Tyrone let out a slow breath and strolled back toward his gate from the large monitor in the concourse. A wise choice to go directly to the airport rather than find a hotel to wait out the blizzard.

He cast a longing glance at a shuttered Starbucks as he passed. An espresso would help keep him alert during the remainder of the night, but the shop wouldn’t be open for hours.

He’d have to find another way to stay awake and—

“Good morning, Reverend Wilson.”

At the familiar voice from Ivy Hill, he swung around—and found himself face-to-face with Zeke Martinez.

No!

This couldn’t be happening!

How had the federal agent located him?

How had he even known to look for him?

Only two people were aware he was flying tonight—and they were both in the cistern.

Unless . . .

Had they picked up Razor—and had the man identified him as the head of the ring?

If so, could the Feds have gone to his house, seen signs of departure, and concluded he was trying to leave town?

Questions swirled through his brain as he struggled to maintain his composure.

None of this made sense.

But Martinez was waiting for a response.

He had to decide how to play this.

Act dumb until you see what they know. It’s possible he’s here on another assignment and happened to run into you.

A long shot—but he had nothing to lose by keeping up the act until the man revealed his hand.

“Good morning.” Somehow he managed to come across as nonchalant. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“I’ll bet. But I’m not surprised to see you.”

Uh-oh.

“What do you mean?” He feigned puzzlement despite the pounding in his chest.

“I think we both know.” Zeke pulled out a pair of handcuffs as a second man who’d been standing nearby moved closer.

Another agent.

They knew.

Invisible fingers squeezed his windpipe.

This couldn’t be happening. Not after all these years. Not when he was so close to leaving his old life behind.

“What are you talking about?” But he already knew the answer.

“Let’s not play games, Wilson.” Martinez’s features hardened as he went into a you’re-under-arrest-and-here-are-your-rights spiel.

The words barely registered as passersby walked a wide circle around them, sending curious glances their direction.

It was a surreal scenario.

But it became all too real as Martinez slipped the cuffs on his wrists and they locked into place.

The symbolism—and finality—of that simple action shook him to the core.

Because he wasn’t being arrested on mere supposition.

Somehow . . . some way . . . the truth about what he’d been doing had been discovered.

And his dream of a carefree retirement under sunny, tropical skies had just evaporated as quickly as a morning mist on the Mississippi River.

29