Would she? If she did, would Cyprian see it for what it was,
a detective with a wild hunch based on nothing but conjecture? Or would he think her
theory was based on fact, which could only mean that Devlin had caved during the interview
and betrayed his boss and everyone he worked with?
If Devlin had talked, he would have used the term enforcer , his actual job title. Enforcer was somewhat synonymous with agent at one of the
alphabet agencies like the CIA or FBI, but without the shackles of laws and political
policies to tie him down. The assassin role was only part of what he did, and only
when absolutely necessary. Most of his peers called him “ The Enforcer” because he was the one called upon to hunt down other enforcers if they
went rogue—off the grid, defying orders—and became a danger to EXIT and the general
public. Since O’Malley wouldn’t have known to call him an enforcer when she spoke
to his boss, wouldn’t that clue Cyprian in that she was reaching? Guessing? What if
it didn’t? What if he believed her?
The potential consequences of that had him swearing every curse word he knew, in several languages.
He believed in what the company stood for, in what he did. The money was incredible.
He regularly pulled in seven figures in any given year. And he had to admit that had
been part of the attraction when he’d joined. But he couldn’t do what he did if he
didn’t feel deeply that what he was doing mattered. He saved lives with the work he performed. Last year alone, he and his fellow enforcers had
prevented dozens of terrorist attacks that would have killed hundreds, if not thousands,
of innocent people in half a dozen domestic cities, not to mention the attacks they’d
foiled in foreign countries. And fighting terrorism was only one small aspect of his
work for EXIT. So the idea that his boss might even consider that Devlin would ever
betray his fellow enforcers was ridiculous. Wasn’t it? Right now, he didn’t know what
to think.
He opened the photo app on his phone and zoomed in on the notes from the morgue. Kennerly
had given an extremely detailed, somewhat clinical assessment of each prison cell
and the condition of the skeletons that were found in them. Most of it was useless
to Devlin and didn’t offer him any clues. But at least now he knew the victims were
all female, between the ages of thirty and forty. That struck him as odd, given that
Hawley seemed much younger, probably barely in her twenties. If the victims were from
the same killer, wouldn’t they be in the same age range? It seemed like he’d heard
something like that about serial killers—if that’s what this was. Too bad he couldn’t
ask his brother Pierce for his opinion. Pierce used to hunt serial killers for the
FBI before he burned out on violent crimes and chose to work on cases that wouldn’t
haunt him every night.
Devlin filed the information about Hawley away in case it was a clue that could help
him in the future. Unfortunately, right now, even after reading Kennerly’s notes,
he had exactly what he’d started with—absolutely nothing—except the new concern about
what O’Malley was saying to Cyprian.
He sat in his truck for a few more minutes, debating his next move. But without more
information, there seemed to be only one move that made sense. Stick to routine, do
what was expected so he didn’t raise any red flags. Which meant he’d go to Alex’s
house and pretend everything was fine, that he didn’t have any reason to be worried,
that he was happy and normal like everyone else. He’d been pretending that for years.
What was one more night?
Chapter Seven
----
F RIDAY NIGHTS AT the Buchanan home base—the sprawling one-story ranch house where Alex and Austin
lived—were usually a time of laughter and fun. No matter what each of the family members
was doing during the week, it was understood that Friday nights
a detective with a wild hunch based on nothing but conjecture? Or would he think her
theory was based on fact, which could only mean that Devlin had caved during the interview
and betrayed his boss and everyone he worked with?
If Devlin had talked, he would have used the term enforcer , his actual job title. Enforcer was somewhat synonymous with agent at one of the
alphabet agencies like the CIA or FBI, but without the shackles of laws and political
policies to tie him down. The assassin role was only part of what he did, and only
when absolutely necessary. Most of his peers called him “ The Enforcer” because he was the one called upon to hunt down other enforcers if they
went rogue—off the grid, defying orders—and became a danger to EXIT and the general
public. Since O’Malley wouldn’t have known to call him an enforcer when she spoke
to his boss, wouldn’t that clue Cyprian in that she was reaching? Guessing? What if
it didn’t? What if he believed her?
The potential consequences of that had him swearing every curse word he knew, in several languages.
He believed in what the company stood for, in what he did. The money was incredible.
He regularly pulled in seven figures in any given year. And he had to admit that had
been part of the attraction when he’d joined. But he couldn’t do what he did if he
didn’t feel deeply that what he was doing mattered. He saved lives with the work he performed. Last year alone, he and his fellow enforcers had
prevented dozens of terrorist attacks that would have killed hundreds, if not thousands,
of innocent people in half a dozen domestic cities, not to mention the attacks they’d
foiled in foreign countries. And fighting terrorism was only one small aspect of his
work for EXIT. So the idea that his boss might even consider that Devlin would ever
betray his fellow enforcers was ridiculous. Wasn’t it? Right now, he didn’t know what
to think.
He opened the photo app on his phone and zoomed in on the notes from the morgue. Kennerly
had given an extremely detailed, somewhat clinical assessment of each prison cell
and the condition of the skeletons that were found in them. Most of it was useless
to Devlin and didn’t offer him any clues. But at least now he knew the victims were
all female, between the ages of thirty and forty. That struck him as odd, given that
Hawley seemed much younger, probably barely in her twenties. If the victims were from
the same killer, wouldn’t they be in the same age range? It seemed like he’d heard
something like that about serial killers—if that’s what this was. Too bad he couldn’t
ask his brother Pierce for his opinion. Pierce used to hunt serial killers for the
FBI before he burned out on violent crimes and chose to work on cases that wouldn’t
haunt him every night.
Devlin filed the information about Hawley away in case it was a clue that could help
him in the future. Unfortunately, right now, even after reading Kennerly’s notes,
he had exactly what he’d started with—absolutely nothing—except the new concern about
what O’Malley was saying to Cyprian.
He sat in his truck for a few more minutes, debating his next move. But without more
information, there seemed to be only one move that made sense. Stick to routine, do
what was expected so he didn’t raise any red flags. Which meant he’d go to Alex’s
house and pretend everything was fine, that he didn’t have any reason to be worried,
that he was happy and normal like everyone else. He’d been pretending that for years.
What was one more night?
Chapter Seven
----
F RIDAY NIGHTS AT the Buchanan home base—the sprawling one-story ranch house where Alex and Austin
lived—were usually a time of laughter and fun. No matter what each of the family members
was doing during the week, it was understood that Friday nights
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