Page 63 of The Drifter

"Clint." No surprise in it. There's never surprise in Cash. "New number."

"Burner. Listen." I kept my eyes moving while I talked, the street, the corners, the sky. "One question first, and I want it straight. Have you all been watching me?"

A pause. Not a guilty one. A measuring one.

"Loosely," Cash said.

"Define loosely."

"We knew when you left the hotel. We knew you were safe. Nobody followed you into anything." He let that sit a beat. "You'd have made a tail, and we knew that, too."

"Drones?"

"No."

One word. Flat and certain, and my stomach went down a floor, because I believe my brother the way I believe north. No meant the thing in the air outside her window this morning belonged to somebody else.

Fuck.

"Cash. Is a security detail outside the realm of possibility? Right now. Fast."

"I can have a team rolling in five minutes." No questions. No why, no what happened. Just the machine coming up to speed on the other end of the line. That's my brother. That's the family, apparently. "Where?"

I gave him her address. Street, building, floor, which windows faced the water.

"Who am I watching?"

"Sasha Benning."

If the name meant anything to him, he didn't let on. No pause, no inhale, nothing a man could read. "Description?"

"She's inside. She'll stay inside today. Nobody gets near that building who isn't carrying groceries or a baby, and I want eyes on the airspace." I heard my own voice and it had gone somewhere it hadn't been in years—flat and fast, mission-clean. "And Cash. This one matters."

"Copy," he said. Then: "I'll come get you."

"No. I'll take a cab. Once the team's on station."

"Clint—"

"Once the team's on station." I watched a gull walk the curb like it owned it. "I'll come to you. We're going to talk, brother. All of us are going to talk. Today."

Another pause. Longer. And when Cash spoke again, there was something in his voice I couldn't file—not worry, Cash doesn't do worry. Something more like a man watching weather arrive that he's known was coming for a long time.

"Yeah," he said. "Today's the day, I expect. Come on, then."

He hung up.

I stood there a second with the dead phone in my hand, and realized I hadn't asked for the address.

Dominion Hall. A castle on the harbor road, Tommy had said.

Fuck it. A good cabbie would know. In every town I've ever passed through, the cab drivers and the bartenders hold the real map. This town was older than most and kept its maps close. A place like that doesn't hide from the men who drive for a living.

The team arrived in eight minutes. I'd have bet on twelve.

It was a pickup, jacked up on big tires, surfboard rack full, salt-faded paint—the most invisible vehicle in coastal South Carolina. Four men in it. Board shorts, tank tops, ball caps, sunglasses, a cooler in the bed. Headed to the beach, any fool could see.

Except no fool built those four. They came down the street at an easy roll and every head in that truck was working—soft, lazy sweeps that covered the whole ground twice, mirrors, rooflines, the marsh, her building, done so casually you'd have to be in the trade to see the trade in it. They had the look. You can dress it in a tank top. You can't take it off.