“Shot by whom?” Cavendish ignored Fox, brows scaling his forehead as he stared at Eden.
“Honestly? We think it was your new client,” she said.
“What? But how–? No, that can’t be–”
“Oh, spare me the theatrics,” Fox said.
Eden sent him a sharp look.
“If you’re on Pseudonym’s tab, then you know they play dirty. In fact, did they put you up to this meeting? Are you just trying to keep us here until their next hired hitman can show up and finish the job the last one botched so extravagantly?”
Cavendish braced his hands on the table and leaned back in his chair, swapping a look between them. “Is he…is he serious?” he asked Eden. And to Fox: “Who are you? Eden, if you’ve gotten mixed up with that Lean Dog lot, you have worse problems than I thought.”
“Yeah. Okay. Fuck this guy.” Fox made to move his chair back.
Eden slapped out a hand and closed it around his wrist. He could have shaken her off; could have flipped her over his back, could have broken her arm in three places, could have simply twisted away. But he didn’t. And she was, despite knowing he could get away, stronger than he remembered. Or maybe just more determined.
“Fox,” she said, and her voice sounded carefully composed. “Let’s give him a chance to be helpful. Okay?”
Fox made a show of thumping back down in his chair and scooting it close to the table again, legs screeching over the floor. And suddenly, he knew a sensation he’d thought lost between them. A low, euphoric fizzing in the pit of his stomach like when he got to bounce off someone like Mercy or Candy on an especially tricky, bloody job. The joy of locking together like devious puzzle pieces and pulling off something truly, epically slick. Things had been like that with Eden once, briefly, and he hadn’t thought to feel that particular joy with her again. But here it was, ephemeral as smoke, dangerous as mercury.
It was better than sex, to be honest.
He shifted his wrist, just a tiny fraction, so that it moved toward her. She squeezed once and let go.
“Fine,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. He folded his arms and sulked back in his chair. “Alright, Boarding School Boy, prove you’re not on the villains’ take.”
“Beg pardon?” If this was a show on Cavendish’s part, it was a good one. “Eden.” He started to sound frustrated; a muscle jumped in his lean jaw. “What in the bloody hell is going on?”
~*~
It surprised her how difficult it was not to shoot Fox a conspiratorial grin. This was going well. And after the morning they’d had, that was unexpected.
This morning…
Ugh. Being back around this man, and his crazy family, was pushing all sorts of buttons. She didn’t lose control. Full stop. And she’d taken a swing at Devin Green this morning. Christ.
No, she told herself firmly. One thing at a time.
“Alright, Simon,” she said, fanning her hands out across the table. “Let’s be straightforward with one another.”
He snorted, and she recognized his look of offense. “You mean unlike you have been so far? I feel like I’ve been attacked and dragged into some sort of made-for-the-movies drama. What’s going on, Eden? And no accusations this time,” he added, wagging a finger at Fox.
To his credit, Fox just turned his head away, disinterested. Eden knew there was a good chance Simon would go on to regret that little move; he’d probably end up with a broken finger, at the very least.
“You’ve been given the case,” she said. “At this point you know what I know: that a man was caught on camera at Pseudonym’s headquarters, that he stole some files, and that Pseudonym wants the files recovered at all costs, and the perpetrator apprehended by authorities.”
“Yes?” he said, impatient.
This was the part that left her insides shivering with dread. Trust me, Phillip had said, when he attached the wire to the strap of her tank top, now safely hidden beneath her jacket. And, camped out in his clubhouse, at his mercy for help and resources, what choice did she have? She said, “Well, I found him. The perp. But I told Pseudonym that I hadn’t. And when I went to his home to question him, someone shot through the window at us.”
Simon’s face went impressively blank. “You – now hold on a moment. What?”
“The second Pseudonym realized that I had been in contact with the target, they decided to kill me.”
“Try to,” Fox said beside her.
Simon opened and closed his mouth a few times. The momentary resemblance to a sea creature wasn’t flattering. Finally, he swallowed audibly and tried to smooth his expression. Attempted a sideways smile. “That’s insane.” He said it hard, fast, like he was trying to convince himself. “They wouldn’t – listen to what you’re saying. Pseudonym is a massive company,” he said, lowering his voice to a hiss. “They’re in five countries, they are massive shareholders in dozens of international businesses, and they aren’t some…some” – he cut a glance toward Fox – “some outlaws who can do whatever they bloody please. Do you honestly believe a client like that would hire you on record, and then try to kill you? Whatever this man stole, trade secrets, whatever, it isn’t worth the kind of scandal and jail time your death would bring down on their heads. I’m offended you’ve even suggested such a thing. It’s ludicrous!”
Fox eased back in his chair with a sigh, a seemingly casual sprawl. “Right. Because no one powerful ever took out a hit on someone they thought had crossed them. Giant corporations never do anything out of line, huh?”
“I…” Sweat glistened at Simon’s temples.
Eden took pity on him. “I’m sure they’ve covered their tracks. In fact, I’d be willing to bet there’s a paper trail somewhere ready to hit the Internet that makes it look like the target is the one who killed me. Whatever he knows” – she suppressed a shudder as she thought of Project Emerald, the names and dates and experiments listed in Devin’s folder – “it’s something so damning they can’t risk it being made public.”
“That’s generally how this kind of shit works,” Fox added helpfully.
Simon looked between them, and then finally looked away, gaze going to the window. He swallowed a few times in rapid succession, throat jumping. Fear didn’t look good on him – he wore it too openly. He’d always been the sort of straight-laced, do-the-right-thing man who worked harder than he needed to. The one who’d studied while his school friends went drinking and carousing. He came from a respectable family, he comported himself with grace and aplomb; well-dressed, handsome in a refined sort of way, meticulous…he’d earned his station, and he didn’t have much of which to be afraid.
Sitting here now, in his impeccable suit, hair shiny and styled, sunlight catching his Cartier watch…he was terrified. It tugged at something inside her. Something like pity tinged with fondness.
“Simon,” she said, gently. “I can’t urge you strongly enough to get away from this. Tell Pseudonym that something’s come up and get out. I don’t know the extent of their resources, but I think they run very, very deep.” Government-deep, she added to herself.
He nodded, but it wasn’t agreement, more of an acknowledgement that he’d heard her.
This might actually work, she thought.
And then–
“Wait.” Fox’s chair creaked as he sat forward and put his elbow back on the table. He looked at Simon, then at her, gaze narrow.
Oh no.
“Oh,” he said, and then again, delighted now, “oh. I get it. You two were…”
When Eden sent him what she hoped was a withering look – her pulse was speeding up, high and fast in her throat – he smiled at her with all his teeth and motioned between the two of them. “You were together, right?”
Simon rounded on him with a, “I don’t see how that’s any of–”
“Briefly,” Eden said, and prayed she wasn’t blushing. “That’s not important–”
“Oh,” Fox said with a laugh. A cackle, really. “But it is! Little Miss Profe
ssional, coming down here like this was all part of the plan, and you just wanted to lay eyes on your expensive shag–”
This wasn’t happening.
It couldn’t be.
Damn it.
“Charlie,” she said through her teeth, cutting him off. And oh no. Too late, she realized she’d just made it much, much worse.
Because Simon made a quiet, shocked sound and said, “This is Charlie?” His look spoke of betrayal.
Eden wished the floor would open up and swallow her.
It was silent a moment, the light chatter and clink of cups and hiss of the espresso machine swelling in around them to fill the gap. Fox had cut off mid-laugh, and his mouth was still open. His eyes bounced between them, and she tried, fruitlessly, to beg him with her eyes to leave this the hell alone. Just drop it.
But Charlie Fox had never left anything alone in his life. It was a very good thing he wasn’t a cat, because he would have been dead by now, curiosity overload.
Slowly – slow-motion like in a movie, a horror movie that she was helpless to do anything besides watch – his mouth closed, and then stretched wide into a wicked smile. “You told him about me?” he asked, tone smug, brows jumping.
He’d given her a lot of looks since he got back, but not that one, not yet. She hated seeing it now and realizing it still had a devastating effect on her inner composure. Swooping stomach, clenching lungs, pattering pulse: the works.
But outwardly. “I hate you,” she said.
Then she very pointedly looked away from him, back to Simon, and tried to soften her expression. Poor Simon looked gobsmacked. Just like it always had, letting Fox get involved in something had completely derailed it. They’d been doing so well there for a second: good cop/bad cop. Or maybe it was more cop/gangster. But then this reveal had come tumbling out, and now she had no idea which direction was up. Only that she had to regain control of this meeting and end it before it grew even more regrettable.
“Listen, Simon,” she said, aiming for businesslike. “Ignore him. What we’re telling you about Pseudonym is true. The target stole some incredibly incriminating evidence from them, and they will literally kill to get it back. Drop the case. Don’t get mixed up with them any more than you already are.”
His expression slowly cleared as she spoke, professionalism returning. “I trust you. But–”
“No. Just trust me.” She pushed her chair back. “For yourself, and your team, please.”
He held her gaze a long moment; emotion flicked through his eyes, one after the next, too fast to name. Finally, he nodded. “What about you? Who’s gonna make sure you don’t get killed?”
The question caught her in the ribs, a sucker-punch. She huffed out a breath that tried and failed to be a laugh. “Don’t worry about me. I always land on my feet.”
Simon sent her a sad, concerned smile. “Maybe not as often as you think you do.”
The coffeeshop was suffocating, suddenly.
“Can we finally be done here?” Fox asked in a bored drawl. “We came, we warned this posh asshole, mission accomplished, yes? Yes. Let’s go.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched toward the door like an impatient teenager.
Eden threw Simon one last serious/apologetic look, and followed Fox out, secretly grateful for the chance to leave.
At the door, she tucked her face down into her shoulder, to the place where the mic lay hidden just beneath her jacket collar. She whispered: “Hope you got all that. I’m switching it off now.” And as she stepped out onto the sun-warmed pavement, she reached up the back of her shirt with one smooth motion to the battery pack and switched it off.
Fox waited for her a few meters down, leaned back against the concrete façade of the building, hands still in his pockets, sunglasses perched on his head.
Déjà vu slammed into her. Like walking into the clubhouse yesterday, the past barreled over her, a runaway train. But this was worse, because it wasn’t just a place, but a person. It was Fox, and with the sunlight painting his face, he didn’t look like an annoying specter from her past, but like–
She shut the thought down. Hard. Walked forward with her head held up, and he pushed off the wall and fell into step beside her.
“That went well,” he said.
She scoffed.
“I disagree. You warned your boyfriend–”
“Simon is not, nor has he ever been my boyfriend.”
“–we left some breadcrumbs for Pseudonym,” he continued, unperturbed. “And we’re currently not dead. That counts as a success in my book.”
Okay, she could grant him that.
“What did you tell him about me?”
Okay, that…that, she couldn’t do.
Without breaking stride, she plucked at his sleeve and then pressed her shoulder into his, used her momentum and the element of surprise to whirl him into the next alley. Crowded him up against the wall, faces close, noses almost touching.
He lifted his brows in mild surprise, unimpressed. “You know I let you do that, right?”
Yeah, she did. The total lack of tension in his body was all the evidence she needed to know that he’d expected such a move, and had gone along with it willingly.
By contrast, her hand was shaking where she’d grabbed a fistful of the front of his shirt.
She was affected, and he was not. Hadn’t that always been the case?
She took a deep breath, so deep it made her lungs ache, and let it out slow. “Charlie, we’re not doing this. At all. There’s so much going on, and just” – her breathing hitched, and she hated that – “just no. Okay?”
His gaze narrowed, impossible to read. “He’s still interested in you. You know that, right? I could tell.”
“What did I just say?”
“I don’t care if you have a boyfriend,” he pressed on, the bastard, throwing in a little shrug and a careless tilt of his head. “But how many more civilians are you going to involve in this thing?”
“I don’t–” She made herself stop. Bit her lip. Took a step back and let go of his shirt. She took another useless deep breath and glanced away from him. She was so frustrated she wanted to cry, and that made her feel very young, and foolish, and unprofessional. “You didn’t use to make me this furious.”
He breathed a quiet laugh. “Oh yes I did. But then we’d go shag and it would ease the tension for a little while.”
“Yeah.” She shook her head, and risked a look at him, saw the little smirk that meant he’d known she would be forced to agree with him. “We were pretty toxic, weren’t we?”
“Hm, volatile maybe. But I don’t think toxic.”
She turned back to him, searching his expression, which had gone surprisingly soft.
“You were ambitious,” he said, “and focused, and patriotic. All incredibly sexy – but it meant you needed things from me that I can never give. It’s good you found those things in someone else.”
Ambitious, focused, patriotic. Was she? Is that how he’d always seen her? And did he seriously not see those same qualities in himself?
She blinked. “I already told you. I’m not with Simon.”
He grinned. “Whatever you say. Though, for what it’s worth, he’s a total wanker.” And when he winked, she felt a smile tugging at her lips.
“You’re horrible.”
He laughed. “Darling, I was born that way.”
Ten
Albie frowned to himself when he saw Fox and Eden emerge from the alley and continue on their way toward the car. “They’re moving again,” he said into the radio in his left hand. With the other he held the binoculars to his face, following their progress visually from two rooftops away.
The radio crackled. “What was the holdup?” Axelle asked from her end of things, behind the wheel of the GTO parked a few blocks down from the rendezvous spot.
He sighed as he thumbed the transmission button. “Personal shit, I think.”
“Ugh. Oh my God. Seriously fuck romance. They’r
e gonna get us all killed over their feelings, and I did not sign up for that.”
Albie bit back the sudden urge to laugh. “Yeah, well, get ready. ETA is just a few seconds.”
“Copy.” The line went quiet.
Albie turned to see Miles pulling his headphones off to rest around his neck, still hunched over his laptop. “You got the audio?”
“Yeah, already sent it to Phillip.” He stretched his arms over his head, wincing as his spine popped. After, he leaned back, hands braced on the dirty rooftop, uncaring, shooting Albie a speculative look. “You really think this will work?”
No. He thought it was an insane plan. But he said, “Sure. It’s Dad, right?”
Miles grimaced. “You say that like it means something.”
They packed up their things, went back through the jimmied door at the top of the stairs, and took five flights down to the lobby. No one looked at them in their janitor coveralls, toolboxes dangling from their hands.
Tommy met them outside, brim of an orange Tennessee Vols baseball cap, of all things, pulled down low over his face. A souvenir gift from Walsh.
“What’d you find?” Albie asked as they all fell into step together and headed down the pavement.
Tommy sent him a smirking glance. “Found one birdie in the nest. The boys put him in bracelets and took him back to the van.”
Albie whistled appreciatively. “Yeah? Phillip’ll be happy about that.”
~*~
Tommy and his friends had caught them a hostage, and Phillip was delighted about it.
Outwardly, that meant he looked almost like he might smile at some point in the next few hours.
“What’s he been saying?” he asked, propping his shoulder in the doorway. Presidents didn’t conduct interrogations, but Fox could see that he was itching to do so.
The sniper, who hadn’t been able to keep from looking at Fox with startled recognition, was the one who’d botched the apartment hit so spectacularly. Nicky was asking the questions – the crazy bastard was actually wearing brass knuckles and the sniper kept eyeing the skulls tattooed on his neck with trepidation – and so far, Fox had been content to perch on a table in the corner of the room and take mental notes.
Prodigal Son (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 3) Page 8
