed and where it could be at least passably safe.

The movement of the team was slow and methodical.

One by one, they encountered the cartel’s men.

They had come well-armed, but they hadn’t been prepared for the guerilla situation that they faced within the walls of the penthouse.

The Company fell into a rhythm as they made their way to the door that would let them out to the roof — and in spite of everything, the true horror of that day, it felt good to Carrow.

Carrow did not relish the lives that were being lost. He hated killing the men and hated watching the people he loved being forced to kill. But he hadn't been lying when Dust had asked him, months ago, what he would do if The Company was in danger. He had killed the man in the alley on the day of the bank job because he thought he was protecting Dust. He would erase the entire goddamn city and everyone in it if it meant protecting the people by his side.

And so the fact that they were taking lives that day had to be compartmentalized, tucked away for a later time when he could unpack the horrors of what was unfolding there in his penthouse, in his fortress, in the one place where he thought he could protect the people around him.

The devastation in front of him was beyond losing Dust, was beyond losing any sense of certainty that he could love someone, beyond the loss of life. It was his deepest fear realized: that he could never ensure complete protection for anyone. Not himself and certainly not the people around him.

He stuffed the thoughts down. They had to escape. Dust had given them time, and he owed it to Dust to do his damndest to save the rest of them.

As they flanked and conquered each new hallway, each new space, it felt like The Company was making music. The remaining members of his family came together with him perfectly in that moment and he felt the high of invincibility, like they were moving as one living, unstoppable unit.

His thinking slowed down, perception heightened by adrenaline.

A man fell to his left. Carrow thought of The Kettle Syndicate — the men he had lost that day.

They moved through a chunk of open space and Herron signaled that there was a group coming to their right. Carrow thought of his mother, of how he had failed her but also the way he had provided. The things he had done to care for her.

Leta hefted an automatic rifle, taking the clump of men out neatly as they rounded the corner. Carrow allowed himself to think of Dust — even to mourn him in that moment. How much of what they’d shared had been real? It must have been the truth, that he had turned. Why else would he give his life ?

Wayles grunted, a bullet catching him hard in the back as he stumbled forwards. Carrow followed the bullet’s path, spinning on his heel and shooting blindly, eliminating the man who had snuck behind them. He hauled Wayles back to his feet.

“Knocked the breath out of me,” Wayles said weakly, his hand reaching for the spot where the bullet had been stopped by his vest.

And then a crack of sunlight, as they opened the door to the roof.

Herron stepped up first, assessing the scene through the barely-opened door.

“There are two helicopters and three men,” they said. “Easy. We’re home free.”

Leta passed the assault rifle to Vashvi and then kneeled on the stairs, offering up her shoulder as a steady point from which to mount their last siege, to eliminate the last barriers between The Company and freedom.

They huddled there in the stairwell as the sharpshooter brought the butt of the rifle to rest against her ruined shoulder.

Three quick sounds — pockpockpock! — less than a second ticking by between each suppressor-deadened shot. Vashvi assessed the scene, her face pressed to the scope, waiting for anyone else to arrive. Everything was impossibly quiet.

“We’re clear,” she said.

Carrow nodded to Herron.

“We go out first and sweep,” he said.

They came out onto the roof low and paused, momentarily blinded by the midday sunlight and willing their eyes to adjust.

It was quiet and hot. Three bodies were crumpled at the feet of a helicopter — and they saw, then, that there had been two helicopters that came to land on the roof. At least that explained the seemingly endless flow of men into the penthouse.

There was no one else on the roof. Carrow called for the others to join them.

An odd thing happened, then.

There was the sound of an explosion — distant but still audible. A quick rumble registered through the roof beneath their feet, and Carrow could feel it through the soles of his shoes. It sounded distinctly like one of theirs .

“Dust?” Vashvi asked, trotting up.

“I don’t know,” Carrow said.

“There were still charges left over in the van from last night,” Wayles said. “I meant to bring them up, but we were all so distracted with the gold... Maybe he stopped them — maybe he bloody made it. ”

The smile across Wayles’ face shocked Carrow. Would the man really be pleased to see Dust emerge from the rubble? Even after Short?

But of course, it was a stupid impulse to think that any of them wanted Dust dead. They’d lived with the man for a year — and whatever struggle Carrow was feeling wouldn’t be unique to him.

“Stranger things have happened,” Carrow admitted, feeling grim nonetheless. There simply wasn’t a way Dust would’ve made it out of that situation alive.

They piled into one of the helicopters and Leta strapped in. It went without saying that she would fly them to the eastern safehouse. It was the only one secluded enough to land a goddamn helicopter without drawing attention.

An unpleasant wave of deja vu washed over Carrow at the safehouse .

It was the same place, he realized, that they retreated after the job that had cost Nick Short his life.

McBride met them there to stitch Vashvi up.

He saw the question on her face the minute she walked through the door and surveyed the crew — but the doctor was tactful. She waited until she had Carrow to herself before she said anything. Maybe she was afraid of the answer he would give her.

“You lost Dust,” she said when she caught him on the back porch.

He was smoking, not sure what else to do. Vashvi was full of painkillers, sleeping heavily in one of the bedrooms while the rest of The Company played cards in the living room. Carrow wasn’t ready to talk business with them, and he wasn’t prepared to pick up a handful of cards and pretend like everything was ok. So he’d excused himself, and she’d found him anyway.

“He was with Abe,” Carrow said. “Did you know that? — Of course you didn’t —”

He was falling over his own statements, a jumbled mess.

“Of course I didn’t. I would’ve warned you,” she said. “Ansel. That’s terrible.”

She’d known what they were to each other — everyone had. She laid a hand over his where it rested on his knee.

“I know you loved him.”

“I didn’t kill him,” he said quickly, not sure why he was getting defensive.

She nodded, maybe unsure of what to say. She wasn’t asking for details — didn’t want to pry. He respected her for that.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” she said.

“We left him there — at the penthouse. He died trying to slow them down for us.”

McBride looked confused .

“But if he was Abe…?”

“I know. I know, ” he said, withdrawing his hand from hers and using it to prop his forehead instead. He had never been so exhausted in all his life — not even after the end of The Kettle Syndicate. “It doesn’t make any sense to me either, McBride.”

“It makes sense,” she said quickly. “He loved you. It makes sense.”

She squeezed a hand around his wrist. The little gesture made him want to cry. He’d never witnessed the staid doctor try to comfort or console anyone , not even a dying patient.

“I’m sorry, Ansel.”

McBride stood then and went back inside.

Carrow was alone.