Brotherhood in Death

21

She was his, and the miracle of belonging never failed to bring some light into the dark.

She knew what this physical act could mean when driven by violence, by a quest for power, when it was driven by need, by passion and lust. And she knew, from him, what it meant when driven by love.

That had saved her.

He was gentle with her and she with him, knowing gentleness was needed for both. Long, quiet kisses, like balm on a wound, all comfort to tend battered, bleeding souls.

So the swimming fatigue eased into a kind of dreamy wonder. He would give, she would give, and together they would find solace.

Patient hands on her skin, warming where the cold was buried so deep she’d never have reached it. His lips telling her wordlessly she was loved—she was cherished.

Then the words, those murmurs in Irish, like a soft caress over the unspeakable ache.

She gave them back to him, running her fingers through that silky hair, along those strong shoulders. To touch, just to touch, the miracle in her life.

Held warm and close in the dark, she felt that dreamy wonder begin the gradual lift to dreamy arousal.

She let it go—he knew the moment she did, the instant all the dark thoughts left her. And only the two of them remained in her heart, her mind.

With her wrapped around him, offering, asking, he could let it go. Only her, only this. Only love.

Only love, with her heart beating thickly under his lips, with her long, lean body moving. And her hands, so strong, so sure, gliding over him.

A warrior she was, would always be. But even a warrior needed tending.

He slipped inside her, gently, still gently, filling her as he murmured the words beating in his own heart. They moved slowly, riding long, sweet waves.

When those waves broke, they broke in beauty and a devotion neither had known with another.

“Can you sleep now?”

She let out a long sigh. “I think. But . . . let’s just hold on awhile. Okay?”

“We’ll hold on, you and I.”

Once again he felt her let go, this time into sleep. He lay quiet for a time, making certain she slept without the dark chasing her. Then he let himself follow her, still holding on.

—

She woke in the dark, heart pounding. Someone was screaming, and she feared it was her.

“It’s all right. It’s all right now.” He gripped her, swearing all the while. “It’s just the alarm.”

“It’s—what? It’s five?”

“No, it’s not yet bloody four. It’s the alarm I set on the searches. Just give me a moment, let me see what the buggering hell it is.”

“You got a hit. Lights on, twenty percent. You got a hit.”

“Let me bloody see, will you?”

Gone was the tender lover of the night, and in his place was a very annoyed, very tired man. He grabbed the PPC he’d set on the nightstand, scowled at it.

“Get coffee,” he snapped, “for both of us. I’ll not deal with this without coffee first. And yes, we’ve a hit. Let me see it through on this bleeding thing to make certain it’s worth being ripped awake.”

She didn’t argue. She wanted to, but she wanted coffee more. And it was so rare to see him tired and out of sorts, she’d give him that bloody minute before she pushed.

“There it is, there it is. Oh, she’s clever this one, and I’ll wager she had some help with it. But there it is.”

“What? Say what or I dump the damn coffee.”

“An address. Give me the shagging coffee.” He grabbed it, downed half the mug, hot and black. “An address, if I’m not mistaken, that is no more than a couple of blocks from Central. I need this coffee and a shower—and not a bloody boiling one. The copter is still outside, and we can be there in minutes.”

“I need to set it up.”

“Do what you need to do. I’m having a shower, cool enough to clear my head.”

“Give me that thing.” She snatched the PPC from him. “Go.”

She read the address—he was right. Close enough to Central that a cop with a decent arm could throw a rock through the window.

She started to tag Peabody, remembered she was naked, blocked video.

“Peabody,” came the muffled, slurred answer.

“We’ve got an address. Get to Central. I’ll be there within fifteen. Tag Baxter. I want him and Trueheart. And Uniform Carmichael. Are you getting this?”

“Yeah. I got it. I got it.”

“Bring McNab if he wants in—and Carmichael needs to tap three more uniforms. Move now, Peabody.”

“I’m up. I’m moving. I’ll make the tags.”

Eve clicked off—she’d deal with the rest on the way. But for now, she rushed into the bathroom and, bracing herself, stepped into the shower.

This time the scream she heard was her own. “Oh fucking hell, it’s freezing.”

“It’s set at ninety degrees, precisely.”

Because he sounded like himself, and amused about it, she gave him a snarl. “Get out, because it’s going up to one-oh-one. I’m out in two minutes.”

He left her to it, grabbed a towel, heard her heartfelt groan of relief after she called for jets at 101 degrees.

In just over two minutes, she darted back into the bedroom, dry but still naked, then dived into her closet.

By the time she dived out, dragging on trousers, he was already wearing his own, and a black sweater—and sliding a clutch piece into an ankle holster.

“I don’t want to see that weapon unless somebody’s pointing one at you.”

She dragged on a black sweater—one she’d grabbed at random rather than by plan—shrugged into her weapon harness. She strapped on a clutch piece as well, pulled on her boots.

“I need blueprints, schematics of the building to set up this op. We need to move fast.”

“I can access those or pilot the copter. Which would you like?”

“Shit. Walk me through how to access—the fast way.” She snagged her coat, tossed him his. “Magic coats, pal. They’re going to be armed, and they’re not going to be happy.”

To save time, she turned to the elevator.

“How many are you pulling in?” he asked her.

“Peabody, McNab, Baxter, Trueheart, Uniform Carmichael, and three uniforms he picks. I can tap more, but I need to see the building, get a sense of it. We’ll get eyes and ears on it—you can help there. I don’t want to drag Feeney in.”

“He’d want you to, and be right pissed you didn’t.”

“Crap.” She pulled out her comm as she ran out the front door. Not the ’link—the comm, more official. If Feeney slept through the signal, that wasn’t her fault.

She made it fast, left the voice communication, ended it as she strapped into the godforsaken jet copter.

“This time of day we could almost drive there this fast.”

“It’s here, it’s ready.”

He lifted off at a speed that had her stomach remaining at ground level and whimpering. But she set her teeth, and contacted a duty officer to inform him she was coming in by air, and by civilian. Her comm beeped an incoming before she was done.

Feeney left his own message.

On my way.

“How do I access the blueprints?”

As he soared over buildings, Roarke gave her step-by-step directions in the simplest terms he could manage.

“That doesn’t sound exactly legal.”

“It’s a gray area.”

She grunted, followed the steps until she was looking at the floor plan of a two-story building, with full basement.

“That’s where they have him,” she muttered, and began to study the egress, the access, and working out the bones of her op.

He landed with some bumps on the helipad, and she jumped out into the cold, angry wind. She badged them both inside, jumped on the elevator.

“Doors front, rear, side. Corner building. Prime real estate. There’s a basement, and my money says that’s where they’ve got the torture room set up. No access to the basement from the outside, so we have to go in from above.”

“They’ll hear you coming.”

“Maybe, but if I had a torture room— I don’t, do I?”

“No. Perhaps Charmaine can design one.”

“Har har. If I had a torture room, it would be fully soundproofed.” She jumped off on her level. “I’m going to confiscate a conference room. You want to be a hero?”

“Yours, darling? Every day.”

“Ha. Help me transfer the board from my office. And program a vat of real coffee. I need to get the blueprints, the schematics up on screen so I can really see them. Peabody should be here pretty quick, but not quick enough.”

“Doesn’t your conference room have a swipe board?”

“I hate those things.” She hissed out a breath. “But okay, faster.”

“Ah, technology.” This time he did pat her ass. “You program the vat of coffee, and I’ll transfer your data. You can set it up how you please after. What room?”

She shoved open a door, saw it empty. “This one.”

In her office, she hit the AutoChef while Roarke sat down at her desk. Since she didn’t actually have a vat, she calculated, then programmed three large pots. It should get them going.

“Swipe board or not,” she muttered, stuffing Yancy’s sketches in a file.

“I’m going to start setting up. Maybe you could bring the rest of the coffee.” She strode out without waiting for his answer.

In the conference room, she scowled at the computer. “Activate swipe board.”

You are not registered for this room and this equipment at this time.

“Bite me. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Register it, goddamn it.”

The use of profanity is not—

“I’ll beat you to death with a hammer, then stomp what’s left into dust. I’ll torch the dust. Register this room and this equipment at this fucking time to Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.” She slapped her badge on its pad. “Scan it. Do it. Or I swear, you’ll be in the recycler in two minutes flat.”

Identification scanned and verified. This room and this equipment is registered to Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.

“Damn right. Activate the motherfucking swipe board.”

Board is now activated. Profanity is against regulations, and must be reported.

“This time you can blow me. And bring up all data currently transferred from my office comp.”

Images flickered on. Ignoring the drone of the comp informing her of the regulations, and her violations, she began to arrange them in the way she needed.

“Activate wall screen.” She frowned at her PPC, at the comp, at the screen, and started the sticky—for her—transfer when Roarke came in with two large pots. “Save this comp’s motherboard and transfer the blueprints to the wall screen. I’ll get you coffee.”

She’d barely picked up the pot when it was done—so she shoved the pot at him.

“I have to see this.”

He poured for both of them while she stepped closer to the screen, shoved her hands into the coat she’d yet to take off, and fell silent.

Like a general, he thought, studying the battlefield. He said nothing, just handed her a mug of coffee, until she finally nodded.

“Okay,” she said, turning just as she heard the clomp of Peabody’s boots, the prance of McNab’s.

They both looked a little hollow-eyed, Eve noticed, but sniffed the air like hounds on the hunt.

“Is that the smell of real coffee?” Peabody asked.

“Grab some. This is the building. It’s two blocks from here.”

“Son of a bitch.” McNab angled his head, currently covered in yet another watch cap of green and blue stripes. “How’d you nail her?”

“Utility bills,” Roarke said. “The property itself? Ownership’s buried behind two interlocking shells, and under that, it turns out, is deeded to Grace Blake’s great-grandmother—and they used the woman’s maiden name. And the deed is in trust, as the woman herself is deceased. And the trust—”

“Get into that later,” Eve ordered.

“Well, it’s a clever ruse and worth the time, but for now, it was the payments for the heat and so on. Still not in her name, or I’d have found it sooner, but again, the great-grandmother—one Elizabeth Haversham—nee Pawter—and the utilities came to an account under Beth Pawter, so it took some doing to link it up.”

He glanced at Eve, who was again studying the screen. “She has an account in that name, if you’ve an interest, with a brokerage firm in Iowa, where Elizabeth Pawter Haversham lived. It’s well funded, that account, even with the cost of the building and its expenses coming out of it. Until a year ago, the dead Mrs. Pawter rented that building for a nice, steady income.”

“Because she started to plan how she wanted to use it,” Eve said, still studying the screen. “She met at least one of the others, found their mutual history, and it began.”

Uniform Carmichael arrived next, with three others. Baxter and Trueheart followed.

While they made short work of the coffee, Feeney walked in.

“There better be some of that left.” He stole the mug McNab had just poured in case there wasn’t. “That the target?”

“That’s the target, and here’s how we’re going to take it.”

It would work, Eve thought as she went over the timing, the contingencies. And by hitting the target before first light, they’d take the women by surprise—and likely unprepared.

She frowned as she noticed Roarke step out while she went over positioning with Baxter and Trueheart. When she glanced back, he walked in carrying a stack of bakery boxes.

Every cop in the room caught the scent of yeast and sugar.

She should’ve known.

“Donuts may be a cliché, but they do the job, don’t they?” Roarke set the boxes on the conference table. “And so will all of you.”

He shot Eve a quick grin as hands darted and grabbed for jelly-filled or crullers, bear claws or honey-glazed.

“Stuff them in, and suit up. Feeney, the donut king’s with you. Peabody, Baxter, Trueheart, with me. Uniform Carmichael, take your men to the pre-op location. We go in quiet.”

She gave Roarke a long, flat stare when he offered her a donut.

“Bavarian cream—with sprinkles. Be happy oatmeal would have taken too long, and can’t be eaten on the go.”

There was that. She took the donut, and followed her own orders. She stuffed it in, and she suited up.

—

New York was rarely quiet, but at just past five in the morning, it hit a lull. Night-shift workers still had time on the clock, and the day shift hugged their pillows. Street LCs would have called it a night, and those higher on the food chain slept in their own beds or the client’s—depending on the payment schedule.

Shops were dark, and even the 24/7s ran sleepily.

Barricading a block around a particular building could be done quickly and quietly, and barely caused a ripple on the frigid air.

And that building held dark.

She’d considered the timing, the positioning, the partnering carefully. And now, the team moved through the dark, silent as shadows.

Baxter and Trueheart on the side door, McNab and Peabody on the front. And she took the back—the closest to the basement, and her hunch—with Roarke.

She heard Feeney’s voice in her earbud. “You’re a go for eyes and ears.”

Beside her Roarke began work with his portable, and McNab signaled he did the same. She ignored the quiet e-jargon as the three communicated, and only thought:

Show me where they are. Just show me.

“Got your heat sources coming through.”

Eve narrowed her eyes, as she was damn sure Feeney had a mouthful of donut as he coordinated.

“Two on the second floor, three basement level. You got ’em?”

“I do,” Roarke replied as McNab gave an affirmative.

Roarke snaked a hair-thin wire under the door, did some magic with his portable. “Quiet on this front.”

“And here,” McNab answered. “I’m getting movement on the basement level.”

“Roger that,” Feeney said. “One subject standing, now facing another. Third on that level moving east. Now stopped.”

“Taking shifts.” Eve nodded. “Two upstairs getting rack time. Two down working on Easterday. He’s still alive. Peabody, McNab, take the stairs up on my go. Baxter, Trueheart, hit and split as planned. Carmichael?”

“In position, sir.”

She gave Roarke the nod. He began to work on the locks, quickly, precisely, and the alarm that connected to them. The other teams would use battering rams—fast and noisy.

But she’d have a jump on the basement level before the suspects were alerted.

“We’re clear here,” he told her.

“We’re moving in. Hold your positions.”

When Roarke eased the door open, she went in low, swept with her weapon and flashlight.

Large kitchen, she registered. Empty and dark. And the basement door just ahead—shut.

“We’re in. Feeney.”

“No movement on second floor. Three in a group, basement level, center of the main room. You’re standing on top of them.”

She moved to the door, slowly turned the knob. When she eased the door open, she heard the screams, the sobs, the voices.

“All teams go. Move in. Move in.”

She went down, leading with her weapon while Easterday’s shrieks sliced through the air.

He hung by his arms from a hook and pulley in the ceiling. His body was covered with bruises, burns, sweat, blood.

Charity Downing, stripped down to a tank and gym shorts, held a weighted sap. Lydia Su, teeth bared, shouted, “Harder! Make him feel it.”

“Police! Hands in the air. Now. Now!”

As Eve gave the order, the crashes came from above, and the new screams from the alarm.

Unlike above stairs, the basement lights glared on full. In them Su pivoted, using Easterday’s body as a shield.

“We’re not done! We’re not done!”

Eve dodged the wild stun stream, firing back, a wide stream on low, as she leaped down the rest of the stairs.

“You’re done. You’re surrounded. It’s over.”

“No.” Weeping, Su turned the stunner on Easterday, leaving Eve no choice.

She dropped Su, even as Downing let the sap fall with a sickening thud, her own hands shooting up.

“Please don’t. Please. Don’t hurt her. Lydia. Lydia.” Downing went to her knees, gathered Su in her arms. “Stop, stop. Remember what Grace told us.”

Eyes wheeling from the stun, Lydia shuddered. “Not done.”

“We need the MTs, we need a bus! Baxter, restrain these two.”

He rushed down the rest of the stairs. “I’ve got them, boss.”

“Peabody!”

“We’ve got Blake and MacKensie. We’re secure.”

Eve turned to Easterday, who wept in harsh, racking sobs.

“Help me. Help me.”

“I bet that’s what they said,” Eve murmured, but holstered her weapon. “Roarke, help me lower him down.”

“They hurt me.”

“You’re alive,” she said, without a drop of sympathy.

He was alive, she thought as they brought him down. She’d done the job.

“Have the women taken in,” she told Baxter. “Keep them separated.”

Su, still reeling from the stun, shot Eve a look of tearful hate. “He deserves to die. All of them deserved to die.”

“You don’t get to make that call. Get them out, Baxter.”

She looked down at Easterday as he lay on the floor, moaning. “Medical assistance is on the way.”

“They killed Fred. They made me watch.”

She said nothing when Roarke took a blanket from a sofa, tossed it over the shivering man. But she thought: You like to watch.

She hunkered down, looked him in his blackened, swollen eyes. “I’ll get your full statement after you’ve had medical attention, but for now, Marshall Easterday, you’re under arrest for multiple counts of false imprisonment, for rape, for sexual assault, for conspiracy to rape.”

“You can’t—you can’t—”

“Just did.” She stepped aside when the MTs rushed down, but took one by the arm. “This man is under arrest. When you transport him, he’ll be restrained, and will remain restrained. A uniformed officer will ride in the bus with him, and remain with him at all times. Understood?”

“Got it. Better let us work on him, get him stable enough to transport. He looks in bad shape.”

“Fix him up good,” Eve told them, and as they went to work on Easterday, she read him his Revised Miranda rights.

“Our two are on their way to Holding,” Baxter told Eve when he came back down. “The other two are about to be. They didn’t give our guys any trouble. How about him?”

“He’s been read his rights. I’ll have Carmichael select an officer to stick with him.” She handed her restraints to Baxter. “Lock him to the gurney when they get him on one. I need to check in with the rest of the team.”

“I’ve got it. Some place,” he added as she turned.

“Yeah.” A replica of the room in the recording. Some updates, some additions, but the Brotherhood had probably made the same. They’d brought the men into the nightmare, and turned it on them.

The women, Eve thought, had brought their past with them.

She went upstairs, saw Peabody with MacKensie and a woman she recognized from the sketches as Grace Carter Blake.

“You don’t know what they did to us.” MacKensie’s voice trembled. “You don’t know what they made us.”

“Hush now.” Blake consoled her. With the coat she’d worn on Su’s security feed over simple white pajamas, she stood, shoulders straight, eyes exhausted.

“She needs to know. They destroyed us. They took our lives.”

“You’ll have the chance to tell me,” Eve said. “Peabody, did you read them their rights?”

“Done. I can take them in.”

“No, I need you elsewhere. Have them transported. We’ll talk later,” she said to both women.

“We will all be invoking our right to counsel,” Blake said.

“You go right ahead.”

“You don’t understand,” MacKensie began, but Blake cut her off.

“Carlee, not now. Lawyer.” Blake stared through Eve. “We say nothing without our legal counsel. And as a lawyer, I’ll stand in as same until we’re able to contact other.”

“No, you won’t. If you’re a lawyer and not an idiot, you understand you’re under arrest for conspiracy to murder, among other charges, all connected to the other suspects. That conflict of interest precludes you acting as counsel, except for yourself. Get them gone, Peabody.”

She rubbed her eyes, pulled out her ’link.

“Don’t tell me.” Curled in bed, video unblocked, Reo kept her eyes shut. “Another warrant.”

“I’ve just busted the murder ring, and the raping brotherhood, and made five arrests.”

Reo’s eyes popped open.

“You’re going to want to tell your boss, and meet me at St. Alban’s, where I’ll be questioning Marshall Easterday.”

She clicked off, nearly turned into Roarke. “Don’t ask,” she said, anticipating him. “The answer is I’m fine. I need to finish this, and it’s going to take some time. But . . . I could use you and that damn copter later. I’m not going to finish until I see the Brotherhood house. We won’t have much trouble finding it now.”

“None at all. The hit came through while we were taking the house—as did McNab’s on the van.”

“That’s handy. So . . . can I tap you for the transpo later?”

“Of course. I’ll clear the time, whenever you’re ready.”

“Don’t hug me.” She could anticipate that, too. “You can pretend you did, and I’ll pretend you did. I’ll probably really appreciate the real thing when this is done.”

“I’ll clear time for that as well.” So he simply brushed his finger over the dent in her chin. “I’ll leave you to it, Lieutenant.”

“I appreciate the assist.” She broke cop dignity long enough to take his hand. “All the way around.”

When he left, she took a moment to settle, then got back to work.

—

Within the hour she stood with Peabody and Reo in Easterday’s hospital suite. To Eve’s mind he looked better than he had a right to.

“How can you do this?” He lifted the hand chained to the bed. “Those women murdered my friends, tortured them, and they tortured me. They—they forced me to watch while they . . . what they did to Freddy.”

“They’ll face those consequences. But we’re here to talk about you, and your brotherhood. We’re here to talk about what you and your brothers began forty-nine years ago.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Those women—”

“We have the recording from the first rape. Her name is Tara Daniels.” God bless Harvo. “Remember her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“And they say you always remember your first.” Her voice seethed with disgust. “Betz recorded it, and kept the old, original disc, and souvenirs from every victim since in his bank box in the Bronx.”

Easterday hadn’t known about the bank box, Eve thought, catching the quick leap of shock into his eyes.

“We’re identifying all those victims as we speak, through DNA. You’re alive, Easterday, because we got to you in time, despite the fact you chose to run rather than face what you’d done.”

“You’re wrong. You’re just wrong. I want—”

“I have the evidence.” She leaned in, close to his battered face. “I viewed the recording, I watched you rape Tara Daniels, and watch, laugh, drink while your friends raped her. I watched Frederick Betz stick a needle in her so you could all pretend she wanted you.

“Want to see it? I can arrange to have it shown right here on your view screen.”

“No. No. I . . . you don’t understand.”

“Enlighten me.”

“We were . . . we were young, and under such tremendous pressure. We needed to let off some steam—we weren’t allowed outside the security perimeters without permission. And she—she—she’d been provocative, teasing. She was drunk and she’d already been with Edward. And she came on to me.”

“So she asked for it?”

“He said— It was a different time.”

“A different time that made it okay to tie a woman down, slap her around, gang rape her, dose her with chemicals against her will? Then what was it . . . Yeah, after you were done, after all of you took turns with her, any way you wanted, it was okay to ‘douche the douche,’ dump her back on campus?”

“We drank too much,” he began. “All the pressure we were under. She wouldn’t remember. What harm did it really do?”

“But they did remember.” This time Peabody pushed close. “Elsi Lee Adderman remembered and it twisted her up so much she killed herself.”

“Who? I don’t know who that is.”

“Just one of forty-nine,” Eve said. “You disgusting excuse for a human being. What gave you the right?”

“It was tradition! It was one harmless night a year. We never hurt them. It was just sex. A kind of bond, you see? Something shared.”

“I guess Billy stopped thinking of it that way. Like Elsi, he couldn’t live with it anymore.”

“I . . . It bound us together. It brought us luck. All of us became successful. All of us made a mark on the world, came through that terrible time and made our marks. It was just one night a year.”

“You raped forty-nine women.”

“It wasn’t rape! It was just sex, it was tradition. It was—”

“Did you drug them?”

“It was just—”

“Did you fucking drug them?”

“Yes, yes, but only because it eased the way—for them. For them,” he said quickly.

“Did you restrain them?”

“Yes, but—just to add to the excitement—for them, too.”

“Did these women say stop? Say no?”

“Only at the start of the . . . It was a kind of ritual. And we selected them carefully. To be selected was a kind of honor.”

She could see the panic in his eyes at his own words. “Rape is an honor?”

“It was sex.”

“Keep telling yourself that. You drugged them, restrained them, you forced yourself on them when they begged you to stop. You might just find yourself in the same situation in prison, for the rest of your life. And we’ll see if you think of it as just sex.”

“You can’t put me in prison. Do you know who I am?”

“I know exactly who you are.”

“You work for me!” Incensed, he tried to shove up, and the restraints rattled. “For men like me.”

“I work for the City of New York, and I put people like you in cages. I fucking love my job, and tonight, right this minute, more than ever.”

“Those women are criminals. They’re murderers. They’re insane. They beat me. They burned me.”

“Oh, we’ll let the medicals fix you all up before you go in the cage. You and the last of your brothers—that’s Ethan MacNamee, who’s even now being extradited to New York—are going to have a long time to think about your traditions. You got enough, Reo?”

“More than. Mr. Easterday, you’ve confessed, on the record and after being duly Mirandized, to the charges of multiple rapes.”

“No! It was not rape. I was only explaining.” Tears spilled down his cheeks. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I’ve been hurt! I have nothing more to say.”

“That’s your right,” Reo said easily. “On the other hand, Mr. MacNamee’s had a lot to say. And if he continues, once he’s doing that talking to Lieutenant Dallas, he’ll get the deal I was about to offer you.”

“What deal?” Eve demanded, on cue, as if outraged.

“This is my job, Lieutenant. And part of my job is to save the city the time and expense of a long, ugly trial. But since Mr. Easterday has invoked his right to remain silent . . .”

“I want to know the terms.”

Reo looked back at him, nodded. “All right. If you’ll excuse us, Lieutenant, Detective.”

“This is bullshit.” But Eve stormed out, then slowed when she got out the door.

“What’s the deal?” Peabody asked. “I knew you and Reo had your heads together.”

“Life, no parole, but on-planet. He’d likely get that anyway. But she’ll scare him into signing off. He’s done. MacNamee is done—he spilled plenty to Scotland, and we’ll get the rest out of him.”

She shoved a hand through her hair because she was far from done. “Let’s go talk to the women.”