“I know that you met Adam Humphrey Carter while he was still in uniform for the Georgia Highway Patrol.”

Beau’s jaw almost hit the table.

Will looked down at his hands so that his own surprise was less evident. His shock wasn’t over the information that Amanda had clearly withheld, it was from the last clue clicking into place.

Last night at the motel, Special Agent Zevon Lowell had known a hell of a lot about Beau Ragnersen—that he was the caretaker at the motel, that he ran the social club across the street, that the ownership of both businesses was tied up one way or another. You didn’t gather all of those facts in two hours, just like Amanda had not uncovered the connection between Beau Ragnersen and Adam Humphrey Carter this morning. Digging through that kind of paperwork took a hell of a lot of time. You had to make phone calls, talk to people who worked the cases, figure out exactly how the details fit together.

Which meant that Beau had been on Amanda’s radar for a while.

Which also meant that Will was right. There was no way Amanda would trust the FBI’s confidential informant to take Will undercover into the IPA. She had her own man. A man who was currently sweating out every ounce of water inside of his body.

Amanda said, “Captain Ragnersen, according to your storied rap sheet, Carter arrested you in 2012 on a packet of Oxy he found in your glove box during a traffic stop. Unfortunately, the case fell apart when the evidence disappeared. Carter didn’t log it in properly, which seems like a very hard mistake for a seasoned officer to make. Though I will say that falsifying evidence is a nice beginning to a friendship.”

Will looked up. He wanted to see Beau’s face when he realized there was a bazooka pointing at his chest.

Amanda said, “Carter’s basically hired muscle. Over the years, you’ve used him to help collect debts and knock over pharmacy supply houses. Carter also referred you to some friends who might require your skills. One of those men he introduced you to was Dash. You’ve been helping him and the IPA ever since.”

Beau’s jaw was clamped down like a bear trap.

Will could feel the man’s desperation—what else had she figured out?

Amanda asked, “How well do you know Dash?”

He started shaking his head. “I don’t know him. I met him in person maybe three times before yesterday. That’s over, like, five years. Dash is a good customer. He emails me a list, one of his dudes shows up with a bag of cash. He doesn’t ask for weird shit, just antibiotics and statins and normal stuff. Sometimes I patch somebody up for him at the motel. Young guys doing stupid things—a knife fight gets out of hand or some dumbass shoots himself in the foot. That’s it.”

“It’s always at the motel?”

“Yeah, or we meet near Flowery Branch off 985.”

“Dash meets you there?”

“I told you, he sends one of his guys with the cash. Another guy serves as backup, but I’ve never seen him get out of the van. I don’t meet the same guy every time. I can’t give you any names. We don’t fucking introduce ourselves. I sit on the bleachers. Dude swings by with the cash. We trade out our bags—pills for the money—then he hoofs it and I wait around a couple beats before I go. Just like in the movies.”

“Dash called you directly yesterday,” Amanda said, which had to be a calculated guess.

“He was in a jam,” Beau confirmed. “I hadn’t heard from him in months. Listen to what I’m saying. Dash was Carter’s guy, all right? And I always had to cut Carter in because he’s a thieving, conniving dick. I was never his friend. Not in any way. I’m glad he’s dead. He was a sick motherfucker. Everybody knows what he was sent up for. What he did to that woman. I’ve got a sister. A mother. I could never hurt a woman like that.”

“I’m not implying that you would, Captain Ragnersen. As a matter of fact, I know exactly what kind of man you are because I’ve been following you.”

Beau was too shocked to form a response.

Amanda said, “I have a tracking device on your truck. I’ve got another one on your Harley. I even put one on your fishing boat. I’ve listened to your mother cry about your drug addiction at her Nar-Anon meetings in the basement of her church. I’ve bought gum at the 7-Eleven where your sister works and talked to your ex-wife at the daycare center off Route Eight. I know who you are, what you are, where you are, at all times.”

He looked scared, but he tried, “You don’t know shit about me.”

“I know the pain from the shrapnel you picked up in Kandahar made you chase the dragon at the end of Oxy Road. That the scars you’re hiding under those long sleeves are from black tar heroin. I know what’s in your kit, that you use a brown shoelace from a tactical boot to tie off. I know where you go to shoot up, who you do it with, who you sell to, what gangs you triage and perform surgery for, who runs your pills, who owes you money, who you owe, and I know that right now at this moment, Captain, I’ve got my foot so far up your ass that you can taste my nail polish in the back of your throat.”

Beau’s nostrils flared. He was panicked, trying to see a way out of this. There was no way out. Every shot had hit the target. His mother. His sister. His ex. His business. His addiction. He was desperate enough to beg, “What do you want from me?”

Amanda smiled. She sat back in her chair. She brushed lint from her jacket sleeve. “Thank you, Captain Ragnersen. I thought you’d never ask.”

11

Monday, August 5, 4:30 p.m.

Sara paced her cabin cell. Twelve wide, twelve deep. As she adjusted her stride, she realized that the room was not exactly square. She got on her knees, went hand over hand, measuring out the space. Then she lost count in the middle and had to start over again. Then she put her head in her hands and tried not to scream because she was going mad with boredom in this gray prison.

At least four hours had passed since Dash had escorted her back to the cabin. The sun coming through the slats in the walls worked as a sundial across the floor. Sara squeezed her eyes closed to keep her thoughts from wandering. She summoned up the memory of the greenhouse. The building hadn’t appeared overnight. The forest had already grown in around it. This was what the sentries in the deer stands and the armed men blending into the woods were guarding.

Why?

Sara tried to consider the logistics that went into erecting that kind of structure in such an isolated location. There had to be an access road nearby, a way for heavy trucks to move in the components. The iron frame would’ve been brought up in pieces that were assembled on site. Transporting the thick, large panes of glass would’ve taken special equipment. Lifting it into place. Securing it to the frame. The generator was the size of a large playhouse, heavy enough to require a trailer. They weren’t plugging in lamps and hand tools. The electrical draw had to be around 15kW, enough to power a small home.

Someone had put a hell of a lot of thought into the functionality of the design. The glass and thermal tent were overkill, inasmuch as Sara understood their purposes. The thermal imaging cameras mounted in most police helicopters detected infrared radiation, or heat signatures, in the 7–14 micron wavelength. This meant that the energy wavelength would not transmit through glass. From above, the greenhouse would be virtually invisible. The thermal tent provided roughly the same benefit, blocking the waves from being detected. Which led Sara to believe the tent wasn’t meant to obscure the goings-on from above, but to block prying eyes on the ground.

She had to get inside of that tent.

How the hell was she going to do that when she couldn’t even get out of this cabin?

She looked up at the ceiling, dragging herself out of despondency. Her fingers got caught in her filthy hair. The humidity had tightened the curls into a clown wig. Her skin felt raw from the lye soap she’d used to clean herself. She wanted body lotion—the good kind she got at the mall. Her La Mer lip balm that cost more than a full tank of gas. That slinky black dress that Will loved because he knew it meant that he was going to get laid. A comb. Shampoo. Nice soap. Fresh underwear. A clean bra. A hamburger. French fries. Books.

God, she wanted her books.

Sara leaned over, pressing her forehead to the bare floor. Her entire adult life had been spent wishing that she had more time, but not this kind of time. This endless, tedious, nothingness of wasted time.