Noah's Adventure - 26. Plausible Deniability

From inside the room, someone was pacing.

“He should have called by now,” one voice said, tension creeping in.

“Maybe he’s stuck in a meeting,” the other replied.

If everything had gone according to plan, that call would never come.

Across town, the sharp click of heels echoed down the long corridor of the Russell Building.

At this hour, the halls were usually quiet—staff wrapping up loose ends or preparing for the next day. Tonight, however, heads turned as an impeccably dressed woman strode forward as if she owned the place.

She moved with purpose. Confidence radiated from her every step.

“Who is that?” one staffer whispered.

“I don’t know,” another murmured. “But I swear I’ve seen her before.”

The woman stopped at the desk outside Senator Keller’s office and cleared her throat.

“Do you have an appointment?” the assistant asked, already wary. “The Senator doesn’t see anyone this late.”

“No,” the blonde replied smoothly. “But he will see me.”

Muffled voices rose from inside the office. The woman smirked. She knew exactly what they were arguing about.

“Dammit, William—they have you on video entering the plane,” one voice hissed. “Your fingerprints were found on the wiring.”

“It’s my goddamn plane,” William Keller snapped.

“Your prints shouldn't have been behind the panel. The wire controlling pressurization was cut. Speculation is that you shut it off, clipped it, then returned the knob to the on position.”

“Why would I do that?” William sneered.

“Loose ends,” the other man replied. “I’m here as a courtesy. I can’t fix this for you.”

The desk phone buzzed.

“What?” William barked, slamming the button.

“There’s a woman here to see you,” the assistant said brightly.

“I don’t have any appointments,” William yelled, storming to the door and throwing it open.

He froze.

Standing there was someone he hadn’t seen in years.

Someone who couldn’t possibly be alive.

“Caroline,” he stammered.

She nodded once and brushed past him into the office.

Inside, CC glanced around, her eyes settling on the man seated across the desk.

“NTSB Investigator Paul Keller,” she said coolly. “Good. We can do this all at once.”

She took a seat opposite him. “Let’s be clear—this isn’t a social call.”

“Last I checked,” William said weakly, “dead people don’t make visits.”

“And last I checked,” CC replied, “sitting U.S. Senators don’t orchestrate the deaths of judges and entire families.”

Silence fell heavy.

Suddenly, CC vanished.

William and Paul blinked—and found themselves seated across from each other at a small table. Two glasses sat between them.

“What’s this?” William slurred.

CC’s voice echoed around them. “Revenge,” she said softly, “is a dish best served cold.”

Two gunshots rang out.

Throughout the Russell Building, staffers dove for cover as chaos erupted.

Across town, the captors watched the breaking news unfold on television—backs turned to their prisoner.

“Little B,” Shiloh whispered urgently.

Little B pressed a finger to his lips.

For an eight-year-old, he was terrifyingly calm. He understood exactly what needed to happen.

The warehouse lights went out.

“What the hell?” the taller man barked, sweeping his flashlight across the room.

The chair was empty.

“Fuck,” he shouted. “Where did he go?”

“Where did who go?” his partner asked—then noticed Shiloh was gone too.

The lights snapped back on.

A small boy sat in the chair now, legs dangling, smiling far too sweetly.

“Hello, boys,” Little B said brightly. “Fancy a game?”

They laughed.

Then their legs buckled.

“I don’t like it when people take things that don’t belong to them,” Little B said, hopping down. “You messed with the wrong family.”

The room began to spin—walls warping, objects tearing free and slamming into the air. The men screamed as they were flung like toys, bodies smashing against concrete and steel.

Then—silence.

They hit the floor with a sickening crunch.

Pain flared through their groins, sharp and merciless, before darkness took them.

“Your turn, T3,” Little B said—and vanished.

“My grandson went easy on you,” T3 said, surveying the wreckage. “I won’t.”

Back at Black Hawk, I sat on the couch, waiting.

Grandma had said SWAT was en route to the location where Shiloh’s watch was pinging.

Then—suddenly—Shiloh was beside me.

“What—?” I shouted.

“Little B,” was all he got out before I tackled him, wrapping him in my arms.

Grandpa came in from the kitchen, smiling as the room erupted into relieved chaos. He pulled out his phone—no doubt calling Grandma.

The truth unraveled quickly.

The Senator had orchestrated the crash and the kidnapping. He wanted the money. Shiloh had been leverage.

The next morning, the news droned on in the background as I ate breakfast.

One story made me stop.

“The NTSB investigation revealed deliberate tampering with the Cessna’s pressurization system, causing hypoxia. All passengers and crew lost consciousness before the aircraft crashed. The plane was owned by Senator William Keller. In a related development, authorities are investigating what appears to be a murder-suicide last night at the Russell Building. Senator Keller and his brother, NTSB Investigator Paul Keller, were found dead.”

I looked at Grandma.

She shrugged.

Plausible deniability.

Just then, Little B reappeared—and promptly collapsed on the floor.