Skeeter nodded.
“It would be very interesting,” Kit said, scratching the back of his neck absently, “to know if that gun had once been registered to Carl McDevlin.”
Skeeter stared. “You mean—that kid might’ve been Jenna Caddrick? Disguised as a boy?”
Kit’s grimace spoke volumes. “She disappeared in the company of Noah Armstrong, whoever he turns out to be. And we know Jenna’s a Templar. That gives her a powerful motive to protect Ianira’s life. Jenna would certainly be in a position to suspect Ianira’s life was in danger, after the attack that killed her aunt and roommate.”
Skeeter whistled softly. “I don’t like this, Kit. Not one stinking little bit.”
“Neither do I,” Kit growled, kicking savagely at a dirt clod under his boot toe. It exploded into a shower of dust. “But then, I already didn’t like it, and I’ve never had any reason to trust a single word that came sideways out of John Caddrick’s mouth. The question I want answered is what motive Caddrick would have for lying about Noah Armstrong. Surely the FBI would be able to corroborate or disprove his claim that Armstrong is a terrorist?”
Skeeter said uneasily, “Maybe Caddrick bought the FBI? It’s been done before.”
Kit shot him an intense, unreadable glance, then swore in a language Skeeter didn’t recognize. “Skeeter, I really hate it when you say things like that. Because I have this terrible feeling you may just be right.”
“Great. So what are we going to do about it?”
“First,” and Kit’s face closed into a lean, deadly mask, “we find out just what happened in this camp that left two men dead and Marcus on the run for his life, with his kids. Then, we track down Armstrong and our friends. Before another pack of Ansar Majlis killers beats us to it.”