Woodard follows me down a long stretch of brightly-lit hallway toward the cells; the stench of his thick cologne suffocating the space around us and me within it. The leather soles of his loafers squeak obnoxiously with every heavy step as he tries to keep up. We pass a row of empty cells on the way to the C. This building had once been a juvenile detention center and was perfect for my needs, so I purchased it quickly soon after Izabel and I left New Mexico.
“I don’t know what to say, boss,” Woodard says apologetically beside me, “but there was nothing on Dorian Flynn that I could find. I-I don’t know how that woman could’ve known.”
“She didn’t,” I say as we round the corner. “Nora Kessler is the highest caliber of expert at what she does. You should not feel inept.”
“What exactly is it that she does, sir?”
“A little bit of everything, it appears, but her specialty lies in knowing the foremost weaknesses of the human psyche—love and fear. She’s exceedingly remarkable when it comes to manipulation—a puppet master pulling all of the strings with flawless precision—and just watching her with every one of you I think I’ve come to understand how she plays this game so well.”
We turn another corner and draw nearer the C. A fluorescent light flickers in the ceiling out ahead, casting a patterned shadow upon the walls. Two men stand guard outside Dorian’s cell.
“How does she play it?” Woodard asks slightly out of breath.
“What have you found on the source I sent you to investigate?” I ask, disregarding his inquiry. He will know in time, as will everyone else, but first I want to know more myself—since I did not hear the entire conversation during Izabel’s confession, I cannot be one-hundred-percent sure of my theory.
“Nothing so far, but I’m running a scan on the information you gave me. It might yield results. It’s crazy, but this whole thing is crazy.”
“And what of her blood sample?”
“Well, that’s what I came to find you for,” he says.
I stop in the center of the hall about twenty-feet from the men outside Dorian’s cell and I turn to Woodard.
He catches his breath; sweat beads on his upper lip; the armpits of his plaid shirt are discolored by moisture.
“I ran it through the database you gave me from The Order,” he begins as he flips open a blue folder in his hand, “and there were no matches to anyone within The Order, but there was a match to a hit.”
He hands me the paper from inside the folder.
“Does ‘Solis’ ring any bells, sir?” Woodard had not been in the surveillance room when Niklas was with Nora.
Yes, it rings many bells, James Woodard.
“Thank you for this,” I tell him, again avoiding his questions. I fold the paper into a square and tuck it away in the front pocket of my slacks.
Woodard’s confidence returns in the form of an uneasy smile.
“So I did good?” he asks, always needing the validation.
I simply nod.
“Find me again when you get those results back,” I say.
“Sure thing, boss.” He smiles proudly to himself as he scurries in a bumbling manner down the hallway and out of my sight.
The guards outside Dorian’s door step to the side as I walk up.
“They removed the bullets from Flynn’s shoulders, sir,” one guard says, “and stitched him up. He requested he not be restrained due to his injuries, but we followed through anyway.”
Sliding the key into the steel door, the lock clicks with an echo.
I close the door behind me after stepping inside the small room with only a tiny box window covered by bars to let in the sunlight. A metal bed juts out from the gray brick wall, covered by a thin cot. A toilet and a sink are shoved closely together near one corner.
Dorian sits on the metal cot with his legs over the side, his booted feet touching the dingy tile floor. His hands are cuffed in front of him. He is shirtless; blood seeps through the bandages on his shoulders.
He raises his head and looks up at me with concern in his face.
“I know I have some explaining to do,” he says, “and I will, but maybe right now isn’t the time? I’m more worried about Tessa. There’s not much time left.”
“I am making time for this,” I tell him. “Besides, I have no confidence in Gustavsson making it here before the forty-eight-hour deadline, so it will make no difference whether or not I take my turn with Nora.”
Dorian frowns.
“So, you’re just giving up?” he asks, apprehension and disbelief manipulating his features. “What about Mrs. Gregory—Izabel loves her like a mother. Are you going to give up on her?”
“This is not about giving up on anyone,” I say, “but facing the reality of the situation. Without Gustavsson’s cooperation, they are all as good as dead, and since there has been no communication with him, no sign that he intends to come here, I am simply shifting my focus on other matters.”
Dorian shakes his head and looks down at the floor.
“Tessa doesn’t know anything about you, or anyone in this Order, not even me,” he says in a defeated tone of voice. He raises his head again. “It was safer for her to tell her I work for U.S. Intelligence.”
“Because you know the nature of both,” I say, already knowing.