“Sorry.” Lula frowned. “That’s pretty crappy behavior.”
“We’ll be back,” Gator said.
“Maybe,” Christen added, and they walked away.
“Awkward.” Lula scratched at the side of her head.
“Hey, White!”
Both Lula and Axel turned and looked for the person that had called out. I watched a man slap another on the back of a guy, then they shook hands.
Axel—Dr. Axel White Ph.D.—I understood why he turned.
Up until this point, I’d had to pretend that I didn’t know that Lula LaRoe was also Johnna White, CIA. What just occurred to me, though, was that she was also the woman walking up the hallway toward the elevator bank at Langley. She was the tiny woman in the white pantsuit and the tall red heels walking next to John Black.
It was her. I knew it in my bones.
As the rest of our group peeled off to get drinks or mingle, I snagged Lula’s arm. From her expression, she knew she’d messed up.
“Good to see you again.”
“Yeah, it was fun getting to know you at the dinner.” Lula smiled.
“I obviously just put the puzzle pieces together. As you well know, I was on the team that helped pull Gator and Christen out of the ocean when Christen’s brother Karl threw her overboard, trying to kill her. I was on the team that offered support to get you off the island when you were stuck there when homicidal psycho Karl was trying to kill Christen’s dad last summer.”
“Christen’s dad doesn’t believe that his son wanted him dead.”
“Delusional in his old age.” I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Karl’s hiding out in Saudi Arabia, well away from here. I guess what matters to me right now is that you warned John Black that I was there in the hallway when we were at Langley.”
She said nothing.
“You know why I needed to speak with him.”
She rolled her lips in.
“It’s a problem that needs fixing.”
Nothing.
“Can you get a message to my husband?”
Nothing.
“Or to John Grey?”
Lula scanned the room to make sure no one was overhearing these names. She exhaled. I could see her mind racing at full gallop.
Her eyes came back and fixed on mine, but I was pulled away from the conversation.
Holy moly!
There was Vincent Toone in the flesh. He’d aged terribly. But, yes, it was him. And I knew for certain because I could feel the agitation of my parents just over my shoulder.
My sixth-sense systems were going off all at once.
Heebie-jeebies sparked my electrical grid. It was my run! Run now! Run fast! Sensation. I scanned the room for Striker as my jaw dropped to pull in more air.
London Bridges falling down! Circulated the knowing. Whatever had been flowing through my system these last few days was now overflowing.
Warning. Warning.
But I couldn’t see a single thing that was wrong with this picture.
I spun when the double doors opened.
A man walked in dressed as plastic army soldiers kitted out in a WWII uniform. He was green from head to foot, including one of those green face hoods used in the movies as green screens. The door shut behind him. Moving to the top of the room, he found a place on the dais.
His arms spread wide to gain everyone’s attention.
Everyone turned with polite welcome clapping.
The guy on the mic called out, “Ladies and Gentlemen, an homage to our brave soldiers from the greatest generation.”
As the MC made a gestural flourish, the double doors opened. Two of the green soldiers stood on either side, holding the doors wide.
A green soldier with a professional movie camera backed into the room.
Pay attention! My parents pressed on me. To what?! I felt like screaming out.
My eyes landed on Vincent, opening his phone with the typical Z pattern. And as I stood there all by myself, watching him, I felt a great push from behind me, forcing me to stumble forward in Vincent’s direction, though no one was anywhere near me.
The phone! The phone!
Fine, I said in my head, the phone.
The music blared, This is the Army, Mr. Jones.
Through the doors came parallel lines of the green puddles that allowed the toy soldiers to stand while kids positioned them were approximated by the green hoverboards they rode in on.
The party-goers moved to the edges of the room to make space for this new entertainment.
I turned back to watch Vincent Toone slide his phone into his pocket. He looked expectant and nervous. His eyes scanned the room and stuck when they found mine.
He audibly gasped.
My gaze shifted as I did a quick search for Striker. He was over near London. London was sporting a plastic “what the heck?” look. I wasn’t sure if it was because Striker was reaming her a new one or if the entertainment took her by surprise.
I sent a barbed look at the back of Striker’s head and glared.
He turned. Smacking Blaze across the chest, they headed my way.
Vincent grabbed my arm and tugged. “Are you Alexis Rueben? You are, aren’t you?” he asked. “Your dad was a friend of my brother’s. My brother won’t have anything to do with me anymore. He doesn’t know, but he knows, you know?”
I shook my head and looked back to see Striker’s progress was impeded by Army men.
“I didn’t intend to kill him,” Vincent said so quietly that his words were almost lost in the music.
The phone! The phone! Pay attention!
“I don’t know what I meant to do. I mean, it’s one thing when you’re high as shit. Angry as shit. Just fucking pissed at the world. I heard your mom had brain cancer.” His grip tightened on
