“Buy you some time. But you’ve got another problem. I haven’t been straight with you. Nobody at the company has. They’ve reported every move you’ve made to Portman.”

My chest goes hollow. “How do you know that?”

“Because we’re reporting every move you make back to the office. And we don’t usually do that. Our CEO is former FBI, you know. And John Portman could swing a lot of corporate business to Argus any time he feels like it.”

The implications of Kelly’s revelation ricochet through my mind. “Is my family safe?”

“Argus doesn’t kill people. Other than in defense of a client, like the other night. But I’d find myself some new security, just to be on the safe side. Local boys maybe. Buddies are good, family’s better.”

“Kelly . . . how do I know I can trust you?”

“Because you’re alive. And because I’m telling you this.”

“Why are you telling me?”

A brief silence. “I think it’s got something to do with the way you buried your maid. Now, get your ass out of here. Walk fast, but don’t run. And if you hear shooting, don’t look back.”

His order is an exact echo of Stone’s. “Kelly—”

“We’ll be sharing a Scotch again before you know it. Move out.”

Reluctantly hanging up the phone, I scan the concourse like a tailback picking holes in an offensive line, then start through the crowds at a rapid walk, looking back frequently for signs of pursuit. After clearing the metal detectors, I dodge a golf cart carrying a handicapped woman, then bound down the escalator to the baggage-collection point where Annie and I said goodbye to Caitlin Masters, before we knew who she was.

Parked in the middle of the floor is the Infiniti Q45. Midnight blue. I look around once, then crouch down and reach under the bumper, feeling along the inside lip for Kelly’s gun. My fingers collide with something hard, but as I try to close them around it, the gun clatters to the floor. Glancing around at the people waiting for luggage, I drop to my stomach and sweep my hand across the tile, and the gun skitters into my chest.

It’s Kelly’s Browning Hi-Power.

I jam the pistol into my waistband beneath my shirt and trot past the rental car desks to the glass doors leading to the outdoor parking lot. I’ve heard no shots or even shouts since my conversation with Kelly, but this actually increases my anxiety. Did he manage to divert whoever was waiting for me? Or is he lying dead beneath a pay phone, the slug from a silenced pistol in his head?