by Shandi Boyes
When I hand Phillipa a flight manifest for a private charter from Taos, New Mexico to Fraser, Colorado, she reads between the lines. “Castro killed his brother, so why would Kirill side with him?”
I mentioned hearing bluebirds in the background of my call with Grayson two weeks ago when numerous attempts to reach him earlier this week failed to yield results. We pinpointed his last communication to be around the Colorado ranges, but we couldn’t gain an exact location. Castro’s operation has always been in the New Mexico region. The money his illegal activities pumped into the community means they’d be more than willing to shelter him and his men until the heat died down.
The flight manifest could be a coincidence, but I stopped believing in those a very long time ago. Furthermore, the Castros were utilizing Russian weapons during our raid, so I’m beginning to suspect Kirill’s decision to return to the US wasn’t made because he missed baseball. The Bobrovs and Castros are forming an alliance. I’m certain of it.
When Phillipa hands the manifest back to me, she arches her brow, reminding me I failed to answer her question. “We know Castro murdered Kirill’s brother, but Kirill doesn’t know that. Milo was killed on Gottle turf. Who’s to say Castro didn’t do that to play both Henry and Kirill?”
Her eyes bulge as her mouth falls open. “And Henry killing Crombie played right into Castro’s hand. With Crombie dead, Castro thinks his secret is safe.” The width of her pupils double. “Then, I logged a report full of misconceptions.” She slaps herself on the forehead. “Stupid, stupid woman.”
“Although I want to agree with you, your jump of the gun will help bring Castro out of hiding.” She peers up at me with wide, uneased eyes when I say, “He’s hunting Melody with decade-old photos. He’ll have a better chance of finding her when you amend your report.”
Phillipa’s smirk matches mine when she mutters, “You want to slot an agent’s photo in Melody’s place?” When I jerk up my chin, smiling, she adds, “Do you have someone in mind?”
My grin doubles. “I do, and I think she’ll be perfect for the role.”
7
Brandon
My stomach flips when I raise my hand to knock on Isabelle’s apartment door. I’m not nervous because I don’t have Grayson jabbering in my ear this time around to conceal my nerves, it’s because Isabelle wasn’t the agent I was referencing this morning. I was hoping Phillipa would fulfill the role, forgetting her earlier mention that she went undercover as Crombie’s girlfriend with the hope of securing more information on Rimi Castro. Although she never directly met with Castro, he’d know who she is. He’s as bad as Isaac about keeping tabs on any females in his crew’s lives.
When Phillipa suggested bringing Isabelle into our ruse, I was dead set against it. She already has Theresa riding her ass, so the last thing I want to do is pull her into a shitstorm. Regretfully, after hours of consideration, we couldn’t come up with another candidate. We can’t trust anyone in Phillipa’s team as it’s clear she has a leak, and my connection to the failed Castro sting last year would have me yanked off this case the instant we disclosed our plans to the leader of my division.
That’s why we’ve decided to go it alone. Phillipa’s partner, Arrow Moses, will be in charge of comms, and Phillipa and I will run recon. As much as I want to advise Isabelle of our plans, Phillipa talked me out of it. Until we can prove there are no links between Isaac and the Castros, we have to keep quiet because, for all we know, the down payment Isaac made to the Popovs last week could have been for anything, so we can’t take any additional risks. Isabelle is an agent, she topped her classes, outranked every agent during marksmanship training, and is on suspension. Phillipa is right. She’s the perfect choice.
I just need my stomach to get on board with our plans.
The jittery response of my stomach weakens when Isabelle swings open her apartment door. She’s dressed casually like me and smiling brightly. I wait for her to stop soaking in my designer outfit before pulling out a bouquet of yellow roses from behind my back. I hadn’t planned to arrive with anything when Phillipa and I stepped through our plan of attack, but the florist on the corner of Hyde called to me when I exited my vehicle. I’ve never officially dated, so I need all the help I can get to convince Isabelle to slip out of Isaac’s grip for just a day.
“Brandon, you shouldn’t have.” Isabelle’s eyes shine as brightly as the crystal vase the roses are in when she accepts them from my grasp.
“I thought they’d brighten your day.”
I pat myself on the back when she leans in to place a kiss on my cheek, then I grimace when my cheeks inflame partway through her friendly gesture. I’m not aroused from her childish peck. I am being burned at the stake by Hugo, who’s standing behind Isabelle’s shoulder, glaring at me. I told Isabelle to fly under the radar. She can’t do that and associate with a man whose movements have been as ghostly as Castro’s the past five years.
My lips purse when Isabelle gives Hugo a warning look in the process of placing her gift onto the entryway table. She twists and turns the vase a handful of times before offering to take my jacket. Eager to establish whose side she’s on, I join her in the coat closet. The tight quarters increase Isabelle’s florally scent while also doubling the odd heat bouncing between us. She must be struggling this week as her responses are usually cooler than they are.
“Isn’t he Isaac’s bodyguard?” I stumble over my last word. Even reading the transcripts from Hugo’s court case hasn’t unearthed who Hugo really is.
He’s as enigmatic as Isaac.
Isabelle shrugs. “He isn’t Isaac’s bodyguard. He’s more an associate of his.” Smiling, she crosses the room before offering up an introduction. “Hugo, this is my friend, Brandon.” I don’t miss the way she emphasizes ‘friend’ any more than Hugo. “Brandon, this is my… friend, Hugo.”
While smirking at Hugo’s frustration about being placed on the same team as me, I join them in the middle of Isabelle’s living room. “It’s nice to meet you.”
When I offer him my hand in greeting, Hugo accepts it, although hesitantly. “Pleasure.” His ability to lie is as bad as his acting skills. He’s not happy about my visit, not in the slightest, but for some reason, he doesn’t believe he can express that to Isabelle, proving they’re more work colleagues than friends.
That pleases me more than it should.
Nothing against Hugo, from what I’ve read, he was fucked over by my father as well as I was, but you can’t excuse a lifetime of mistakes on one person. If you could, I would have stopped feeling guilt a long time ago.
My eyes stray to Isabelle when she mumbles, “When did I become Ms. Popular?”
Guilt floods her attractive features as quickly as amusement does when she catches Hugo’s and my gawp. I don’t know why Hugo is gawking at her. I’m staring because I am glad sleeping with the enemy hasn’t changed her quirks. She was busted talking out loud many times her first six months on the job, but this is the first one I’ve heard since she was seen going home with Isaac.
Over our prolonged stares, Isabelle splays her hands across her cocked hip and arches a brow. “All right, spill, what are you two up to?”
It’s the fight of my life not to roll my eyes like a child when Hugo mutters, “I’ve got nothing better to do with my time anymore, so I may as well hang out with you.”
Although I’m confused by his statement, Isabelle has no trouble reciting it. As the guilt in her eyes augments, she shifts on her feet to face me. For a woman facing ten to twenty years for conspiracy in aiding and abetting a criminal by supplying him with official government documents, she looks remarkably smug.
Preferring to hold our conversation in private, I nudge my head to her apartment door. “I need to talk to you. In private.”
Before Hugo can voice any of the disdain in his eyes, Isabelle clasps my hand in hers before making a beeline for the hallway. Hugo doesn't follow us, but I have my suspicions he’s eager for some privacy. His eyes da
rted to a stack of boxes the instant Isabelle turned her back on him.
Once I’m confident I have my script in order, I raise my eyes to Isabelle’s. “I need a favor.”
I’m taken back when she answers, “Anything, Brandon.”
I had hoped my friendship would be reciprocated one day, and today is as good a day as any. She didn’t hesitate, not in the slightest, so it makes what I’m about to say ten times easier. “Thank you, Izzy.”
What? Every man knows you always begin a negotiation with a compliment. Only once you’ve smothered them in gooey goodness do you hit them with the big stuff. “I need a date.” When Isabelle balks, I talk faster. “My mom is chairman of a charity that holds an annual gala. I tried to get out of it, but she won’t accept any of the excuses I’m giving.” When her facial expression gives no indication she’s sympathetic to my plea, I veer my ruse in a direction even I hadn’t considered. “I don’t want to go alone because Melody will be there.” The uneased mask on Isabelle’s face slips away in an instant, assuring me I’m on the right path. “I am so desperate for a date, I'm not below getting on my knees and begging. Please, Izzy. I'll do anything, anything at all if you'll fake liking me for one night.”
The wish to find a shallow ditch to bury myself in weakens when Isabelle mutters, “I do like you, Brandon.” Gratitude for charming, boyish features fills me when she adds, “So I'm sure it won't be hard pretending I'm your date for a night.”
My cheeks groan in protest from their sudden movements when a blistering smile stretches across my face. “Thank you, Izzy, thank you.”
My grin sags when she mutters, “You’re welcome… but now, I need a favor.”
Although hesitant, I agree to her request as quickly as she did mine. My favor comes with dangerous consequences, so it’s only fair I give up just as much.
My heart beats out a thunderous tune when Isabelle discloses, “I’ve been looking a little deeper at Megan Shroud.” I then realize I have no reason to panic when she garbles, “There are a lot of holes in her file I could fill in by driving out to her hometown to check things out.” She licks her dry lips before adding, “The thing is, I don’t have a car, so can I please borrow yours?”
I almost dip my chin, but the quickest idea pops into my head, stopping me. “It hasn’t recovered from the last time you drove it.” I wink and smile when she pouts. “But I’m more than happy to drive you there.”
“Really?” She shouldn’t be as stunned as she is. Not only will this give me a chance to look a little deeper into Carlyle Shroud’s purchase twenty-nine years ago, but the guilt that’s been eating me alive the past four hours may slacken.
“I still have nightmares from when you went to her hotel room alone. I refuse to make the same mistake twice.” I’m not lying. Letting Isabelle go to Megan’s hotel room alone was a stupid thing for me to do. I should have gone with her. Alas, I’m too nosy for my own good. “I have the weekend off, so why not go on an adventure?”
“Thank you, Brandon.”
I squeeze her hand, assuring her that her gratitude isn’t required. She’s helping me more than I’m helping her. “You’re welcome. I’d do anything for you.” Cringing about the awkward wording of my thanks, I shift our conversation back onto mutual territory. “When were you wanting to head out?”
Isabelle twists on the spot, endeavoring to appear innocent. “I was hoping tomorrow morning?”
“Eager?” I ask through the lump in my throat.
She laughs, then nods. “There’s something strange with her records.”
I pull a face as if to say, you have no idea. When she spots it, she slaps my arm. “Too early?”
“Not at all,” I assure with a laugh. “I’ll pick you up around seven?”
Now she’s the one cringing. She’s clearly not a fan of mornings. “Seven works. I can do seven.” I tell my cheeks to get with the fucking program when they burn from her childish peck. I know it’s been a while, but still, blushing like a naïve virgin is fucked. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks again for this, Brandon.”
After dragging her hand down my arm, Isabelle heads back into her apartment. While jabbing the call button on the elevator, I dig my cell phone out of my pocket. I almost call Phillipa while waiting for the elevator to arrive at Isabelle’s floor but decide against it when a blinking red contraption at the end of the hall gains my attention.
My kiss with Isabelle weeks ago proves Isaac is watching her, but this watch feels different. It feels even murkier than a man with strong ties to the cartel. It feels like pure evil, and it has me saving my call until I’m in the safety of my car and many miles away from Isabelle’s apartment building.
“I thought we agreed not to amend your report until the night before the gala?” I say when Phillipa answers my call, not bothering to issue a greeting. “I can’t keep Isabelle safe from a distance.”
“I haven’t touched my report. I went to the gym, then recouped the calories at a bakery like I do every Friday afternoon. By continuing with our routines, we’ll appear less suspicious,” she quotes, snickering.
She’s annoyed I wouldn’t let her fill Grayson’s shoes. I don’t know why I refused her request. Perhaps because I’m a little uneased by Grayson’s rare silence, or perhaps it’s because I didn’t want another witness to my horrendous dating skills.
“What’s with the interrogation, BJ? Did you go off script?”
Yes. “No. Isabelle agreed to go to the gala with me.”
The traffic noise heard through the Bluetooth speakers on my steering wheel is as noisy as the line of vehicles I’m weaving through. “Then what’s the issue?” My hesitation annoys Phillipa as much as it does me. “If agreeing to remain in the graveyard the rest of my career isn’t enough to gain your trust, BJ, I don’t know what else I can do.”
“I trust you.” When nothing but silence resonates down the line, I reiterate, “I do, I just…” I’ve got nothing, so I go with honesty instead. “I spotted a surveillance van in the alleyway outside of Isabelle’s apartment. It has government-issued tags.”
“Did you jot them down?”
The high pitch of her tone switches to a giggle when I ask, “Do you know me at all?”
A car horn honks, and Phillipa curses before her noisy breaths overtake the revs of her motor. “Hit me with them.” Seven seconds after I recite her the tags, she says, “The van belongs to the Bureau.”
“Can you tell me who it’s assigned to?”
The whooshing that sounds down the line has me picturing Phillipa shaking her head. “But I can probably get you a department…” Her words trail off to a groan. “It’s someone from Internal Affairs.” After a few seconds of silence, she adds, “Perhaps we should call this off? Wait until IA isn’t hot on Isabelle’s tail.”
“We can’t, Phillipa. The partial match of an account from the receipts Julian forwarded us is the only proof we have that Castro’s crew is still in operation. Someone from his empire was at the same function Melody attended last week. If we wait too long, they’ll find the real Melody before we direct them toward the fake one.”
She sighs, unhappy with my statement but aware we don’t have a choice. Phillipa’s report put a price on Melody’s head. Time isn’t in our favor. “When I get back to my apartment, I’ll update Julian’s security team, so they know the threat is credible.”
After humming out an agreement, I say, “While you do that, I’ll pack an overnight bag.”
With how quiet Phillipa is, I hear her brain ticking over. “You’re going away?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now! Are you crazy? Our team consists of three people. We need all of them on the ground, conducting around-the-clock surveillance.”
I’d laugh at the high pitch of her tone if she didn’t sound so serious. “I’m not going on a weekend getaway. Isabelle wants to take a closer look at Megan Shroud.”
“Shroud? As in Carlyle Shroud?” Nothing but unhinged excitement rings in Philli
pa’s tone. When I murmur in agreement, she gasps. “How is she linked with this?”
Phillipa whistles out a shocked breath when I give her a bullet-point update on Megan’s obsession with Isaac’s brother. “And this is why I’m convinced the world isn’t flat. Life is a never-ending circle of unknown connections.” With tiredness strangling my senses, my laugh comes out as more of a yawn. “Perhaps after you’ve packed, you might get some sleep.” When I scoff, she whispers, “I can come prepare you a warm cup of milk and rub your tummy until you fall asleep if you’d like?” Don’t take the childishness of her offer as being innocent. Her comment could have only been more insinuating if she had said it while naked.
Feeling playful, I mutter, “Phillipa?”
My cock twitches when she purrs, “Yes, BJ.”
Her laughter roars above the pulse in my ears when a snippet of the old Brandon breaks through the dark cloud above my head. “Can I have some cookies with my milk?”
8
Melody
When a shuffle sounds at the door, I peer up from the mountain-load of case files I’ve been sorting through the past few weeks. I have been in the reference library for hours, yet I’ve barely deciphered half the charge sheet in front of me. My mind is elsewhere, and I don’t see that improving when I lock eyes with my caller. The Governor has popped in for another visit, except this time, he’s minus his posse of advisors.
“Mr. McGee, good evening.” My tone is lower than usual, somewhat skittish. I’m not a fan of my voice as it is, let alone speaking to a man who rarely stops glowering.
It’s men like Mr. McGee who keep fear alive. Their insides are so evil even a deliriously handsome face can’t hide it. For years, I believed the McGee children’s personalities were evenly split between their mother and father. Brandon and Joey took after Mrs. McGee, and Phoenix and Madden adopted their father’s traits.
