Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(111)

“He’s dead.”

Merrick absorbed that information. Gibson couldn’t tell what the father felt about it one way or another.

“Did you kill him?”

No, you did. A part of Gibson wanted to tell Merrick how he found Martin Yardas. How guilt over losing his father’s money had led to drugs, and drugs had led to madness. Or maybe that hadn’t been the order of things at all. In Martin Yardas, Gibson saw a son unmade by his failure to live up to his father’s image. But he knew that was simply the lens he saw the world through. Lea. Swonger. Martin Yardas. These were his people. His kin. Through what lens would Merrick see his son’s suicide? Gibson decided he didn’t want to know.

“Would it matter?”

Against the dawn, they saw the plane descending. Merrick stood up from the hood of the car to watch it take shape. He smiled over at Gibson, and for the only time, Gibson smiled back. They were both relieved to see the plane, albeit for different reasons. The plane touched down at the far end of the runway, braked hard, and taxied toward them. They stood well back as it turned around for takeoff. The engines powered down, and stairs lowered at the front of the aircraft.

Two pilots met them at the bottom of the stairs, each built like a linebacker. Merrick immediately began issuing instructions about their destination. A booming voice interrupted him.

“Hello, Charles.”

The man who called himself Damon Washburn stood at the top of the stairs. A simple bandage had been wrapped around his wounded calf, but he looked like Caesar returning victorious to Rome. Merrick stared up at the CIA man. It took an endless second for him to grasp the situation and go for his gun. One of the pilots seized Merrick by the arms while his partner divested Merrick of the gun. Merrick fought them like an animal, writhing to get free, but it was futile. Gibson took a step back and raised his hands, just to be on the safe side.

Damon came gingerly down the steps, flanked by two more men in combat rigs, compact shotguns slung across their chests. They wore sunglasses even at dawn. Probably wore them to sleep.

Merrick’s face morphed into a relieved smile. “Damon, I’m so glad you’re all right,” he said. “It was a terrible situation at the hotel.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“Obviously it was pandemonium. No time for clear thinking. But rest assured, I told that Chinese bastard nothing. Not one word.”

“I believe you.” The man from the CIA took a breath and then, as if reciting a comforting prayer, said, “Charles, didn’t I make it clear to you the consequences of violating our agreement?”

“What are you going to do? Read me my rights now?”

“What rights?”

One of the agents stepped forward and cuffed Merrick’s hands in front of him. The second knelt and shackled his ankles. Merrick watched them do it with a mixture of fascination and disbelief. “This is completely unnecessary. I didn’t tell him anything.”

“And we’re going to keep it that way.”

“You can’t do this.”

“Good-bye, Charles.”

Merrick turned his fury on Gibson, lunging for him. “You. You did this. You stole my money.”

“I left you a penny,” Gibson said. “Wasn’t that enough?”

A black hood came down over Merrick’s head, cinched tight around his neck. He howled as the two agents dragged him to the plane. Damon turned to Gibson and put out his hand.

“The Agency appreciates the assist.”

“We’re square?”

“Still don’t know whose side you’re on, but for now we’re square.”

Gibson shook his hand. “So you have something for me?”

“Jenn Charles and George Abe—”

At the top of stairs, Merrick twisted around and cried, “Gibson Vaughn! It’s Peng Bolin.”

Damon froze. Everything on the tarmac seemed to slow, and it was Gibson’s turn to be confused. He stared up at Merrick, who kept screaming the same name over and over from under his hood: “Peng Bolin! Poisonfeather! It’s Peng Bolin, you son of a bitch!”

Gibson looked at Damon for some kind of explanation. Damon looked back apologetically.

“I really wish he hadn’t done that,” Damon said.

“Done what?”

Damon nodded slightly to his men, who took hold of Gibson’s arms.

“Wait? What are you doing?” Gibson asked, dimly aware of how much he sounded like Merrick.

“I’m sorry,” Damon said as a hood came down over Gibson’s face.

Gibson fought them all the way to the plane; it did him no more good than it had Merrick. On board, they cuffed him and strapped him into a seat. The needle in his arm sent a wave of cold through him. The drug worked quickly, and by the time the plane bumped forward, Gibson had forgotten why he’d been upset. Calm settled over him. A short time later, he felt his ears pop and wondered why.

“Daddy. Will you teach me to keep score?” Ellie held up a scorecard and a stub of a pencil.

Gibson felt so happy to see her that he didn’t stop to wonder how she could be here with him. Nicole must have dropped her off. This was the life, wasn’t it? The game was just starting; the players bounded out of the dugout and took their positions around the diamond. He smiled at his daughter; it looked to be a beautiful day at the ballpark.