Surviving Ice (Burying Water #4)(90)

I don’t know how helpful this will be, but . . .

I head into the kitchen to find my wallet and Fields’s business card, along with my phone.

THIRTY-SIX

SEBASTIAN

“Keep the porn to a minimum. Dakota’s streaming isn’t unlimited,” Ivy throws over her shoulder on her way out of the bedroom, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Like I’d even want that right now.” I eye her ass as it sways in black pants. “Leggings” she called them when I sat here and watched her get dressed, completely spent after a long day working at the house, my mind churning after that disastrous call from Bentley. The one that Ivy ended up hearing anyway, despite my efforts. I played it back in my head at least a dozen times as I worked away, trying to recall every word I might have said. It couldn’t have been too enlightening because she’s still talking to me.

She still stripped down to nothing the minute we stepped into her room, covered in white dust and both needing showers.

She turns to eye me lying in her bed, her gaze drifting over the reaper along my side that she just tended to. It’s scabbing over nicely now, and she seems impressed with the way it’s healing. “I think I’m paid up for at least a week with your bodyguard services, right?”

“At least.” I smirk. “I like your payment plan.”

Her full lips stretch into a devious smile. “I think I do, too.” Dakota’s voice carries into the room. Another guest over for dinner. It’s a revolving door around here. I wonder if this person will top the homeless Jono and the bearded Gerti, whom I never met. “I’m guessing dinner will be ready soon.”

“I’ll be out in fifteen,” I promise her.

I wait until Ivy has rounded the corner before I type “Alliance” into Google’s search engine on my iPad. A list of results fills the screen. They’re the usual articles, most relating to the civilian shooting that government officials were investigating. They’ve been investigating for over four months, with witnesses from both sides giving different accounts. The civilians had guns; they didn’t have guns. They fired first; the Alliance employees fired first. Just two months ago, officials finally concluded there was enough evidence to suggest that enemy bullets were fired, that the two civilians shot and killed may have had guns on them that were swept away by family members.

Alliance was not in violation of deadly-force rules.

When the verdict was first published, I felt only relief for Bentley. Relief that bullshit propaganda wasn’t going to hurt him, or his cause, because it couldn’t be true. Bentley would never support harsh and unfair violence against civilians. Now . . . my stomach turns.

Because the names of two of the Alliance contractors involved mean something to me now.

Mario Scalero and Richard Porter.

They probably did fire on unarmed civilians. They probably do deserve to be charged with murder. Just like they probably deserve to be charged with rape.

And yet they’re going to get off for all of it.

I don’t believe that any of what Royce admitted to Ned on that tape is bullshit propaganda. And now they’re free to go back to a war-torn country to continue doing the kinds of things that Royce spoke up about and got himself killed for.

Worse, Bentley knows. He knows and yet he’s sending them back in because Alliance just won another contract and Scalero is “effective” overseas.

I click on the news article posted just yesterday, showing a head shot of Bentley and a headline that reads, “Alliance Rewarded with Multimillion-Dollar Contract for Private Security Services in Ukraine.”

Bentley must have been in negotiations for that one for some time. Had that video surfaced, I’m guessing that the government would have passed Alliance over for one of the many other companies in line. It wouldn’t have taken too long for an investigative reporter to make the connection between the Mario and Ricky mentioned in Royce’s tattoo shop confession. The confession of a Medal of Honor recipient who was murdered not long after the recording happened.

With an eyewitness who can place a man with a heavy Chicago accent by the name of Mario at the scene.

My stomach tightens. One way or another, that connection may still be made, with something as simple as a mother’s scrapbook.

And the burn scar that the only witness to the murders just remembered.

Fuck . . . Why did she have to remember that?

It’s only a matter of time before someone—Bentley or Scalero or even this Ricky Porter guy, whom I have yet to lay eyes on—feels that Ivy is too big a threat to be allowed to linger.

I toss my iPad to the side and close my eyes, struggling to suppress my panic.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this unnerved at a dinner table.

We’re in Dakota’s greenhouse again. It was peaceful enough the other night, lit by dim lights, surrounded by a jungle of plants. I even liked the dozens of wind chimes dangling from above. Tonight, though, it all adds to the eeriness I’m feeling.

Dakota’s psychic medium guest—she goes by Esmeralda, though I’m guessing that’s her stage name—hasn’t lifted her unsettling crystal-blue eyes from my face since dropping her plump ass into her seat across the table. It’s not in a sexual way, either. She’s not trying to attract me or seduce me.

She’s trying to read me.

Or at least pretend that she can read me, because I know as well as she does that she’s a crook. None of that shit is real. No one can see the dead.