Page 85 of Crosscurrent

"Remember, Neptune’s our audience," Gabe said. “Probably Owen’s little shadow, Feld. Or whatever his real name is.”

For three days the fake professor had done exactly what they needed. Tom had plenty of David's photographs that caught Feld at the edges of frames, Owen always in his line. He was Neptune's eyes on the prize. The plan only worked with those eyes on the ice when “Owen” died.

Once he slipped beneath the ice, and the cipher box held only ashes, Neptune would read the signal. They’d believe Cara and the others decided to walk away, but they wanted Neptune to realize they weren’t worth chasing first.

It was possible they’d want to come after Skye again, but odds were they wouldn’t like the odds, at least in Norway. The rest, they could figure out later.

There was only one loose end, as far as she could see. Helen Cartwright.

The woman hadn't tracked Owen once. Cartwright sat at the edge of every room with her tea and her dreadful cardigan and missed nothing. Not the exits, not the staff names, not the way Cara's people had started moving in pairs. Twice Cara had felt the woman's attention settle on her, both times when she was doing nothing worth noticing.

"We perform for Feld," she said slowly. "We hide from her."

Nobody argued.

Tom pushed back from his temporary rig. "Oh, man. There's something you all need to know. Timing’s…unfortunate.” He puffed out his cheeks. “The dude we IDed as Neptune in the Cove, Ortiz, turned up dead twelve hours ago. Two rounds, close. Somebody made sure."

"Neptune cleaned up its own miss," Wade said.

"It gets worse." Tom scrubbed his face. "The money for the Ortiz hit? It came from a shell company with Helen Cartwright’s name on it.”

Wade grunted. "So Mrs. Cardigan doesn't just hunt for Neptune, she culls the herd.”

Cara felt the whole shape of the plan change temperature. They weren't building a lie to slip past a watcher. They were building it to fool the one woman currently in the Arctic Circle whose actual job was catching people who lied to Neptune — and ending them for it. If Cartwright saw the seams, there'd be no arrest. Just two rounds, close.

Owen had gone quiet in the corner.

He'd been quiet a lot lately, learning to be dead — the obituary Tom was drafting, the colleague who'd probably inherit his chair, the slow soft erasure of Owen Harney. But this was a different quiet. Cara knew its shape because she'd felt it most of her life.

"Look at all of you," he said, unsteady. "Every one of you is hurt. Because of me. Because of a notebook I never even⁠—"

"Stop." Skye didn't open her eyes. "I’m the one who broke into Cara’s bakery. I started this. You inherited a problem from your uncle. I'm the one who delivered it." Her eyes opened then, flat and certain. "Nothing in this room is your doing. You can carry the guilt if you want, but it’s not true."

Owen surprised her. He smiled, a small gesture, grim. It transformed his face. The soft, sweet academic who’d flinched at his own shadow, was growing harder.

She hated that he had to.

"All right," he said. "Then it isn't my fault." He looked around the wrecked, capable room. "But it's my finish. You've all bled keeping me breathing, so here's the deal. Nobody else dies for this. We make them believe it and walk out clean. I didn't start this." The smile sharpened into something Cara almost respected. "But I'm going to be the one who ends it."

“Copy that,” Wade murmured. "Professor's got a pulse after all."

"Took him long enough." Tom was grinning at his screen.

Down the table, Sophie closed a folder and set it where nobody's coffee could reach it. She and David weren't going to the ice. They'd hold the hotel in their press cover, David watching for the moment Feld, or whoever Neptune sent to watch Wade take Cara/Owen out to the ice, took the bait and moved. Sophie would stay locked on Cartwright, the one watcher nobody else could spare an eye for.

Then there was nothing left to plan.

Wade’s gaze flickered to the clock on the wall. “So, we’re counting down to go time.” Even saying it seemed to make him feel guilty.

Gabe flinched, but Reagan patted Skye’s arm and rose. “Let’s get this party started.”

Cara followed her friend down the hallway to the bedroom they shared. She crossed straight to the closet and dragged out the oversized go-bag. The thing was large enough to zip her inside, which sounded great, given her other options.

While Reagan unboxed the survival suit Wade had “borrowed” from a local fishing boat, Cara took inventory of the contents of her duffle. Everything was there, the wigs, the make-up, and the Hollywood-level props.

Everything she needed to transform herself into a dead man walking.

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