She sat across from him, fingers circling the rim of her cup like it held answers. Her eyes, half-hidden behind her pair of tinted sunglasses, flicked up and down—his hands, his posture, the slight bulge under his jacket that could've been a weapon or maybe she was just paranoid. She had dealt with killers before, but if he was really part of the assassins, then calling him dangerous will be putting it mildly.
He hadn't touched his coffee.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"David Wilson."
Claire paused mid-circle and looked up sharply.
"David Wilson," he repeated, turning his right hand palm-down on the table. The tattoo was there—just like the one on the masked man who'd attacked them at the motel.
Her spine straightened a little.
"Wilson?" she asked.
"Yeah."
A pause, her mind immediately darting back to her former director, whom Lucas supposedly had killed.
"Craig Wilson?"
He nodded once. "My uncle. Raised me after my parents died."
