“Or maybe we could leave her alone and just let her be a little girl.”
Natalie squared her pelvis and put her hands on her hips. It was a pose he knew, his ex-wife digging in her heels. Before she could speak, his phone rang. Cooper gave her a what can I do? shrug and pulled the phone out. The display read QUINN—MOBILE. He hit talk, said, “Not a good time. Can this—”
“Sorry, no.” Bobby Quinn’s voice was all business. “Are you alone?”
“No.”
“Call when you are.” His friend hung up.
Cooper slipped the phone back in his pocket and rubbed at his eyes. “That was work. Something’s going on. Can we talk later?”
“Saved by the bell.” Natalie’s eyes still had fire in them.
“I was always lucky.”
“Cooper—”
“I’m not saying we can’t talk about it. But I’ve got to go. And there’s no need to decide tonight.” He smiled. “The academies don’t accept entrants at this hour.”
“Don’t joke,” she said, but she wrinkled her nose, and he knew the topic was safe for the moment.
She walked him to the door, the hardwood floors creaking with each step. The wind gusted outside, the storm picking up.
“I’ll tell them you came by,” Natalie said.
“Thanks.” He took her hands. “And don’t worry about Kate. It will be okay.”
“It has to be. She’s our baby.”
In that moment, he remembered Alex Vasquez just before she’d gone off the roof. The way the light had caught her from below, throwing her features into contrast. The determination in her pose. The way her voice had softened as she spoke.
You can’t stop the future. All you can do is pick a side.
“What is it?” Natalie asked.
“Nothing. Just the weather.” He smiled at her. “Thanks for the drink.” He opened the front door. The rain was louder, and the wind cold. He gave his ex-wife a final wave, then jogged down the path. It was one of those soaking storms, and his shirt was plastered to his shoulders by the time he reached his car. Cooper yanked open the door and slid inside, shutting out the storm. I really need to invest in a jacket.
His phone was DAR issue, and he activated the scrambler before he dialed, then tucked it between ear and shoulder as he pulled the case from beneath the passenger seat. “Okay.” The case was brushed aluminum, locked with a combination. He popped the latches. The Beretta was nestled in the clip-lock holster atop black foam. Funny, all the ways the gifted had jumped the world forward, and firearms technology remained fundamentally the same. But then, it hadn’t changed all that much since the Second World War. Guns could be faster, lighter, more accurate, but a bullet was essentially a bullet. “What’s going on?”
“Are you secure?”
“Sure.”
“Coop—”
“The scrambler’s on, and I’m sitting alone in a car in the middle of a hurricane outside my ex-wife’s house. What do you want me to say?”
“Yeah, all right. Sorry to interrupt, but get here. Someone you’re going to want to talk to.”
“Who?”
“Bryan Vasquez.”
Alex Vasquez’s older brother. The burnout with no last-known address. “Stuff him in an interview room for the night. I’ll get to him tomorrow.”
“No can do. Dickinson is already with him.”
“What? What is he doing with my target’s brother?”
“I don’t know. But you know how our records showed that Bryan was a loser? Turns out, not so much. He’s actually a big shot at a company called Pole Star. His sister must have hacked their records, and ours. Pole Star is a defense contractor. Know what they specialize in?”
Cooper switched the phone to his other ear. “Guidance systems for military aircraft.”
“You’ve heard of them?” Quinn sounded surprised.
“Nope.”
“Then how—”
“Alex needed someone to plant her virus. They were working together?”
“Yeah,” Quinn said. “Not only that. He claims they were working with John Smith directly.”