Forrest:Same goes. I wanna know why Coullson fed us the name of a corpse. See ya later.
Me:Speak later.
With that confirmed, I peered at the time, called Bagpipes and told him to meet me at City Hall.
The ride down to Lower Manhattan was surprisingly quiet thanks to the early hour, but as I approached City Hall Park, that was where it started to get busy.
Busier than usual.
I frowned as I drove around the park, heading toward City Hall itself, but as I did so, I realized why it was busy—there was a massive cluster of police cars, their blue lights flashing, doors left wide open as if there was an active threat underway.
I’d only ever seen such a response like this when there was a shooter situation.
Frowning, I pulled over beside one of the cop cars, where a uniform was speaking into his radio.
When he’d done, I hollered, “Hey.”
The cop twisted around to glare at me, but when he saw me, he gulped.
Nice to know my face was that recognizable to the boys in blue.
“Sir,” he muttered warily, “you need to move on. This is an ongoing crime scene.”
“What happened?” I asked, dismissing his words.
“There’s been a murder.”
“There has? Who’s been killed?” I peered over at City Hall, leaning onto my wheel to get a better angle, taking note of all the cop cars and registering it had to be someone powerful to trigger this response from the boys in blue.
It had better not be Coullson…
The cop tugged on his shirt collar, before he replied, “A guy sneaked into the Mayor’s office and...” His mouth worked, his cheeks turning pasty as he gulped. It was clear to me he’d seen the crime scene, and it was also clear to me that he wasn’t used to seeing dead bodies.
“And what, son?” I asked, feeling oddly paternal. Had I ever been this much of a fucking rookie?
Still he wasn’t that new that he didn’t recognize me, because he answered where he’d have told anyone else in the general public to fuck off. “Slit the Mayor’s throat,” the guy bit out.
My brows rose. “The Mayor’s dead?” I repeated, even though there wasn’t much inaccuracy in taking a knife to the throat.
Fuck.
Coullson was dead?
Jesus, what a waste of a resource. We’d only just turned the fucker and there he was, eliminated.
The thought resonated with me, and I knew that word was bang on—eliminated.
They knew he’d talked to us.
They knew.
The fuckers.
How did they know that?
Goddammit.
Had he told them? Or had someone been listening in? He’d said at the gala they’d kill him for talking to us—seemed as if he’d been right.