The jacket also hid his shoulder holster. And the holster tucked into his waistband, at the small of his back. The loose hems of the slacks hid the gun strapped just above his ankle.
Only handguns. He felt almost naked.
He went out the back way, and then walked around the block, so he could walk up to the Gleaux building from the business district.
A uniformed valet greeted him as he approached, expression apprehensive. “Sir?”
He couldn’t do the array of accents his brother could, but he could put on a little posh lilt, and did so now. “Yes, I’m having a meeting with Mr. Mahoney. I’m a bit early, I’m sorry. I work just around the corner.” He pointed over his shoulder toward the gleaming glass and steel office buildings that abutted this older, quieter business district. “Thought I’d walk over, since the weather’s so nice.”
“Of course,” the valet said, stepping back, motioning for Albie to head up the walk.
He did, and there was a doorman. He’d be harder to get past, but not impossible.
“Afternoon,” Albie greeted, aiming for tired, bored. He assumed that was how businessmen felt on the regular. “Here to see Mr. Mahoney. I have an appointment.”
“Of course, sir.” But the man paused, a half a breath, hand on the doorknob, before finally turning it and opening the door, waving Albie in with an elegant gesture.
Albie had no doubt there’d be cameras on him. He’d dressed the part, and he’d even tidied his hair in the reflection offered by a bit of broken glass in the empty building, but he knew he didn’t fit in with this crowd. There was something off about him, a hard-to-identify lack of sophistication, and they’d be watching him with close attention.
“Mr. Mahoney is still in his meeting,” the receptionist informed him, glasses flecked with light from the lavish chandelier overhead. “But you’re welcome to wait in our lounge.”
Albie expected a tile-floored canteen with terrible plastic chairs, but was instead led to an actual lounge: plush shag-look rug, sofas, chairs, even a baby grand tucked into a corner by the window. He had a view of a lush back garden, its marble wall crawling with pink roses. A sleek kitchenette ran along one wall, with a full-sized fridge and even a range and fountain soda machine.
This place was a bit unreal.
“Someone will come for you when Mr. Mahoney is ready,” the receptionist said, and left him with a bow.
A bow.
He gave it a minute, searching for cameras in the corners of the room; doubtless they had to be there, but were well camouflaged. Then he gave a little show: checked his watch; stood and wandered over to the soda fountain; selected a coffee pod for the machine and started it brewing. The coffeemaker was at the edge of the lounge, right by the door, and as coffee streamed down into a paper cup, he ducked out into the hallway.
And ran straight into Axelle.
~*~
To her credit, she didn’t scream. She thought she deserved kudos for that.
But she did rear back and make a wild reach for her purse, and the gun inside it, before two strong hands latched onto her upper arms and squeezed tight, holding her in place.
She sucked in a breath–
And realized it was Albie who held her.
Albie wearing a suit.
In the moment between realization and speech, she let her gaze drop down and skim over him. The jacket was a little big, and his shirt fit oddly – over a vest, she thought. He wore a flak vest under the crisp white shirt and black tie. Otherwise, it was an unexpectedly good look on him.
She said, “You look like a Blue’s Brother.”
His grip tightened. “What are you doing out here?”
She shrugged and he let go, sparing a brief, startled glance at his own hands, like he couldn’t believe he’d squeezed so hard. She dimly wondered if she’d have bruises later.
She whispered. “There’s something up. That Clive dude is acting all smooth, but he’s sweating like a pig in there. What are you doing in here? You’re supposed to be across the street.”
“I can’t tell anything from out there. I needed to–”
They both registered footfalls moving toward them.
Albie grabbed her arm, a little more gently this time, and towed her into the first available door – which proved to be the women’s restroom. It was empty for the moment, but that didn’t stop Albie from walking down the line and opening each stall with a nudge of his fingers, double-checking.
Axelle would have called him paranoid, but her heart was racing, her own nerves manifesting physically.
When he was done, he turned to her, one hand on his hip, a move that pushed his coat back and revealed his shoulder holster. “What’s your read on the guy?”
She was a little surprised to have been asked. “He’s a real slick son of a bitch. With the clothes, and the hair, and the perfect teeth. Raven was into him, I could tell that.”
His brows jumped. “She what?”
“She blushed, you know. She was thrown, definitely.”
“Raven? Really?” He shook his head. “Nevermind. What else? You said he was sweating?”
“Yeah. Something’s off. He’s nervous about something. Now, maybe I’m a driver, and I don’t know this kinda stuff. But if you asked me, someone who wants to kill you in cold blood doesn’t get nervous and sweaty.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “Something’s planned, and either it wasn’t Clive’s idea, or he’s nervous about it.”
“I’m right?”
“You need to get back in there. I’ll head upstairs and see what I can find out.”
Axelle took a breath that rattled in her throat. “By yourself? That’s too dangerous.”
“I’ve dealt with worse things by myself.”
“At least let me come. As backup.”
A half-smile tugged at his mouth. Then dropped away. “If you don’t go back, Clive’ll get suspicious, yeah?”
She sighed. “Yeah.” Her belly clenched tight with dread, and she didn’t understand it. But she really didn’t want him going upstairs by himself. He wasn’t exactly the most physically intimidating man. “Be careful, though.”
Another smile. “You too.”
~*~
Raven resisted the urge to fidget. She’d noticed it just before Axelle excused herself from the room – and that was a breach of the plan she meant to take the girl to task for later. Sweat had gathered at Clive’s temples. It now trickled down the sides of his face; a single drop quivered, ready to fall, at the sharp edge of his jaw. He was sweating like a man who’d just run a footrace. She noticed other little things, too. A faint quivering in his fingers, a constant wetting of his lips; the way he blinked too often, and too quick, dark lashes flickering. A tension in his shoulders. Either the man had food poisoning…
Or he was incredibly nervous about something.
Under the table, Vivian’s foot nudged up against her own: she’d noticed as well.
That was probably what had sent Axelle from the room, but God knew what the girl thought she’d accomplish out there on her own.
Raven felt her clothes beginning to catch at her skin as her own fear-sweat response kicked in.
“Mr. Mahoney,” she said, thankful her voice stayed even. “We aren’t keeping you from something, are we?”
He froze, mid-gesture, as he talked about the sample packages he could offer her. A tight smile. “I’m sorry?”
“You seem…distressed.”
“Do I?” He pushed his hair back again, revealing the beaded dampness on his forehead. He looked at his hand afterward, the shine on it, lip curling. “I apologize. I’m afraid I’m feeling rather unwell. Cold and flu season, you know. I–”
“Clive,” Raven said, and his gaze snapped up to hers, eyes white-rimmed, wild as a spooked horse’s. “I don’t think you’re involved,” she said, bluntly. “Not directly, anyway. Just tell us what’s happening.”
“Us…?” He glanced toward Vivian–
; And the woman was on her feet in an instant, a smooth, startlingly fast movement. Her gun was in her hands already, pointed at Clive.
“Shit,” Raven breathed.
The door opened, and from the threshold, Axelle said, “Shit.”
Clive’s gaze darted that direction. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. The color had bled out of his face, his rich tan going sickly pale. “I don’t – I’m – I can’t – I’m sorry.”
The crack of a gunshot split the air.
~*~
Albie had spotted a rectangular switchback stair behind the reception desk up front, with polished bannisters and white spindles, a throwback to a bygone age. He himself took the concrete and steel emergency stairwell in the back. No alarms sounded. No one waited for him when he eased open the door at the second-floor landing.
It was a ghost town.
He paced slowly down the hall, gun in his hand, poised to duck, to bolt, to kick down one of the closed office doors that lined both walls and seek cover.
When he reached the central stairwell, he crept up and peeked over the bannister. The murmur of voices drifted up from the lobby.
Onward, past a small, open room that housed the copy and fax machines, a water cooler. The air was cool. The only light came in through the windows, everything else shadowed. Name plaques on the doors marked the offices as belonging to heads of marketing, of directors, and associate directors. A whole fleet of people who should have been working right now, on a pleasant weekday afternoon.
They’d cleared the place out.
Albie reached for his phone – and froze.
The floor creaked beneath a weight that wasn’t his, several paces behind him.
“I thought we told you to keep your people out of the upper floors?” a voice said behind him, thick with scorn…and with an accent that didn’t belong to this posh, crystal chandelier set. Someone from the streets. Like, say, a hired killer.
Albie held his gun in front of him; the man hadn’t seen it yet. “Sorry,” he said, turning his head slowly, trying to look back over his shoulder. He couldn’t make out faces with any distinction, but he spotted four bodies, dressed all in black. Probably tac gear. “The boss man sent me up here after extra toner,” he lied.
“Toner?”
“Yeah, I’ll go back down, now.” He tucked his gun and hand just inside his jacket, and turned toward them. “Sorry for the–”
“Wait,” the man barked.
Albie could see him now, could see his five o’clock shadow, and his scowl, and the AK-47 in his hands, aimed straight at Albie’s chest.
“Who are you? What’ve you got in your hand?”
“Mark Everly,” he said, pulling the name off an office plaque. “Head of marketing.”
“What’s in your hand?” the man repeated, motioning with the muzzle of his gun.
“Toner. Like I said. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be heading back downstairs now.”
The man’s gaze narrowed. “You–”
A radio crackled. A loud squawk.
Down below: a gunshot.
The girls.
The troops in black glanced down, startled. Albie had time for one shot. His decision was instantaneous.
He could shoot the man in front of him. In the leg, or maybe the face. One was a fast kill, the other a slow bleed-out. But then he’d have the other three on top of him.
When he pulled his gun, he shot the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall instead.
Crack of the gun, pop of the cannister, and then white smoke sprayed out into the hall. A fast stream. It boiled up into a fat white cloud, totally opaque, cutting visibility down to nothing.
Albie heard shouts, curses, and someone yelling into a radio.
He turned and ran.
~*~
“You shot him!”
“And I’ll shoot him again if he doesn’t start talking,” Vivian snapped. “Axelle, shut that door, and lock it. Go open the window.”
Axelle shut her jaw with a head-rattling click of her teeth and hurried to comply. It was just a thumb-turn bolt, and wouldn’t hold for long, she knew, so she hustled across the conference room to the window, shouldering the drapes aside.
Behind her, Clive breathed a muted scream through clenched teeth. Vivian had shot him in the arm, and he’d toppled backward out of his chair onto the carpet, eyes comically wide.
“Be quiet,” Vivian ordered. Her tone was ice. Her heels clipped as she walked around the table.
The window latch was simple, and Axelle flicked it open. Hoisted the window up six inches, and turned back.
Vivian stood over Clive, gun trained on him. He clutched his wounded arm, blood seeping between his fingers, staining his sleeve, dripping down onto the rug. His face gleamed with sweat, his white teeth clenched in a grimace.
“Please,” he said. “They’ll kill me.”
“So will I,” Vivian said.
A sound echoed overhead. Another gunshot, Axelle realized with a lurch. Muffled shouts and footfalls. Someone pounded on the locked door of the conference room, shouting. The receptionist – not so posh now.
“You called us here so you could kill us,” Vivian pressed, still cold, still composed. She was terrifying. “Why? Who put you up to this?”
“I – I – I can’t–”
“Time to go, love,” a voice said at the window, and Axelle pulled her own gun, finally, sweaty palms sliding on the grip, but holding; she wouldn’t drop it, not now that she finally had its comforting weight in her hands.
She leveled it on the window.
On Albie.
“Jesus Christ,” she hissed, “stop doing that!”
He held a gun in one hand, the other one resting on the windowsill, gaze hard. Professional. “She shot him?”
His calmness helped her take a deep breath and find a little of her own. “Yeah. She just fucking went off on him.”
He jerked a nod. “Step back.” And hauled himself nimbly up through the window and into the room.
“What the fuck is going on, Albert?” Raven snapped. Her eyes were wild, half-dazed. “Who the fuck is shooting up there?” She waved toward the ceiling.
“That was me. I ran into a team of four,” he said, matter-of-fact, as he crossed the room toward Clive. “Tac gear, AKs. Guns for hire, I’d guess. I created a diversion and got out of there. We need to go. Chef’s pulling the van around. Miles recorded all of this, I’d assume, good work,” he said to Axelle, motioning toward the notebook, and camera, she’d left on the table. “Get that. We’re taking it, and him, with us.” This last he said as he crouched down on the rug and took Clive’s handsome square chin in his hand. He squeezed tight, his knuckles going white, Clive’s mouth squishing up into a comedic pout. “Whose dogs are those upstairs?” he asked, and suddenly, Albie was terrifying too.
Probably more so from Clive’s perspective.
The businessman swallowed with an audible gulp and whimpered, “Please. They told me I had to.” Words muffled by Albie’s grip.
The biker turned him loose and stood up with a sigh. “Come on, we’ll take him with us.”
“Take him with us?” Raven and Axelle asked in unison.
But Vivian nodded, seemingly on board. “We’ll pump him for information. Girls, let’s go, chop-chop. In another minute that little wanker from the lobby will have the door unlocked. Move.”
Axelle scrambled to comply. Stress had turned her muscles weak; she felt shaky inside, down to her organs and bones, like if she so much as stubbed her toe she might shatter into little bits all over the floor. This wasn’t her wheelhouse. She could shoot, and climb, and tough it out with the best of them – but this, under fire, trained paramilitary types bearing down on them…she’d never faced anything like that before. She needed to get behind the wheel. Now. Then she could come back online and be a real asset to this team.
That’s what it was, she realized, as she scraped the notebook and camera into her purse and moved to follow Rav
en to the window. She’d spent the last few days thinking of this motley crew as a hodgepodge of bikers, businesswomen, secret agents, and grudging allies. But they were a team, however unlikely, all bent on the same goal: staying alive.
More bikers had arrived, dressed in plain black, climbing in to help Albie get Clive on his feet and cuff his hands together. One Lean Dog put a tourniquet and makeshift bandage on the man’s wounded arm. Another tied a black strip of cloth across his eyes.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” Vivian chanted, hand pressing to Axelle’s back. She steered her along after Raven, to the window, where Tommy stood ready to help them down.
“You alright?” he asked Raven, quietly, once her high heels hit the paving stones of the garden path.
She jerked a nod.
“Van’s right there,” he said, almost gentle, pointing her toward a plain-sided black work van.
He gave Axelle the same treatment. “You alright?” His hands were careful, on her hand and her waist as he steadied her.
Her eyes went to the van, and that was more steadying than his kind touch. “Yeah. I wanna drive.”
“Oh, um–”
“Let her drive,” Albie said behind her, and she broke into a jog.
Every step, she felt stronger, more in control of her surroundings. It was a big, unwieldy box of a vehicle, but it was a Mercedes, and there was a decent engine hiding under the workmanlike exterior.
The driver’s seat was empty; the driver had moved to open the rear doors, ready to help bundle Clive inside now that Albie and the others had maneuvered him out of the window and into the side garden. Axelle trained her gaze on that empty seat, laser-focused, and let her surroundings melt away.
She was dimly aware of chaos around her. The crack-ping-zip of gunshots, of rounds landing in the dirt around her. The sharp report of returned shots from the Dogs. Shouts, some angry, some frantic. Tires squealing a distance away, a revving engine, coming closer.
Then she was in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, another adjusting the rearview mirror, and it was like she’d been slammed back into her body. Into the moment, heart racing, skin prickling, all her senses coming back online with a hum that lit her up from the inside out.
Prodigal Son (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 3) Page 17
