Free What Lies Behind by J. T. Ellison

was slumped over the parapet, arms dangling. A rusty smear was giving in to gravity, spreading slowly down the concrete.
    He came back to himself, realized Chalk was going mad in his ear.
    “Mutant, talk to me. What’s wrong? I can’t hear you, repeat, I can’t hear you!”
    “Chalk,” he said quietly, and his friend calmed immediately.
    “You okay, buddy? That was one hell of a shot. You want to come on down?”
    Come down, face the world, the scrutiny. He didn’t know what upset him more, that he’d so calmly negated the threat, or that he’d never questioned the only course of action was to take the threat down. Could he have done something different? He’d reacted, unthinking, and the fallout was going to be insane.
    Face it, Whitfield. You’re a stone-cold killer. Always have been, always will.
    Killing is my business, and business has been good.
    “Coming.”
    He shoved down the dark thoughts, forced himself to his feet. Climbed down the ladder to the scene below.
    * * *
    Their principal was out of sight, but the Teterboro Airport security was not. Chalk had clearly been trying to explain what was happening, but the Teterboro cops were more inclined to arrest the two men with concealed weapons, especially the one who’d done the shooting, and ask questions later.
    Xander handed over his SIG, suffered being slammed against a yellow cinder-block wall, legs and arms spread-eagled and roughly frisked. He let them put cuffs on him without a fight.
    Chalk wasn’t being nearly as calm. He’d managed to get James Denon isolated before they started the Gestapo act with Xander, and was dancing around the cops trying to explain their role in the situation. Denon was finally tapped to confirm who they were, and with his testimony, the cops relaxed a bit. They took off Chalk’s cuffs, but kept Xander chained, seated at a chipped table that looked like it had been recycled from a prison.
    Xander heard sirens coming closer. They’d called the New Jersey state police, probably the FBI, too. An ambulance, though it wouldn’t be necessary. A meat wagon was more appropriate. News trucks would follow. Xander knew they needed to get Denon out of there immediately.
    After a few more minutes of chaos, their bona fides were established, and Xander was uncuffed for the time being. He stood, rubbing his chafed wrists. The last time he’d been in cuffs was during counterinsurgency training. They made him feel caged, something he fought against. Once, the comforts of the military, its regimented days, worked for him. Now, he simply wanted to be free.
    Threats were still lingering in the air, the Teterboro cops glaring and bristling. When the state police arrived, they would make the call. Xander had a feeling he knew how this was going to go down—the cuffs would go back on, he’d be transported, arraigned, bail set. He would have to call Sam to come get him; Chalk didn’t have the means to spring him, not yet.
    Not how he wanted things to go today.
    Finally, Xander and Chalk were escorted to Denon’s isolated room; the door closed quickly behind them. Denon shot a hard glance at the handle as the lock
thunked
home, but shrugged and took a deep breath. He was a handsome man, foppish blond hair, fit and trim, very British schoolboy grows up and does well for himself. He was charming and smart and, despite the attempt on his life, was pale but composed. Xander thought he was handling the attempted assassination with a great deal of calm.
    Denon pointed to the ceiling, then deliberately turned his back to the camera. They joined him in the middle of the room, a scrum against the digital intrusion. “Who was the shooter?” he asked quietly.
    Xander shook his head. “We don’t know yet. There will be an investigation, obviously, which is out of our hands now. We’ll try to keep it quiet, but there’s no telling how the airport police will work with the New Jersey cops. This could be all over the news in twenty