Jenn and George’s reunion was emotionally wrenching to watch. She tried to hold it together, but when George put his arms around her, she broke down. Seeing Jenn Charles cry was like catching a glimpse of that stoic uncle, the one who never showed any emotion, wiping away an unguarded tear. It should have been obvious, but he hadn’t realized until that moment how much of a father figure George Abe was to her. Gibson backed out of the cockpit. He went down to the cargo bay, repacked the container, and lashed it to the bulkhead.
When he returned to the cockpit, Jenn had composed herself. She’d found a blanket and wrapped it around George, who sat in the navigator’s chair. She was on one knee beside him, holding his hand. By the light of the control panel, Gibson saw clearly the ruin of George Abe. It was hard to believe the man sitting swaddled in the navigator’s seat was the same man. The man who had approached him at the Nighthawk to find Suzanne Lombard had been an ageless, perfectly manicured composition. But two years of beatings had rearranged the smooth, flawless planes of George’s face. The cockpit headset covered ears that had been turned to cauliflower. His left eye drooped, and a knot on the bridge of his nose marked where it folded over to one side. Teeth were missing, and his jaw looked swollen and misshapen. And Gibson knew the damage wasn’t restricted to his face. George had needed Gibson’s help getting to the cockpit, and Gibson had felt the profound limp. George looked like a coffee mug that had been shattered and glued back together.
Now, with his eyes glazed over, George had the disoriented look of athletes who had pushed themselves beyond the point of failure. Gibson wondered if he’d worn the same expression the day the CIA had dumped him back at Dule Tree Airfield. He remembered the unbearable flood of thoughts and emotions. How overwhelming freedom had felt. They hadn’t had identical experiences by any stretch of the imagination, but Gibson knew it would be a while before George came to grips with his new reality.
Now that they had George, Jenn needed to call Calista. Calista had no way of making contact, and they were already overdue. By now, she would be getting . . . well, there was no telling what Calista would be getting, but it wouldn’t be pleasant. She would need reassurance that everything was on track. Sooner or later, Calista would smell a rat, and it was impossible to predict how she would react. They needed to buy themselves as much time as possible once they altered course for Florida. Gibson would wait until they were on the ground to tell Jenn that he couldn’t go with them. She wouldn’t have time to argue it with him then. George needed medical attention, and that would be her first priority.
“Jenn. You need to make the call to Calista.”
At the mention of the name, George’s eyes cleared. He shook his hand free from Jenn’s grip. “Why would you need to call her?”
Jenn began to explain their fragile alliance with Calista Dauplaise, but George cut her short. With a snarl, he threw himself at Jenn. He was breathtakingly fast, knocking her back and pinning her to the floor. George’s hands went for Jenn’s throat, and she didn’t defend herself but instead tried to explain.
For his part, George didn’t seem in an explanation frame of mind.
Gibson put George in a full nelson and dragged him off her. George was stronger than he looked and tried to wrestle free. Their feet got tangled up, and Gibson went over on his back. George landed hard on him, knocking the wind out of him. George drilled him in the ribs with an elbow and used the recoil to spring to his feet.
George had clearly oversold how weak he was. Maybe he’d been doing it for years, playing possum, waiting for a window of opportunity to make an escape. Jenn’s MP7 was slung over the back of the chair, and by the time Gibson clambered to his feet, it was in George’s hands and pointed at Jenn’s head.
“Sir, please,” Jenn said. “What are you doing?”
“You’re working for Calista?”
“Put the gun down, and I’ll explain. If you hit something in here, we all die.”
“Then we all die.” George’s hands shook, but his voice was steady. “Now answer my question. Are you working for Calista Dauplaise?”
“It’s complicated.”
“It’s not complicated. Yes or no?”
“No, sir,” Jenn said. “Not exactly.”
“What have you done? Calista gave me to Cold Harbor. She had Michael killed. She watched them put a bullet in the back of his head. I knelt beside him while his blood soaked into the dirt. I was next.”
George meant Michael Rilling, the missing former IT director at Abe Consulting Group. There had been an internal leak, and Jenn and Gibson had long suspected Rilling of selling them out. He’d been missing since Cold Harbor had kidnapped George, and they’d assumed Michael was in hiding. Now they knew better. Jenn blanched at the news.
“I didn’t know that, sir,” Jenn said.
“So how can you be working for her?”
For George, the world had stopped turning more than two years ago. He knew only what Titus Eskridge wanted him to know. And for two years, he’d felt only what Titus Eskridge wanted him to feel. In a way, George still knelt in the dirt beside Mike Rilling. Calista’s betrayal would be as fresh and raw to George as the day it happened. In his world, Calista and Eskridge were still partners. Gibson understood. He’d been there himself.
It didn’t mean he wasn’t losing patience, though. After what Jenn had done to rescue him, the risks she’d taken, to have George point a gun in her face? It pissed Gibson off. His ribs hurt. He was tired. The benefit of the doubt didn’t seem like too much to ask.
“You’re being an asshole,” Gibson told George.
George and Jenn both looked at him, incredulous.
“Gibson!” Jenn said.
“No, I’m serious,” Gibson said, then to George, “Do you know what she’s been through to find you? What she’s sacrificed? She hasn’t stopped looking for you since the day you disappeared. So how about a little benefit of the doubt? We both know what Calista is. What she’s done. Better than you, probably. Like how she had my father murdered. For instance. But she was the only way to get you back, so we did what we had to do.”
George faltered, eyes widening. He had known Duke Vaughn well. They’d both worked for Senator Benjamin Lombard—Duke his chief of staff, George his head of security. Duke had been a beloved figure, and his suicide had affected everyone who knew him.
“Duke was murdered?”
“Yeah, by Calista’s psycho. Same guy who tried to hang me from the same spot.” Gibson pulled his collar down to reveal the scar around his throat. “And weren’t you partners with Calista before either of us? Yet here I am. It’s an imperfect world. So why don’t you stop pointing a gun at the woman who just saved your life?”