In the bakery kitchen, Holt kneaded fondant, working in the blue food coloring with hard, almost violent strokes. He’d have felt better with a g*n or knife in his hands, but this fight with Arthur Raynor wasn’t the kind he’d been trained for. To end this, he had to play a different sort of game. One that went against most of his better instincts. But the plan was solid, all the pieces in place, with multiple fail-safes. He refused to believe that Raynor was smarter than the team he’d put together to do this.
He just had to get through tonight. Then he could go home and make up with his wife. The drive back from Johnson City had been awful. Everything in him had wanted to comfort Cayla. To pull the 4-Runner over, drag her into his arms, and erase the distance between them. But just in case
