Pros & Cons of Vengeance

by Wasp, A. E.

  But then, I hadn’t counted on Leo. Jesus fuck. Why did this man get to me more than any other ever had?

  I wasn’t sure exactly where or when my crush on Leo Shook had begun, but I know it was before I’d ever seen him in person. He’d been Charlie’s nemesis, always half a pace behind, and I swear, the cat-and-mouse antics were so amusing that even though I was nominally Team Charlie, I wasn’t sure who I rooted for harder sometimes.

  I took a deep breath. “There,” I said in my high-pitched accent. “Much better.”

  “If you’re sure,” he said, unconvinced.

  “Perhaps skip your remarks, Father,” Miranda suggested. “I’m happy to say a few words about the departed on your behalf, and you can keep the funeral rites private?”

  I nodded, taking the out she offered. “Perhaps, yes.”

  “I admit… I wasn’t aware that Charles Bingham was a particularly religious man.” Leo eyed Miranda skeptically.

  Thank God he’d turned to her for answers. I wasn’t sure I would have been able to stand up under that look. But Miranda, in her contrary way, absorbed his suspicion and used it to strengthen her backbone.

  “There were many things about my client that you didn’t know, Agent Shook.”

  “Apparently. Didn’t know Charlie was a blackmailer, for one thing.”

  “Blackmail is an ugly term,” she said. “And an inaccurate one in this case. It’s simply a business deal.”

  “Business,” he repeated. “With who? Charlie’s dead. Dental records confirmed it.”

  And wasn’t it curious how sad he sounded about that? We made a heck of a love triangle: me, Leo Shook, and Charlie Bingham.

  “I’ve been authorized to negotiate the terms of the agreement on behalf of the Bingham estate, along with another interested party.”

  “An interested party,” Leo snorted. “Christ. And who the fuck might that be?” He tossed me an apologetic glance. “Pardon my language, Father.”

  That would be me, Mr. Interested Party himself, the man behind the curtain. The man who’d been left the task of redeeming Charlie Bingham and playing invisible puppet master to five professional cons.

  I waved away Leo’s apology and glanced down, focusing all my attention on the way the shiny black toe of my shoe peeped out from below my robe.

  “Discretion is the most valuable service I provide my clients, Agent Shook,” Miranda said.

  “I don’t give a good goddamn about your attorney-client privilege,” Leo snapped. “I want to know how many people Charlie told what he knows about me. Or thinks he knows.”

  “Right this moment, only I know.” Miranda studied her fingernails. “As I was saying, on behalf of the estate, I’m prepared to offer you and a select few others a job in exchange for certain... sensitive information you might find important.” Miranda shrugged lightly, as though she weren’t coercing a federal agent in a cemetery in front of five dozen witnesses. The woman had more guts than anyone I knew; way more than Charlie had ever had; hell, more than the entire group of mourners put together. She also had a healthy respect for the law, which was why she was so damn careful about breaking it. “You have right of first refusal, and if you choose not to take it, then other individuals will be given the opportunity to bid for those goods.”

  “Those goods, meaning pictures of…”

  Miranda cut him off with a sharp noise. “Not here, Agent Shook. We’re having a select gathering back at the Bingham house after the service. You can ask your questions then.”

  “A select gathering.”

  Leo was like a parrot today - very unlike the calm, collected Agent Shook I’d come to know through Charlie. I would have been more amused if my heart weren’t still beating a mile a minute from the threat of being caught, and beads of sweat weren’t literally rolling down my legs and puddling in my oh-so-proper shoes.

  “Very select,” she agreed. “You won’t want to miss it. The house is up on Gulf Shore Road under the name of…”

  “Bigolb-Autumn Enterprises. I know,” he sighed so matter-of-factly I couldn’t help but dart a glance at his face.

  He knew where Charlie had lived? He knew the stupid name of Charlie’s shell corporation? How?

  Miranda was startled and showed it. “Do tell.”

  “I’ve known for a long while,” he said, sounding tired. He shook his head ruefully. “Only Charlie Bingham would create a corporation called Big Old Bottom Enterprises and think he could keep it a secret from everyone.”

  But it had been a secret. Not even the two or three people Charlie trusted with the truth had ever figured it out until he told them. Leo Shook was more perceptive than I’d given him credit for. And Charlie had been closer to getting caught than he’d ever dreamed.

  Miranda and I exchanged a glance. Mine said holy shit, and hers said I told you this was dangerous, you idiot.

  This was worrisome. And yeah, fine, it was also a total fucking turn-on.

  Leo ran a hand through his black hair. “I’ll look forward to our discussion at the house, then,” he said, in a tone that suggested it would not be a pleasant or peaceful discussion.

  He turned to me. “Will you be at the house, Father?”

  “Oh, me? No. No! Heavens, no,” I tittered, painting an accent on every syllable. Even though I desperately wanted to be there, to see everyone’s reactions in person, I knew it would be smarter for me to watch the proceedings from a distance. At least for now.

  Leo nodded. “Well, then. Bless, Father?” he requested solemnly.

  Jesus Christ. Of course the man was conversant in Russian Orthodox etiquette. Of course he was.

  It was only thanks to the dozens and dozens of masses I’d attended with my Babushka Sonia that my mouth formed the words of the blessing, more muscle memory than conscious thought. I raised my hand, then offered it to him, as was customary, and he took it in both of his, lifting it to his lips for a kiss.

  “Take care,” Leo said, returning my hand to me. He nodded curtly at Miranda and turned away, taking a seat next to Ridge Pfeiffer.

  I clenched my hand into a fist so tight I could feel the rapid beat of my pulse in each of my fingers. One simple touch, and he’d turned my stomach inside out.

  Miranda was right; Charlie’s last con was a dangerous game, dangerous for all of us. But it was too late to turn back now.

  1 Steele

  Thank Christ someone had been bright enough to leave the air conditioning on in Charlie’s mansion. Dead men paid no electric bills, I guess. Fucking Florida. I’d been gone too long and had somehow forgotten how truly miserable the humidity could be. Sure, it could hit a hundred and fifteen outside of Baghdad, but it was dry heat.

  I thought about taking off my suit, or at least my tie, but until I knew what the hell was going on here, I wasn’t going to let my guard down.

  Besides, I looked good in a suit.

  “Nice house, huh?” Wesley said from behind me, as I was busy assessing the layout of the house and cataloging any possible pinch points. Like I said, I didn’t know what I was doing here, and I wasn’t taking any chances.

  “I’ve seen bigger.” In my most recent incarnation, as close protection specialist and hired muscle to some very rich and very bad men, I’d been in mansions that made this place look like a pool house. Not that this place sucked. Not at all. The cabin I’d grown up in could have fit in the foyer with room left over.

  We followed Ms. Miranda Bosley, Charlie’s attorney, single-file down the tiled hallway of the big house like a line of ducklings. Wesley was the only guy I knew and consequently the only one in the group I trusted enough to walk behind me. Even Ms. Bosley looked like she wouldn’t hesitate to stab me in the kidney if she felt she needed to.

  Seeing Wes at the funeral had been a surprise. A quick, stilted conversation had revealed that he was here for the same reason I was – we were both being blackmailed by Charlie.

  I couldn’t imagine what Charlie had on the kid. I’d only worked with Wes twi
ce before, but he was more a gray hat than a black hat hacker; the kind of person who didn’t mind doing the wrong things for the right reasons. A cross between MacGyver and Anonymous, the kid had probably been on an FBI watch list since he was twelve.

  Wesley had triggered my protective instincts from our first meeting, but he’d never really needed much help beyond muscle. Sure, he could take care of himself with that jujitsu or whatever, but sometimes some people just needed their faces punched, and I was more than happy to do that for him. It was satisfying.

  Now Angel-Face, as I’d taken to calling the gorgeous blond kid who’d been sitting a few rows ahead of me at the graveside ceremony, he triggered other instincts in me. Made me think things I probably shouldn’t be thinking at a funeral. But then again, Angel-Face hadn’t seemed exactly consumed with grief either. I hadn’t been completely surprised to see him following Miranda after the funeral along with Wes and me. Very interesting. What had that choir boy done to be in such bad company at such a young age?

  I fingered the challenge coin I always carried in my pocket. A reminder of what I’d survived and the friends who hadn’t, the familiar feel of the raised image soothed the niggling doubts in the back of the mind.

  The fourth man in our little parade was the one who’d been sitting next to Angel-Face. I mentally dubbed him The Fed, because if he wasn’t some kind of agent, I’d eat my hat. I figured the guy had to be pushing forty, or maybe he’d already humped his way over the other side. If he’d been a forty-year-old cop, he wouldn’t be in such good shape. Guy looked like he could hold his own in a fight or a chase. Everything from his haircut to his body language, not to mention in the bulge of a shoulder holster under his jacket, screamed Fed. Of course, at Charlie Bingham’s funeral, it was likely that more people were packing than not.

  I couldn’t get any read on the fifth man in the group, Mr. Anonymous. He was so amazingly average-looking, he was difficult to describe. He hadn’t spoken once, so there was no accent or speech pattern to discern, and his generic dress pants and J.C. Penny shirt didn’t give any clues to who or what he was. But I figured if he was part of our party, he wasn’t your average, law-abiding citizen.

  “Please sit, gentlemen,” Miranda said, pointing at the collection of armchairs and sofas in the giant living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided us with a great view of the Gulf. I walked to the windows, noting the drop to the beach and the stone staircase leading to the upper levels of the house.

  “Please, Mr. Alvarez, if you don’t mind.” Miranda looked at me, and then looked pointedly at the other four men, who were already sitting.

  Angel-Face had an entire loveseat to himself. What a waste. I headed his way, giving him smile number four, the one that said I’m gorgeous, you’re gorgeous, we both know it. What do you say we fuck soon?

  He looked at me with cold eyes and the thousand-yard stare I’d only seen on snipers and hockey goalies. It was like a bucket of cold water being tossed in my face.

  Okay, then. I kept the smile on my face as I casually changed course. I took a seat next to Wesley, unbuttoning my jacket with one hand as I sat.

  Wesley, the little shit, carved a plane crash and explosion out of the air with his hand, complete with almost silent sound effects.

  “Whatever. Not my type,” I said under my breath. It wasn’t completely untrue. I liked my men a little more approachable, and, if I’m being completely honest, a little less together. I liked someone who needed me. Angel-Face didn’t look like he’d ever needed anyone in his life.

  Miranda crossed her legs at the knee, stilettoed foot tapping to some rhythm only she could sense. Somewhere on the far side of forty, Miranda was a handsome, slender woman with piercing hazel eyes that didn’t miss a thing. She looked like she knew all our secrets. And judging by the letter that had dragged my sorry ass out of the swamp and down to the Suncoast, she did.

  A middle-aged Hispanic woman in an actual maid’s uniform rolled in a fancy cart with a silver coffee service and a sweating pitcher of iced tea on it.

  “Tea, gentlemen? Ms. Bosley?” she asked with the faintest hint of an accent. “Coffee? We have both.”

  Miranda closed her eyes and rubbed her right eyebrow. “Josie, what are you doing?”

  The woman, Josie, straightened up and blinked. “It’s hot, Miran... Ma’am. I thought you could use some refreshments after the burial.”

  Without opening her eyes, Miranda waved her hand, motioning for the woman to continue. The cart moved almost silently over the polished wooden floor.

  “Ooh, aren’t you un niño bonito,” Josie said, handing Angel-Face his iced tea. I could swear she was a half a second away from pinching his cheek. Her accent was more south of the Mason-Dixon line than south of the border. She probably spoke as much Spanish as I did: enough to order food, find the bathroom, and flirt.

  Miranda sighed heavily as Josie rolled her tea trolley in my direction.

  “Iced tea? You look a little warm.” Josie poured me a glass before I could answer.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said, taking the blessedly cold glass from her. I sighed happily as I took a sip. The drink was one step up from tea-flavored sugar syrup, just like Mama used to make.

  “Now you,” Josie said, straightening up and looking directly at my face. “You look like trouble. Much too handsome. And you know it.”

  I grinned. I loved middle-aged women. You couldn’t pull shit over on them. They could see right through you. Josie and my mama would get along just fine.

  “Josie,” Miranda snapped.

  Josie’s mouth tightened, and I swear to God she harrumphed. I had no idea what was going on between these two, but I liked this woman already. She served the rest of the group, then rolled her cart to a stop near Miranda’s chair. She hesitated. “Do you need anything else? I could stay. Whip up some snacks?”

  “No, thank you, Josie.”

  “You sure, ma’am?”

  Truthfully, I could have gone for a couple of pizzas myself.

  “I’m sure. And Josie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Put that ridiculous costume back from wherever you got it.” Miranda tried to hide a smile behind her hand, but it showed in her eyes.

  “You don’t like it?” Josie pulled the white apron off. “I kinda like it. Makes me feel all official.”

  Miranda shook her head fondly. “Not necessary, Josie.”

  Josie handed her a black coffee in a delicate cup. “Whatever you say, Miranda.”

  “Thank you.” Miranda took a sip and her shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I will call you after my meeting.”

  Josie nodded. She opened her mouth to say something, then walked away, shaking her head.

  Well, wasn't that interesting? I’d been around a lot of wealthy people, including a few high-powered attorneys, and usually they barely acknowledged the help. The help certainly didn’t speak to their bosses like that.

  The late afternoon sun streamed through the tinted windows, glinting off the turquoise water, and painting the room in a golden glow. Dust motes danced in the beams, and I noticed that dust covered the shelves and decorative accents in the well-decorated space. Charlie either hadn’t used the room a lot, or he needed to hire actual maids.

  “Let’s get started, shall we?” Miranda said, reaching into her briefcase and pulling out a manila envelope. She placed it on her lap. “Before I get to the details of your assignment, I think introductions are in order.”

  “No, I think we should get to the point as quickly as possible,” The Fed said. “I know three of these men, and I don’t think we need to be friends.”

  Someone needed to punch that sneer off the guy’s face. Too bad, because it was a very handsome one, if you were into that kind of thing. All rugged and Captain America-like, when he wasn’t being holier-than-thou. Considering he was sitting in this room, though, and not arresting anyone, I guessed The Fed’s halo was a little tarnished, so he could fuck right off with his bullshit attitude.r />
  That was okay. There was more than one way to piss off a guy like him. There were a lot of things I hid about myself and my past, but being gay was not one of them. I hadn’t survived being a scrawny gay kid just to crawl into a closet as a grown-ass man.

  I leaned back in my chair, crossing my legs slowly, drawing his attention. As I shot my cuffs forward, and fixed the crease of my trousers, I eyed him up and down slowly, very obviously checking him out. Raising one eyebrow, I grinned.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, letting a little of the South Georgia swamp-rat seep into my voice. “I wouldn’t mind showing you how very friendly I could be.” I leaned forward. “If you got that stick out of your ass, Mr. Fed.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Miranda sipping her coffee and watching us.

  To my surprise, the guy raised his eyebrows and slowly checked me out from head to toe. It was hot, in a way, but I got the feeling the guy was observing every little thing about me and writing it down in some mental notebook. Like he could tell that my expensive suit had been a gift from a generous benefactor, and that I had stolen my Tommy John underwear from the dresser of one of my targets. Bad guys often had surprisingly good taste in clothes, and these had still had the tags on them.

  The Fed shook his head. “Sorry, Alvarez, but I don’t think it would work out. You’re not my type. I like my men a little more respectable. And from what I’ve seen of the many twinks you’ve had in your bed and other less comfortable places, I’m not your type either.”

  Wesley gave a long drawn out oooh and pointed his finger at me. “Need some cream for that burn?”

  It took all my self-control to lean back slowly. How the fuck did this asshole know my name and who I slept with? I shot Miranda a look. She stared impassively at me. I kept forgetting she held all the cards. Now, I had a choice to make. I could get all up in the Fed’s face, or I could play nice. Considering how much I needed to get hands on whatever shit Charlie had on me, I’d try door number two.

  I pasted a smile on my face. “Shot down twice in one night. Guess I’ve lost my touch.”