Page 48 of The Wolves Come at Night

“You’re going to. Right now.”

“What?”

“You’re right, I’m sure you piqued her interest. We need her to stand down. Like Alan suggested, tell her there was a sighting and you bolted for home. It’s believable, and it will buy our friend a little more time to assess what’s happening. Please, Avery. For me.”

He already had the captain’s number pulled up, and the speakerphone on. She took a deep breath through her nose. She was not good at lying, but at least the woman couldn’t see her face.

A deep, scratchy voice said, “Hello?

“Captain Jackson? It’s Avery Conway. I’m sorry to reach out so late.”

“Are you all right, Dr. Conway?” Jackson demanded, sounding both pissed and relieved. “I came by the hotel and they said you checked out.”

“I did. I apologize for the confusion earlier. I am fine, my phone died. I’m here in New Haven.”

A pause. “Are you alone?”

“Santiago and his husband, Alan, are with me.”

“All right. Do you still want to talk to me privately? I can arrange that quickly.”

“No.” At Santiago’s nod, she tried to make her voice sound bleak. “There was a sighting of Carson, so you can understand I had to come back here.”

A pause. “I haven’t heard about a sighting. I’d like to hear the details.”

“Oh, it was nothing. A mistake. It didn’t pan out. I just wanted you to know where I was, that I’m fine, and to apologize for being panicked earlier. I’m sure you understand. I’m still very hopeful you’ll be able to bring Carson home. I know you will.”

She hung up, and Santiago patted her on the shoulder.

“Well done,” Santiago said. “That was very believable.”

Avery glared at him.

“I’m sorry, Avery. About everything.”

“You are no longer a part of this family, Santiago.” She went to her bedroom, trying to ignore the hurt in his dark brown eyes.

Twenty-Three

FRIDAY: WASHINGTON, DC

The assassin stalked the night streets, blending into the chaos that was the most powerful city in the world. The lights and noises made her long for the quiet of the château. Soon, she soothed herself. Soon, you will be back there, arguing with the Corsicans and drinking a freezing cold glass of Sancerre.

She’d spent the day searching, making calls, reinserting herself into her operational space. There were people who owed her, and they were more than happy to cancel their debts by sharing what they knew about Joseph Game.

She would be ready to move on soon, set up shop in the playground of the woman with the mismatched gray eyes. The anticipation of this moment was one she’d been reliving for nearly a year. She hadn’t yet decided whether she was going to kill Jackson once she was finished securing Carson Conway and ridding the world of Game. She went back and forth. There was value in removing the maker of such a terrible memory. But Jackson also intrigued her. She could have killed Angelie easily—she had the shot, had the upper hand—yet she’d shot to wound, not to kill.

Why?

Angelie wanted to ask the big blond woman that, and a few other things. Then she’d make her decision. But first, she needed her help. Finding Carson had to be the priority, and Jackson had a head start.

She had an encrypted burner in her pocket, one she’d been using to suss out information, so wasn’t terribly surprised when it rang. She ducked into an alleyway near the Treasury Department, put her back to the stacked marble, and answered. She didn’t recognize the number but had a dreadful feeling she knew who was calling. Damn Santiago. He couldn’t manage to keep his mouth shut about anything.

“Qoui?”

An annoyed French voice shouted at her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Bonsoir, Thierry.”