At least, he thought he had.
Then the woman in front of him turned around, and he was face-to-face with Anne Marie McCall.
She smiled, her big blue eyes brimming with tears, and patted his arm, a gesture meant to comfort him, he assumed, to show that she understood why he felt he had to be here. He smiled gently in return, as if silently communicating his thanks.
As if I would have missed this. As if I’d be anywhere else today. Brendan Shields had been a stone around his neck-had been for the past year or so-and had brought all this on himself. He’d screwed up just about everything he’d been asked to do.
It was beyond Luther to understand why any of these people mourned his loss.
Connor scanned the crowd, searching for his father and brother under the tent, but was having a hard time placing them. Finally, he located his dad in the middle of the first row of seats, between his cousin Mia and his brother Aidan. He’d catch up with them later. He knew they’d be happy to see him.
He regretted that he hadn’t arrived early enough to be there with them now, that he hadn’t been there for the past week to share the pain and the grief-and yes, the shame-with the family, especially his uncle Frank. It embarrassed him every time he realized it had taken him way too long to understand the importance of his presence here, both to himself and to his family. He hoped they would forgive him for his shortsightedness.
The crowd was huge, much larger than he would have expected, and he was wondering if the others in the family had been equally surprised at the numbers. He made his way to the back of the tent, where friends and coworkers spilled onto the grass twenty or thirty deep, and was moved by the show of support for his uncle and his cousins. He took a place in the very last row.
He nodded a silent greeting to several people from the Bureau as the priest began to pray, his words echoing through the small speakers on either side of the tent. Connor stood with his hands together, his head bowed, a sign of reverence he’d learned as a small boy in a large Catholic family. The priest finished the prayer, and the piper began to play again, a tune Connor didn’t recognize. He gazed around the mourners in the crowd in front of him and thought he recognized Annie, though in that hat, he couldn’t be certain it was her. She turned and saw him, then smiled and winked. As she turned back toward the front, a man behind her glanced back at him. Connor caught his gaze, and held it.
A shock went through him as he realized where he’d seen that face before.
In the headlights of a truck, in the shadow of abandoned warehouses, in Santa Estela…
The man continued to stare at Connor, at first almost quizzically, then, as if in recognition. He smiled broadly, stepped forward, and whispered something in Annie’s ear before moving to the far side of the crowd with her, one hand on her arm, the other hidden inside his jacket.
Connor moved along with them, keeping thirty feet behind, as they stepped from under the tent and made their way around the headstones and monuments. He heard footfalls behind him and spun around, his gun drawn.
Evan Crosby was moving fast to catch up. They greeted each other silently, and Evan motioned that he’d be following from the tree line. Connor nodded in agreement, and both men took off across the gently rolling terrain in pursuit of Annie and her abductor, the identity of whom was a mystery to both Connor and Evan.
The cemetery ended at a high black iron fence capped with tall spikes. It was too high to vault over, and impossible to climb. Connor approached cautiously, his gun in plain sight, slowing his step.
“So. We meet,” the man holding Annie called to him. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Connor Shields.”
“You have me at a disadvantage,” Connor replied. “I know what you are, but not who you are.”
“Allow me. Luther Blue.” He pronounced the name defiantly.
“Luther Blue? But you’re the one who…” Confusion crossed Connor’s face for just a second.
“The one who shot Brendan, yes. Yes, I am.”
“I was going to say, the one who saved Annie.” He kept his eyes on Luther, willing himself not to glance at Evan, who approached Luther slowly from behind, as quiet and deliberate as a cat stalking a mouse.
Luther Blue laughed. “So the story goes.”
“What do you mean, so the story goes?” Keep him talking, Connor told himself. Give Evan time to get himself into position.
Luther grinned.
“Brendan didn’t have his gun drawn, did he?”
“Well, he drew on me.”
“But not on Annie.” Connor met her eyes, and silently begged her to be silent, to be still, not to give Luther any reason to react. But she was a pro. She’d know what to do.
“It’s immaterial.” Luther shrugged. “He was planning on killing her, not there and then, but yes, it had already been decided. However, after that was set up, it occurred to me that I could kill two birds with one stone-you’re going to have to forgive that lousy pun-and still come off looking like a hero. You have to give me credit, it was pretty damned slick.”
“About as slick as the back of your head is going to be if you so much as blink.” Evan stood behind Luther, the barrel of his gun flush against Luther’s skull.
“I can still take her out with one shot,” Luther said calmly, as if they were discussing where to have lunch.
“You’ll be dead before your finger twitches.”
“Shall we see?” Luther remained cocky, even as he began to pale.
Evan pushed the barrel into Luther’s head.
“What do you think, Shields? Who’s your money going on?” Evan asked.
Luther’s eyes shifted back to Connor, who had not moved from his spot twenty feet away.
“My money’s always been on you, pal,” Connor said.
“Nice.” Luther smiled, careful not to move his head. “I think you two must be best buds.”
“I’ll tell you what I think,” Evan said. “I think you have two choices here. I think you drop the gun and take your chances with a jury, or I put a bullet through your brain right now.”
“What do you think, Agent Blue?” Connor spoke softly, evenly. “A minute ago, you were bragging about how slick you are. Think you’re slick enough to outwit a jury? Slick enough to make a deal? I’ll bet you know plenty about the kiddie slave trade, plenty the government would love to hear. Who knows, you could trade a little of this for a little of that.”
“Or,” Evan repeated, “I could put a bullet through your brain right now.”
The air was thick and the sun almost directly overhead. The four stood stock-still for a full minute. Three were holding their breaths; the fourth was weighing his options.
Finally-clunk.