Page 103 of Enigma
The scale of the operation was staggering—easily fifty law enforcement personnel, multiple agencies, and what looked like enough evidence to fill several trucks.
A familiar sedan pulled up to the outer perimeter, and Olive’s breath caught as she recognized the driver stepping out.
Tom Greer. His face was lined with worry and exhaustion. But when his eyes found Olive’s across the parking lot, his expression transformed into one of profound relief.
Olive slowly walked toward him, her emotions warring between gratitude and guilt.
When she was ten feet away, she stopped, uncertain.
Tom’s weathered face cracked into a gentle smile. “Ollie . . .”
That broke whatever restraint she’d been holding onto. Olive ran to him and threw her arms around him, burying her face against his shoulder the way she had so many times as a grieving teenager.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry I called you. I put you in danger.”
Tom’s arms tightened around her. “Shh. It’s okay. You did what you had to do.”
When she finally pulled away, tears stung her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me? About your suspicions, about what you’d figured out? All these years, you’ve been investigating on your own.”
Tom’s expression grew troubled. “Because they were just theories, Olive. Hunches based on inconsistencies that had bothered me for eight years. I didn’t want to cause you more pain than necessary, not unless I was certain.”
“You told me once that my father’s real name was Walter Wiggle. Was that a lie?”
His lips pulled down into a deeper frown. “No, that was the name he was born with. Apparently, your father’s parents were big fans of Zion National Park. There’s a hike there featuring a section with that name. But he covered up his background really well.”
“Are his parents really dead?” She swallowed hard as she waited for his answer.
“Yes, your grandparents on both sides are really dead. That wasn’t a lie. In fact, from what I’ve learned, both of your parents were in foster care. That’s how they met.”
“Desperate people do desperate things,” she murmured, the saying sticking in her head.
“Yes, they do.”
Olive shifted. “Did you know Sarah was my aunt?”
“Isuspectedshe was your aunt. When you sent me that surveillance photo, it confirmed what I’d been afraid of.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, studying her face. “I’ve been following leads ever since your family’s murders, trying to piece together what really happened that night.”
Olive wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Sarah made me call you. She was going to kill you whether I cooperated or not.”
“I know,” Tom said gently. “The moment you said not to trust anyone else, I knew you were warning me. I’ve been in this business long enough to read between the lines.”
Around them, the operation continued. Olive watched as more suspects were led away in handcuffs, as evidence was catalogued and loaded into vehicles, as the rescued victims received medical attention.
“How many people do you think we saved tonight?” she asked.
Tom followed her gaze to where paramedics were treating a group of trafficking victims. “Forty-three victims from this location alone. But according to the FBI, this coordinated strike hit operations in four countries. We’re talking about hundreds of lives saved, maybe thousands.”
Olive stared at the scene, slowly bobbing her head as she tried to comprehend those numbers.
“You also managed to stop the distribution of that drug that was being developed and tested up in Maine. I’ve been in contact with Simon. He really does work for the CIA, and I asked him to head to Maine when I heard that’s where you were going. I feared Anton might be involved, and if Anton learned who you really were . . .”
“I wasn’t sure if I could trust him or not.”
“You know what I say—never trust a spook.” He offered a crooked smile.
“You were always full of good advice.”
Tom pulled her into another hug, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “You brought down a very powerful criminal organization tonight, Olive. One that’s been operating for over a decade. You should be proud of yourself.”
