Ivy filled in the rest, with me every step. “So you helped me disappear, which worked out very nicely for you. That left no one to dispute your version of what happened between Marcus and me.”

“Once Ivy was gone,” said McVee, his train of thought lining up right behind ours, “I stopped looking for the person who was really responsible for Marcus’ death.”

His glare came to rest on Eric.

There was chilling silence in the hangar as the truth settled in. Ivy, her mother, McVee, and on down the line-everyone was waiting for Eric to say something in his defense. But even Eric knew that there was no convincing anyone any longer. McVee stepped away from the helicopter. He stopped just a few feet away from me, his gaze still fixed singularly on Eric.

“Jason,” he said to his nephew, “spill the fuel.”

66

“WHOA, WHOA,” SAID BURN.

I was so spent, I’d almost forgotten that he was still standing on the boarding step at the open door to the Sikorsky, a head taller than Ivy.

Wald was approaching the helicopter and stopped suddenly, a fuel can in each hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you nuts?” said Burn. “You can’t just dump that much fuel inside a helicopter hangar.”

Wald lowered the cans to the floor, practically dropping them. Five gallons of jet fuel were much heavier than he had expected. “Who’s going to stop me, the EPA?”

Burn grabbed Ivy by the hair, as if reining her in. “This one’s itching to try another disappearing act. What do you think will happen if this building is filled with fumes when I have to shoot her? Each one of those cans is like eight hundred sticks of dynamite. We could all be toast.”

McVee and his nephew exchanged glances. It seemed they had finally seen eye to eye on something: the wisdom of having a guy like Burn in charge.

“What’s your plan?” asked McVee.

“I’m thinking a fuel leak from the helicopter, maybe from a bad filter seal or ruptured fuel line. An untimely spark. Tragic results. Help me get these guys aboard, then beat it. I’ll take care of the spilled fuel.”

“Good luck with that,” I said. “I count four of us, three of you, and only one gun.”

“Two guns,” said Wald as he pulled a pistol from his coat.

Burn pushed his gun against Ivy’s head with so much force that her chin hit her chest. “And there can easily be one less of you.”

Ivy said, “Don’t try anything stupid, Michael. Just do what they say. The FBI is on the way.”

“Yeah, sure,” Burn said with a chuckle. “The FBI, the cavalry-they’re all rushing right over here.”

“I’m not lying,” said Ivy.

“There’s not a person here that you haven’t lied to,” said Burn.

“What if she’s telling the truth?” Wald asked nervously. “What if the FBI is coming?”

“No chance,” said Burn. “Michael played a voice mail from Agent Henning right before you arrived. It was on speaker. Henning would have said they were on the way, if, in fact, they were.”

McVee smiled at me. “I knew you didn’t go to the FBI.” He turned to his nephew and said, “Give me your gun.”

“Why?”

“Because it wasn’t your son who was killed.”

Wald didn’t like it, but he removed the safety and, with a push-pull of the slide, loaded a round into the chamber.

“You’re ready to go,” he said, handing it over.

McVee pointed the gun at Eric. “All right, Volke. You first. Get on the helicopter.”

“Me? Why me? You don’t believe all that bullshit, do you?”

“Get on the helicopter,” said McVee, his eyes narrowing.

Eric stared right back. There was no way to win this argument, but he dug in his heels anyway. “Kiss my ass, Kyle. I’m not getting in that helicopter.”

“Then I’ll shoot you right now, damn it.”

“That beats burning alive.”

“You son of a bitch,” he said, aiming at Eric’s groin. “I’ll shoot you right in the-”

A loud pop suddenly filled the hangar as a window in the sliding door exploded. My focus had been on McVee’s showdown with Eric, but the strange sensation of a bullet whizzing past my ear shifted my attention right away.

Those next few moments were a blur, and even though many different things transpired simultaneously, they registered in my mind sequentially. A series of sounds and snapshots nearly overloading my ability to comprehend anything. Tiny bits of the shattered window glistening beneath the lights and falling to the floor. Burn’s head jerking to one side, his black beanie flying through the air. The sound of Ivy’s scream as the hot crimson spray showered her neck and shoulders.

Both Ivy and Burn tumbled away from the helicopter, and it was all too confusing to know if I had heard a second shot. Ivy hit the concrete first, and Burn landed on top of her. Somewhere in that moment-before or after Ivy’s fall, it was impossible to know which-I heard the clack of Burn’s weapon on the floor. The top of Burn’s skull was missing, a ghastly wound marking his certain death. His body was still moving, but not on its own power. Ivy was pushing out from under his dead weight.

As if on a sheet of ice, she pivoted on her hip bone, spun her legs around clockwise, and kicked Burn’s weapon in my direction.

“Michael!” she shouted, as it slid across the concrete.

I dived to the floor and grasped it.

And then the lights went out.

67

THE EMERGENCY-EXIT LIGHT GLOWED OVER THE DOOR, CASTING A surreal orange-red pall over the chaos. It was hard to know exactly what was going on, if the shooting was over, or if more rounds were coming. Obviously, whoever had fired the sniper shot from outside the building had also cut the power. I had no idea if Ivy had been bluffing about the FBI’s being on its way, but if she wasn’t, a SWAT team should have been busting down the door right about now.

No one came.

“Run!” said Ivy.

I looked up and saw Ivy and her mother racing toward the door beneath the exit light, Ivy’s hands still clasped behind her back. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Eric running in the other direction, toward the office. Wald was in pursuit. And I saw McVee raising his weapon and taking aim at Ivy.

The last time I’d fired a gun I was a fourteen-year-old hell-raiser trying to shoot the NO out of a NO HUNTING sign posted along our dirt-road neighborhood in Loon Lake. My best friend had dared me and loaned me his shotgun. I couldn’t even hit the damn sign. I prayed for better aim with a pistol, squeezing off two quick shots in McVee’s direction. I missed, but it sent McVee diving for cover. Ivy and her mother also dived to the floor at the sound of gunfire.

“Keep running!” I shouted as I sprinted after them.

I turned and, just for cover, fired another quick shot back at McVee. Ivy and her mother were at least ten steps ahead of me. Olivia hit the door first and pushed it open. She made it out, and Ivy was right behind her. Through the open doorway, I could actually see stars in the night sky. Then I heard one more crack of gunfire.

I dropped like a stone. The pain in the back of my thigh was somewhere between getting whacked with a hammer and stabbed with a red-hot screwdriver.

“Michael!” screamed Ivy.

She was halfway out the door when she stopped. I could see that she was about to turn and come back to get me, though what good she could have done with her hands bound behind her back wasn’t clear. Another shot rang out, and I heard the bullet slam into the wall of painted cinder block behind me.

“Go!” I shouted, rolling toward the door.

Two more shots followed, the second skimming off the metal door, missing Ivy by inches. My leg was getting hotter and wetter, and then I saw the blood. Less than I would have expected-clearly no major artery involved. This was a survivable wound, I was sure of it. But I was equally certain that another bullet would finish the job if I didn’t keep moving. The pain and loss of blood was making me light-headed, but I drew on my reserves and kept rolling across the floor in Ivy’s direction.