Page 117 of Fatal Pattern

Wells walked toward them, unhurried, two agents flanking him in plain clothes. No tactical gear, no badges showing. Weapons drawn but lowered.

He nodded to Blade. “Give me the book. It’s federal evidence now.”

Blade’s face showed exhausted relief. The notebook shook as he extended it.

Wells took the notebook. He examined the worn cover for a moment, then looked up at Barclay with something that might have been disappointment.

He walked past Blade.

Past her.

Stopped beside Barclay.

Wells didn’t reach for handcuffs. Didn’t signal his agents to move in. Instead, he held out the notebook like an offering.

“I believe this belongs to you, sir.”

32

Blade saw it in slow motion. Wells extending the notebook. Barclay reaching for it. The leather-bound record of corruption and murder changing hands like a business transaction.

Wells chuckled, the sound echoing hollowly against the concrete pillars. “You look wounded, Blade. But you should be proud. We knew Damien had buried that notebook, but the man was a drunk and a coward. He’d never been able to pin down the exact location, knowing they listened to every word. We needed someone with a personal stake to sniff it out.”

Barclay pocketed the notebook.

He’d been played. They’d all been played.

Blade cataloged the situation.

Barclay behind Stryker’s wheelchair, one hand gripping the handle, the other pointing his gun near Stryker’s skull. Wells stood a few feet to Barclay’s left, arms in front in a compressed ready position. The two on the wings held the room.

Left side, a man with a towering frame and copper beard. Big Red.

The other held square shoulders and a bald head, feet planted wide. The man was a dead bolt between them and the exit. Lock.

Even if he could fire before they reacted, he couldn’t take four targets simultaneously. Not from this position. Not with Tori in the line of fire.

No cover. No backup. No miracles.

There was only one variable he could change.

Only one way to shift the equation in her favor.

Blade’s finger itched to pull the trigger.

Blade narrowed his eyes, putting the pieces together. “You orchestrated the timing of Damien’s little confession through Corbin to get us moving.”

Barclay adjusted the gun he held at the back of Stryker’s head. “After all those years, Corbin finally visited his old man in prison. Guess he helped Damien find religion, and suddenly his conscience was a problem again. Started trying to convince the warden to turn on me too.”

“He wanted to save his soul. We just wanted our insurance policy back.” Wells took a step toward Tori, and Blade tensed.

“You needed Tori and me chasing that notebook so you could reclaim it before it could actually burn you.”

“You were never in control here, Detective. We simply let you off the leash long enough to fetch the one thing we couldn’t find ourselves.” Barclay patted his pocket. “Thanks for doing the heavy lifting.”

Blade stared down his sights, drifting between Barclay and Wells. The heat of his rage nearly matched the fire in his wounded bicep. He had to stop this, but how?

“So that’s the cost,” Blade said. “You turned the whole state into a graveyard just to keep Barclay out of a prison jumpsuit?”