by Layla Reyne
“Whoever it is,” Tran said, “get rid of them. We’re on the clock.”
She wasn’t wrong. T-minus two hours until showtime.
Adjusting the sling he’d put back on, Chris strode down the long narrow hall and opened the door to Braxton Kane. Eyes hard, face drawn, the chief looked stressed out and pissed off. He didn’t wait for Chris to invite him in. He pushed inside and rounded on Chris as soon as the door closed behind them. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Plausible—”
Chris’s words died as his back hit the wall, Kane’s forearm shoved under his chin. “Fuck plausible deniability. This is my family.”
“How’s that, Chief Kane?” Tran asked.
Kane’s gaze whipped to the side, and his hazel eyes widened, round as dinner plates. Chris had probably looked much the same that morning when he’d first glimpsed this stripped-down version of Vivienne Tran.
“Your last name’s not Madigan,” she said. “You’re no blood relation. Leave, while you still can.”
Chris was fairly certain Kane couldn’t leave at this point either, but he offered him the out anyway. “Still want to fuck plausible deniability?” he croaked out around Kane’s forearm.
Kane stepped back, but he didn’t turn for the door. He lifted his chin and gritted out, “Yes.”
As Chris expected. Kane was too invested, same as Chris. Readjusting the sling, Chris followed the chief into the kitchen.
“What are these?” Kane asked, eyeing the floor plans on the island.
“Blueprints for Club Sterling,” Tran said.
“Where a Madigan op is going down tonight,” Chris added.
“The explosives?” Kane asked. “Surely they aren’t there. Rose isn’t that reckless.”
“It’s another test,” Chris said, and proceeded to fill Kane in on the details Hawes had shared with him that afternoon. “And an audition for a potential new ally.”
“Who?”
Tran gave a single shake of her head, sharp enough that glossy black strands escaped her ponytail.
Chris ignored her. He wasn’t changing his approach now, especially not with one of the few people involved in this mess whom he trusted completely. “Remy Pak.”
Fuming, Tran yanked the elastic out of her hair, the rest of it falling free, as she stalked away from them, toward the back of the condo, muttering “insubordinate fucker” curses and “fire his ass” promises.
“Pak runs weapons for the Russian mob,” Kane said, continuing to track Tran with his gaze. “She hit our radar when she flew into SFO. I do not want her in my fucking city, and she is not a player we want in Rose’s corner.”
“She’s working with the ATF,” Chris said, and Kane’s gaze snapped back to him.
“So this is an ATF op tonight? Why wasn’t SFPD notified?”
“Because,” Tran said, pacing back their direction, “SFPD will not be involved tonight. And neither will the ATF, except to observe.”
“We’re going to let this play out,” Chris explained.
Kane shoved the blueprints aside and planted a hand on the tiles, facing Chris directly. If he’d been pissed off before, he was fucking furious now. “Remember what I told you a while back? I do not want a bloodbath in my city, and I do not want my family dead in its streets.”
Tran came at them like a tornado, shoving Chris aside and getting right in Kane’s face. “My family did die in these streets, and you”—she jabbed Kane’s chest with an accusatory finger—“helped cover it up.”
Gasping, Kane wobbled back a step, and Chris shifted to avoid a collision. He’d had that fire directed at him before—Tran having chewed him out on the regular—but never had it been so scalding or so personal. It made him doubt the trust he’d put in her. While he understood Rose was the architect of Izzy’s death, he wasn’t sure Tran wouldn’t shoot Hawes given the chance.
“Fuck,” Kane muttered, recovering his voice. “Isabella?”
“They were married,” Chris replied when Tran didn’t; then, as another wife came to mind, his gaze slid sideways, avoiding Kane’s.
The top cop caught the dodge. “What else aren’t you telling me?”
Chris took another step back, out of reach of any punch Kane might throw. “Amelia’s back in play.”
If Chris had thought the chief’s eyes dinner-plate wide before, they were the size of turkey platters now. “She’s not in custody?”
“Do you really want me to answer that question?”
“This morning, Holt dropped off Lily…”
Chris didn’t nod or shake his head.
Kane figured out the answer easily enough. He turned away, his motions stilted as he skimmed a hand over his head. “For once, I’d just like to not be the last person to know everything.”
“They’re protecting you, Brax.”
“But I’m the cop.” He sounded weary, as close to broken as Chris had ever heard him. “I’m the one who swore to protect and serve. I’ve protected him…them…”
Chris laid a hand on his forearm, noticing for the first time the intricate tattoos there. They were usually covered by his shirt sleeves, which now that Chris thought about it, were never rolled up. He shook away the momentary distraction. “Let them protect you for a change.”
“It’s your day off, Chief Kane,” Tran said, resuming her position on the other side of the island. “Go home and forget this conversation ever happened.”
Kane’s defeated daze only broke when they reached the front door. “Should I expect babysitting duty tonight?” he asked, one foot over the threshold.
“No, Rose will keep an eye on her.” The words sounded as wrong to Chris as they must have felt to Kane, who lurched forward and grasped either side of the doorframe.
“Why the fuck would they do that?”
“She was suspicious about why they were keeping Lily from her. Why Holt brought her to you this morning instead.”
“But what if she—”
What if she kidnapped Holt’s daughter, Kane’s goddaughter? It was the same fear that had gripped Chris when he’d woken up in that hospital bed on Saturday. The worry was no less acute now, and the risk was even greater. Which was why Kane couldn’t be at the club tonight. He had someplace more important to be—on a stakeout to protect their most vulnerable family member. “I think you know where you need to be tonight.”
“Fuck.” He pushed off the doorframe and stalked a frustrated circle on the porch, before turning back to Chris. “I’ll stake out the house, call if she moves. I’m counting on you to keep the rest of them safe.”
For a split second, Chris felt as weary as Kane looked, but then Chris remembered Hawes in this condo last week—how he’d made it feel like home again for the first time in years—and answered without any further hesitation. “Trust me.”
Helena closed the door behind Victoria, muting the thumping bass of the club music downstairs. Normally, Hawes didn’t mind the deafening racket of a packed club. He loved dancing, loved getting lost in the music and the sea of swaying bodies. Aside from sex, it was one of the only other times he let his control slip. But he couldn’t let anything slip tonight. So he let the rumbling vibration of the music steady him instead, imagined the rhythmic beat was that of the heart of the man on the other end of the burner phone in his pocket. There if Hawes needed him, always keeping him steady.
He perched next to Helena on the edge of the manager’s desk and eyed the captains spread around the room. Despite their seemingly relaxed positions—Alice and Malik on the chaise, Austin and Grant on top of a low filing cabinet, Gayle, Sue, and Connor at the round table in the corner, and Victoria on the arm of the chair where the lone lieutenant, Avery, sat—all of them were alert and ready for the op. And all of them but Avery regarded him cautiously, their eyes frequently darting to Helena for their cues. Which was why Hawes, after commending the captains involved in that morning’s operation and elevating Victoria and Alice, and the absent Elisabeth, to lieutenants, turn
ed the floor over to his sister.
A ripple of surprise swept the room, cresting before the wave crashed into Helena. Her confused blue eyes landed on him, and Hawes hoped she saw in their reflection all the confidence he had in her. The people in this room trusted him only so far, but they trusted Helena implicitly. That was the loyalty they needed tonight. He would prove himself through his actions; his sister already had. They needed to hear the plan—the orders—from her. “You’re the impressive one.”
She cast her gaze aside and inhaled deeply. Hopefully, as he’d intended, she was recalling the conversation they’d had after Papa Cal’s death. That day in the garden, she’d called Holt the brave one, him the strong one, and herself the scared one. All true, except all three of them were scared, unsure of what the future would hold and scared for their loved ones. But despite that fear, she’d held it together and held their coalition together too.
Impressive.
He scooted closer, enough to give her a subtle hip check and draw her gaze back to him. Love, loyalty, and appreciation shined in her eyes, and he would have wrapped her in a crushing hug if not for their present circumstances. A smile would have to do, and he didn’t bother hiding how wide or full of pride it was. He wanted the captains and lieutenants to see that too.
She returned the grin, then straightened and stepped forward, shoulders back and arms loose at her sides. Confident, like she could spring and kill at any second. “You have a choice to make tonight: the past or the future.” She addressed the team like she addressed a jury, the lawyer in her coming out as she made her opening statement. “You’re all aware of the recent tension in the organization.”
“Because he slept with a fed,” Connor said.
“No,” Helena said. “Because our grandmother had a fed killed.”
“He pulled the trigger,” Victoria said.
Hawes internally winced at the mention of that night—the mental film reel of it impossible to pause—but the identity of the speaker did not give him pause. He respected Victoria even more for voicing it, despite the promotion he’d just bestowed on her. He wanted independent thinkers, not blind followers.
“I did,” Hawes said. “And I’ve tried to do better every day since.”
“I’ve seen it,” Helena said. “You’ve all seen it. No indiscriminate killing. No collateral damage. No unvetted targets. Hawes’s rules have kept us safe. Kept us as clean as we can be in this business.”
“So why does Rose want to get rid of them?” Alice asked.
“Power. Profit she thinks we’re leaving on the table. A notion that the old ways are better.”
“Sometimes they are,” Connor replied, and the twitch of Helena’s hand reflected the niggle of worry swirling in Hawes’s gut. Connor was their most junior captain, promoted earlier that year. Had Rose and Amelia recruited him while he was still a soldier?
In any event, Malik shut him down. “Usually they aren’t.”
“Our city, our world, is changing,” Helena said, taking back the reins of the conversation. “We have to change with it. That’s what my brothers and I are trying to do.”
Hawes braced as Connor opened his mouth to speak again. “Why were we sidelined?” the captain asked, and Hawes better understood the young man’s simmering resentment. Was relieved by it, as it was something they could work with, to their benefit.
Helena was on it already. “That was Rose and Amelia’s decision,” she told Connor. “They manipulated the other lieutenants and soldiers.”
“And left me out,” Avery said, “so I know how you feel.”
Hawes recalled the chart on Chris’s wall, thought about where Rose and Amelia had struck within their organization—at connections that were either long established, meaning the lieutenants, or not established enough, meaning the soldiers. “They left you out, Avery,” he said, “because you were the most recent captain promoted. They left all of you out because you were not as easily influenced as soldiers nor as tied in as longtime lieutenants. You are the independents.”
“And you outnumber us, up and down,” Helena said. “This is as much, if not more your organization than ours. You make this call.”
“What are we being asked to do?” Victoria inquired.
“Our grandmother’s ultimate goal is to steal back the explosives seized by the ATF. Then she wants to sell them to the highest bidder, which is currently Elliot Brewster.”
Curses and scoffs bounced off the walls, and disgusted faces were had by all. Hawes’s earlier pride in his sister expanded to each of their colleagues in this room. They’d picked their people well, and Rose and Amelia had done them the favor of weeding out the bad apples.
“That’s the past,” Helena said.
“And the future?” Alice prompted.
“Wants nothing to do with explosives. We don’t need them. We’re assassins. Explosives look powerful, but they aren’t the source of our power. They aren’t our primary skill.” Helena reached behind her, lifted her leather jacket, and withdrew her Sig. “We don’t need these either.” She set the gun on the coffee table in front of the chaise.
Pride and affection swelled for his sister, but Hawes worried it was too much of an ask, given the sudden quiet among the others. “Hena, you don’t have to—”
Helena, however, pushed on. “There’s another potential bidder. One we prefer, though it is not our intention to actually go through with the heist and sale.” She didn’t go so far as to name Remy, or to indicate she was an ATF plant, or that they were working with the ATF, but she didn’t need to to make their point to this audience. “The new bidder requires a demonstration, as does Rose. But I want to do it on our terms. On the path we”—she gestured at herself and Hawes—“want to take into the future. The question is, are you with us?”
Malik didn’t hesitate. He rose from the chaise and set his gun beside Helena’s. “The past is rarely ever the right way to go.”
Avery was fast on his heels, her loyalty already proven. Victoria and Alice were a tad slower to follow, but once they’d made their allegiance known, the rest of the captains fell in line. Everyone except Connor, who instead came to stand in front of Hawes and Helena.
“I trust you,” he said to Helena, handing her his gun. His dark eyes shifted to Hawes. “I’m not sure how much I trust you.”
Hawes surprised him by clasping his shoulder. “I have to earn back your trust, that’s fair. But your trust in Helena is enough for now.”
Chapter Ten
It had been years since Chris had stepped foot inside the building that now housed Club Sterling. Back then, it had been some generic seafood place. From what Chris recalled, the drinks and views had been better than the actual food. Situated on the Embarcadero, in the shadow of the Bay Bridge, the cavernous space boasted floor-to-ceiling windows that provided unparalleled vistas of the Bay and the bridge.
Now, as a high-end nightclub for San Francisco’s rich and powerful, legal and otherwise, the location, space, and sleek, modern decor were likewise unparalleled—from the polished-wood bar at one end, to the dance floor that stretched out in front of it, to the brick wall at the far end where a steel staircase led to the mezzanine. Under the mezzanine overhang, polished steel and leather booths provided main floor seating and more gleaming surfaces to reflect the club lights out onto the water.
Club Sterling was right. And Chris sure as shit didn’t have enough sterling in his bank account to be let in here. But he did have a shiny badge that got him past the bouncer, and once inside, he was grateful for the black dress slacks and collared shirt he’d dug out of the back of his closet. He was getting plenty of looks, but none of them were the you-don’t-belong sort. They were the sort he might have returned for a chance at a quick fuck a few weeks ago, but now he ignored them and made his way to the bar instead.
“What’ll it be, handsome?” the bartender asked, also giving him an appreciative once-over.
Fernet would be appropriate in a place like this, but
he couldn’t stand the bitter liquor. “Stout. Gravity, if you got it.”
“I’ve got it,” she said with a wink. “Be right back.”
She headed to the other end of the bar, and Chris did a slow shift, from his left hip to his right, surveying the space, cataloguing the exits, and noting any variations from the blueprints he’d studied earlier.
“Here you go,” the bartender chirped behind him.
Rotating back to the bar, Chris wondered at the items left on the napkin. The bottle of beer was correct, but the pair of eyeglasses next to it were unexpected. “I don’t—”
“You left them last time you were here.” She pushed the items closer and tapped a barely there bump under the napkin.
“Thanks for holding them for me,” he said, acknowledging what was said and unsaid.
“No problem. Let me know if you need anything else.”
He waited for her to move on to another customer before he slipped on the tortoiseshell frames and lifted the bottle. Pretending the napkin was stuck to the bottom, he cupped his hand beneath it and caught the tiny comm unit. Bottle in one hand, he used the other to push back his hair and, in the process, tucked the comm into his ear.
“Good evening, da Vinci,” Holt greeted.
Chris took a swig of beer, then with the bottle in front of his mouth, hiding its movement, whispered low, “We’re sticking with that?”
“Efficiency.”
“And the glasses?”
“Disguise, and the camera in them gives me a better view. Club floor is packed. I can’t see everything through the security cams.”
“So you’re using me?”
“Yep,” Holt said, not sounding the least bit contrite. “You’re the designated observer.”
“Where are you?” Not in the manager’s office, Chris guessed. That would effectively put all three siblings in the same place. Too risky. But Holt would be close.
“Fire station.” A building over, close but protected. “Now stop worrying about my twenty and do your job. Give me a good look around.”
