He felt worthless and stupid. The familiar feeling of despair set in. He wondered if anyone would miss him if he were gone. Maybe, a few people, mainly family members. But the real question was whether those people’s lives would be better without him as part of them. Would the world itself be better without him in it?

The anxiety and despair rose up inside of him like lava from a volcano, starting in his guts and erupting out his chest. He dug into a pocket, retrieved one of his pills, and swallowed it dry.

As he looked out at the desert, he admired its beauty and its purity. He considered becoming a part of that forever. He could hop down from the hood of the Firebird and walk out into that magnificent seclusion, letting the lonesome sand claim him as one of its own.

He felt his cell phone vibrate against his leg. Checking the caller ID, he saw that it was Sam Carter, probably ready to hold the whole fraud and identity theft thing over his head again and guilt him into coming back. He declined the call, but Carter merely called back two seconds later.

Burke tapped the green button and said, “What?”

The voice on the other end of the line said, “Hey, Burke, this is Nic Juliano.”

The lava in Burke’s chest burned brighter, and he suddenly couldn’t breathe. He managed to say, “Okay.”

“Listen, buddy, I just wanted to apologize. I was way too hard on you.”

“Umm, okay.”

“I was angry, and it’s been a rough day, which is only getting rougher, and I said some things I shouldn’t have. Things I didn’t mean. And I’m sorry.”

“Okay, me too. I mean, I’m sorry too.”

“We need you, Burke. Things have gone south in a hurry, and we need all the help we can get.”

Burke, still dumbfounded by the call, checked his watch and said, “I’ll be there in seven minutes.”

Chapter 64

White leather recliners and couches lined the interior of the Gulfstream G650. Isabel sat in one of the rearmost chairs, facing the front of the plane. A flight attendant had offered her champagne, but she asked if they had whiskey.

The stewardess had replied with a smile, “I believe we have a single malt. A forty-five-year-old Dalmore Aurora.”

Isabel had fought back a laugh. The attendant likely had no idea, but that bottle of scotch probably retailed for at least $8,000 dollars.

“I’ll take the bottle and two glasses,” Isabel said. “No ice.”

“Of course, just one moment.”

Christopher, sitting in a white leather chair opposite her, said, “Enjoying yourself?”

“Absolutely not. But the scotch will help.”

The woman returned, poured them both two fingers, and left the bottle. Isabel returned to the files that Mobius had provided. They were heavily redacted. Mobius, or more likely one of his underlings, must have gone through the records and removed anything that might have been incriminating or pertained to any job with which the syndicate leader or one of his companies were involved. Their incompleteness frustrated her. Once again, she had to play the game while only seeing a small portion of the board.