"Edwin said to stay together."
"We're tracking a southerner. An unarmed southerner."
"Didn't stop him from almost killing Martha."
"But he failed. He couldn't even take down a woman. He's soft. Old, too."
"He didn't seem that old. And he still got away. He's smart--"
"Not as smart as us."
Gregory Wallace has escaped the First Settlement. There's no other way to interpret this, but I still mouth the words to Dalton. He nods--he's come to the same conclusion.
I creep back to Brady, who's looking the other way, gazing into the forest. I slip up to him, put my gun to his chest, and whisper, "One word, and I pull this trigger."
His glare is icy rage. He hates me. I don't know if he would have hated me no matter what the circumstances. I don't know if my actions thus far have led to this. But whether he's a killer or not, I suspect that if Oliver Brady got hold of a gun, his first bullet would go between my eyes.
We wait until the settlers are out of earshot. Then we wait a little more, before Dalton nods, telling me they are gone.
"There is no exchange," I say to Brady, and he smirks.
Called your bluff, Detective.
"There's no exchange because your stepfather has escaped."
His lips form a curse, quickly swallowed.
"He'll return to our town," I say. "Which is where we're going. We're done with this bullshit. We've lost two friends, and I don't care if you murdered them or not, they would still be alive if you hadn't shown up. This ends now. We are taking you back to your stepdaddy, and we're putting both your asses on the plane. Eric will fly you within a day's walk of the nearest town. He'll point you in the right direction. He'll give Gregory a gun. What your stepfather chooses to do with the gun is up to him."
Brady's eyes widen, his mouth opening.
"You say you have a secret for his ears only?" I whisper. "You'll have plenty of time to confront him with it, after Eric kicks you both off that plane. Until then? You're gagged."
"No," he says, and there isn't any defiance in it. Only fear. "You can't--"
"Can. Will. You may say you aren't a killer, but people die a little too often around you, Oliver. So we're terminating the contract that brought you here. This is family business. Yours, not ours."
"I didn't kill--"
"Like I said, we don't care. We did, once upon a time. But then you went and escaped, which led to the whole 'two dead friends' issue."
His face hardens. "You had no intention of listening to me--"
"You never gave us a chance to dig deeper. So off you go. Tell Gregory your secret. Maybe you two can work this out." I pause. "Unless it's a secret you plan to threaten him with . . . when the two of you are alone in the forest, and only one of you has a gun. That would be inconvenient."
I lift my gaze to his. "Yes, flare your nostrils at me, Oliver. Give me that look that says you're considering all the ways you could kill me. Relishing the options. In fact, why don't you just tell me what you'd like to do? Get it off your chest."
"I have done nothing." He can't even unclench his jaw to speak clearly. "I made mistakes out here, and your friends died. But that was desperation. I did not kill those people in Georgia. If you can prove otherwise, you would. You can't. So go ahead and put me and Greg on a plane. Let us go in the forest. But I want a gun, too. I deserve a fighting chance."
"Like those people you shot in . . ." I frown and look at Dalton. "Wait, did he just say Georgia?"
"Yeah," Dalton says. "Weird. I coulda sworn he said he was being blamed for a shooting in San Jose. You slip up there, Oliver?"
Another nostril flare. "No. I'm cutting through the bullshit. You know he's not accusing me of the San Jose shooting. He's saying I murdered five people in Georgia. Fucked-up, psychopath serial killings."
"Which you did not commit."
"No, I did not."