say, pathos to the tale.”
“Did you get anything back?” Riley asked.
“He’s definitely not with Erin’s family in Oklahoma,” Sarah said. “I had a very discreet agency out of Oklahoma City do the checking. They lost the trail about a month after Erin’s mother died. He disappeared from Oklahoma and never came back. And that, gentlemen, is it. I didn’t pursue it further.”
Riley stared at her. “I think you might be telling the truth. At least part of it.” Then he shook his head. “But you’re still lying, Sarah. There’s more to all this than you’re telling us.”
“I’ve told you everything,” Sarah said.
“Doubtful,” Riley replied. He nodded at Chase. “Grab the bag. Let’s go.”
As he turned, Riley tossed the lighter onto the pile. The money and passports roared into flame.
The last they saw was Sarah Briggs, arms folded, passively watching the small pyre that contained her cash and fake passports burn.
* * *
Sarah Briggs, at least that was the name she was currently using, watched the pile burn to ash, then walked to the balcony. There was no sign of Chase or Riley. Ghosts disappearing back into the darkness.
A phone rang and she went over to her nightstand and opened it. There were a half dozen ‘burners’ in there and she pulled out the one that was buzzing.
“Fix your damn tires,” she ordered the man calling her. “I have to be at the airport, ASAP.”
She hung it up, then reached under the bed and pulled out a black leather shoulder bag. She dumped it on the bed. Handcuffs, whips, dildos and various other devices tumbled out. Along with a leather binder. She picked up a particularly large dildo and unscrewed the base. She shook and a thick wad of hundred dollars bills fell out. Then she put her finger in and pulled out the passport that had been jammed in there, curved around the interior. She began flexing it, straightening it out.
She’d learned long ago that men, whether they be customs, police, or even criminals, would never search the device. They’d laugh, make comments, but never touch it.
Thus the perfect hiding space. She repacked the bag, then went to the closet.
There was work to be done.
Chapter Four
Thursday Noon
“Three can keep a secret if two are dead,” one of the three said.
The other two responded: “Except for the Ring.”
They put their fists together, Institute rings shining on their left hands. It was a complicated move, but they managed to bump rings with each other. They were seated in a booth in the back of the High Cotton Bar on East Bay Street in Charleston. It was an upscale place, full of tourists and a scattering of locals. It was early afternoon but several empty glasses littered their table, a sign of nerves not as steady as their oath. For two of them, at least. The third had a half-full glass of water in front of him.
“I heard this Dillon guy was a bad ass on the football team,” one of the men said. He was the youngest of the three, having just graduated and not yet taking his ‘position’ at his daddy’s firm in Savannah.
“Jerrod, I was a bad ass on the football team,” the biggest man at the table said; he was seated on the same side as Jerrod. He was a former lineman for the Institute team, whose gut had not seen the inside of a gym since graduation. The mound of flesh pressed up against the table. His name was Chad Mongin Jr., a first name he hated, but his father had been a Chad, his father’s father had been a Chad and so on down the line until some fellow who’d stepped off a boat in Charleston harbor carrying the name Chad from whatever country he’d departed from. Thus he came from a long line of Chad’s. And the last name, Mongin, represented a family that had come to the Low Country in 1685.
Despite his size, it was obvious to any observer, and there was one, that Chad was not the dominant figure at the table. That honor fell to a young man sitting alone on the other side,
“Did you get anything back?” Riley asked.
“He’s definitely not with Erin’s family in Oklahoma,” Sarah said. “I had a very discreet agency out of Oklahoma City do the checking. They lost the trail about a month after Erin’s mother died. He disappeared from Oklahoma and never came back. And that, gentlemen, is it. I didn’t pursue it further.”
Riley stared at her. “I think you might be telling the truth. At least part of it.” Then he shook his head. “But you’re still lying, Sarah. There’s more to all this than you’re telling us.”
“I’ve told you everything,” Sarah said.
“Doubtful,” Riley replied. He nodded at Chase. “Grab the bag. Let’s go.”
As he turned, Riley tossed the lighter onto the pile. The money and passports roared into flame.
The last they saw was Sarah Briggs, arms folded, passively watching the small pyre that contained her cash and fake passports burn.
* * *
Sarah Briggs, at least that was the name she was currently using, watched the pile burn to ash, then walked to the balcony. There was no sign of Chase or Riley. Ghosts disappearing back into the darkness.
A phone rang and she went over to her nightstand and opened it. There were a half dozen ‘burners’ in there and she pulled out the one that was buzzing.
“Fix your damn tires,” she ordered the man calling her. “I have to be at the airport, ASAP.”
She hung it up, then reached under the bed and pulled out a black leather shoulder bag. She dumped it on the bed. Handcuffs, whips, dildos and various other devices tumbled out. Along with a leather binder. She picked up a particularly large dildo and unscrewed the base. She shook and a thick wad of hundred dollars bills fell out. Then she put her finger in and pulled out the passport that had been jammed in there, curved around the interior. She began flexing it, straightening it out.
She’d learned long ago that men, whether they be customs, police, or even criminals, would never search the device. They’d laugh, make comments, but never touch it.
Thus the perfect hiding space. She repacked the bag, then went to the closet.
There was work to be done.
Chapter Four
Thursday Noon
“Three can keep a secret if two are dead,” one of the three said.
The other two responded: “Except for the Ring.”
They put their fists together, Institute rings shining on their left hands. It was a complicated move, but they managed to bump rings with each other. They were seated in a booth in the back of the High Cotton Bar on East Bay Street in Charleston. It was an upscale place, full of tourists and a scattering of locals. It was early afternoon but several empty glasses littered their table, a sign of nerves not as steady as their oath. For two of them, at least. The third had a half-full glass of water in front of him.
“I heard this Dillon guy was a bad ass on the football team,” one of the men said. He was the youngest of the three, having just graduated and not yet taking his ‘position’ at his daddy’s firm in Savannah.
“Jerrod, I was a bad ass on the football team,” the biggest man at the table said; he was seated on the same side as Jerrod. He was a former lineman for the Institute team, whose gut had not seen the inside of a gym since graduation. The mound of flesh pressed up against the table. His name was Chad Mongin Jr., a first name he hated, but his father had been a Chad, his father’s father had been a Chad and so on down the line until some fellow who’d stepped off a boat in Charleston harbor carrying the name Chad from whatever country he’d departed from. Thus he came from a long line of Chad’s. And the last name, Mongin, represented a family that had come to the Low Country in 1685.
Despite his size, it was obvious to any observer, and there was one, that Chad was not the dominant figure at the table. That honor fell to a young man sitting alone on the other side,
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