Page 110 of Snow

The color drained slightly from Clint’s face. “That’s bad.”

“No shit.”

For the first time since his colleague had called, Brett stopped trying to convince himself there might still be a way to talk his way out of this. Even if Matisse kept his mouth shut, there were records, financial transactions, shipments, and people who knew pieces of what they had been doing. People also became remarkably fucking cooperative when federal prison was suddenly part of the conversation.

He needed to get out. That was his only option.

The thought came with surprising clarity, and Brett almost laughed at the irony. Two nights ago, he’d been standing on Delilah, congratulating himself on a successful test and thinking maybe this deal would be the last one. He would take the money and disappear to his oceanside villa.

His gaze moved toward the window and the distant structure of Platform Three.

The prototype couldn’t stay there, and neither could the evidence surrounding it. If he could destroy the platform and make it look like something had gone catastrophically wrong in the aftermath of the storm, there would be chaos. Better yet, if everyone believed Brett had gone down with the platform, nobody would immediately be looking for him.

He could use Delilah. He could retrieve the prototype, set everything in motion, take the boat, and get as far away as possible. He had money hidden where no federal agency would find it, along with an alias.

It wasn’t a great plan. But at the moment, it beat spending the rest of his life staring through prison bars.

“What do you want me to do?” Clint asked.

Brett looked at him. “Nothing. Just go about your day.”

Clint stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. Get coffee. Check on the crew. Complain about the weather. I don’t give a shit. Just act normal.”

“And you?”

“I’m going to take care of a few loose ends.”

Clint studied him for an uncomfortable moment before shaking his head. “I’ll do what you say. Let me know if you need anything.”

Clint opened the door and left.

The sudden quiet that followed gave Brett a moment to organize his thoughts. He needed to get to the prototype, then get it all loaded onto Delilah, and after that, get the hell away from Gulf Tide before anyone realized he was gone.

Everything else could be figured out once there were a few hundred miles between him and this fucking rig.

He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a passport. He flipped it open. Anthony Telesford. That would be his new identity.

He crossed the room toward the window. Then stopped when he saw movement on Platform Three.

Brett frowned as anger rose within him as he watched Ms. Hart and Mr. Iverson walk along steel grates heading in the direction of where the prototype was stored.

“No fucking way,” he said out loud.

How the fuck had they gotten over there?

Brett tried to convince himself there was no reason to panic. They couldn’t know about the room. The entrance was concealed, and even most of the crew had no idea the space existed. They could search that entire platform and walk right past it without realizing it was there.

He grabbed a bag he kept at the ready. It was filled with cash and other items, and he headed for the door.

He could figure out how they’d gotten onto Platform Three later. Right now, he needed to reach that room before they did.

And if he was already too late?

Brett pulled open the door, his fear hardening into something much colder.

Then Hart and Iverson had just become two more problems he needed to make disappear.