for a bullet herself. Her mouth worked but she didn’t cry. She did appear younger. Ordinarily she presented herself with such corporate sophistication—linen suits, lovely updos—that it was difficult to guess her age: one saw only a successful, self-possessed businesswoman. But this moment stripped away the glamour and revealed her as the twenty-something she was. It was not a comfortable sensation; there was the strong urge to wrap a blanket around her to return her dignity. But at least they couldn’t doubt her dedication. She’d been in this as deep as any of them and had seen it through to the end.
Lock put a paternal hand on her shoulder. In his deep voice, he rumbled, “Fucked-up situation.”
It was difficult to tell if this offered Farooq-Lane any comfort.
He told the others, “Let’s finish this up and get out of here.”
Ramsay lit a match. He used it first to light a cigarette for Nikolenko, and next to light a cigarette for himself. Then he dropped it into the gasoline-soaked undergrowth just before the flame bit his fingertips.
The forest began to burn.
Farooq-Lane turned away.
Releasing a puff of cigarette smoke in the direction of the dead Zed’s body, Ramsay asked, “Have we saved the world?”
Lock tapped the time of Nathan Farooq-Lane’s death into his phone. “Too soon to say.”
2
Ronan Lynch was about to end the world.
His world, anyway. He was ending one and starting another. At the beginning of this road trip would be one Ronan Lynch, and at the end, there would be another.
“Here’s the situation,” Declan said. This was a classic Declan way to start a conversation. Other hits included Let’s focus on the real action item and This is what it’s going to take to close this deal and In the interest of clearing the air. “I would have no problem with you driving my car if you would keep it under ninety.”
“And I’d have no problem with riding in your car if you’d keep it over geriatric,” Ronan replied.
It was early November; the trees were handsome; the sky was clear; excitement was in the air. The three brothers debated in a Goodwill parking lot; those entering and leaving stared. They were an eye-catchingly mismatched threesome: Ronan, with his ominous boots and ominous expression; Declan, with his perfectly controlled curls and dutiful gray suit; Matthew, with his outstandingly ugly checked pants and cheerfully blue puffer coat.
Ronan continued, “There are stains that spread faster than you drive. If you drive, it’ll take fourteen years to get there. Seventeen. Forty. One hundred. We’ll be driving to your funeral by the end.”
The Lynch brothers were on the first road trip they’d been on since their parents died. They’d made it fifteen minutes from Declan’s home before Declan had received a call he refused to take in the car. Now they continued to be delayed by negotiations for the driver’s seat. Ronan had driven this far; opinions were divided on whether he should get the privilege again. In the Goodwill lot, the brothers presented the facts: It was Declan’s car, Ronan’s trip, Matthew’s vacation. Declan had a letter from the insurance company offering him better rates for his exceptional driving record. Ronan had a letter from the state advising him to change his driving habits lest he lose his license. Matthew had no interest in driving; he said if he didn’t have enough friends to drive him anywhere he wanted to go, he was living his life wrong. In any case, he’d failed his driver’s test three times.
“Ultimately the decision is mine,” Declan said, “as it’s my car.”
He didn’t add and also because I’m the oldest, although it hung in the air. Epic battles had been waged between the brothers over this understood sentiment. It represented considerable progress in their relationship that it remained unspoken this time.
“Thank Jesus,” Ronan said. “No one else wants it.”
“It’s very safe,” Declan murmured, eyes on his phone. Time burned as he replied to a text or email in the peculiar way he always did, typing with his left thumb and his right index finger.
Ronan kicked one of the Volvo’s tires. He wanted to be on the road. He needed to be on the road.
“We’ll swap every two hours,” Declan finally said in his bland way. “That’s fair, right? You’re happy. I’m happy. Everyone’s happy.”
That was untrue. Only Matthew was perfectly happy, because Matthew was always perfectly happy. He looked pleased as a pig in slop as he slid into the backseat with his headphones. He said cheerily, “I’m gonna