She was pretty sure she ripped her sheets.
Exhausted, sated, humming like an idling Jag engine, she fell asleep against his shoulder, arm flung across his chest.
She woke slowly, warm and sore, to cool silver morning light. The night before played out in her mind like something from a movie; if her head hadn’t rested on Charlie’s shoulder, her hand over the slow, steady beating of his heart, she would have thought it all a wild dream.
The smell of cigarette smoke tickled her nose, and she tipped her head back to find him awake, staring at the ceiling, cigarette held in the hand that wasn’t resting at her waist. He shouldn’t have, but he looked even cuter in the daylight, even with bedhead and the imprint of a pillowcase seam on his cheek – maybe even because of those things.
Oh, God, she’d slept with her target.
Adrenaline washed through her, and she sat up and slipped out from under his arm.
He let her go, though a single brow arched in silent question. He didn’t look like he wanted to go anywhere anytime soon, taking another drag off his smoke.
Eden turned her back to him and reached for the robe she kept slung over the bedpost. Pulled it on with trembling fingers.
“Let me guess,” he said behind her. “You’re supposed to be investigating me, not shagging me. Right?”
She froze a moment, then tied her sash and stood up. Her knees almost gave out, and she bit back a hiss as a dozen sore spots made themselves known.
“Why would you think that?” she asked, aiming for airy, ending up brittle instead.
He snorted. “Come on. I’m charming, but I’m not exactly your type, pet.”
She turned around, arms folded, and found him sitting up against the headboard, sheets tangled around his waist. His hair stood up in thick tufts, and his blue eyes sparkled in the light. Christ, he was adorable. “And how would you know my type?”
“Please.” He rolled his eyes. “Gorgeous girl like you, grown up, good job – law enforcement job. Nice clothes, nicer flat.” He cast an appreciative glance around her bedroom, then met her gaze, calm and sated but intense all at once. “Tell me you don’t normally go for the 401K set. I dare you.”
She affected a shrug. “I don’t know you. Maybe that’s you.”
He laughed, laugh lines sprouting around his eyes. “Ha! We both know I’m a dirty biker. That’s why you were after me last night. What’s the fuzz claiming I did this time?”
She frowned at him, and he didn’t seem to care.
“Are you a criminal?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“Yeah.” He blew a lazy smoke ring her direction, unrepentant.
“Can I prove that and have it stand up in a law court?”
“Not on your life, sweetheart. Now, do you want to have this conversation, or do you want to come back to bed.”
“I don’t allow smoking in my flat, you know.”
He leaned over and dropped the cigarette into the water glass on her nightstand; it hissed and went out.
She opened her robe, and let it fall to the rug.
~*~
Now
“Recon? What are you…”
“You knew who he was, then,” Eden accused. Anger boiled up in her chest, hot, choking. She felt betrayed. “Not just a potential arrest: you knew he was Devin’s son. Your friend’s son. And you didn’t tell me.”
“What the hell was MI6 doing looking into me?” Fox asked.
Eden opened her mouth to speak–
And Morgan held up both hands, a palm facing each of them, asking for a moment. He turned to Fox first.
“It was a long time ago. You had just killed that German ambassador–”
“Because he was paving the way for a goddamn Hamas-backed gun running op that was gonna tank the club’s supply line! And you do-gooder law enforcement types had your hands tied with search warrants and that kinda bullshit!”
“I know, I know,” Morgan said. “That wasn’t why.”
“How the hell do you know that was me anyway?”
“I try to keep tabs on everyone, and their kids. That job was very clean. I knew it was you. The rest of my department didn’t, though.”
“Then why was I supposed to make contact with him?” Eden asked through her teeth.
Morgan – Captain Harlowe – turned to her with an apology in his eyes. One she wouldn’t allow herself to accept just yet. He sighed. “Let’s all sit down, why don’t we? And hopefully I can explain.”
Everyone else sat.
Eden didn’t. Her pulse was racing, pushing hard at her skin, trying to get out.
“Eden–” Morgan started with another sigh.
“Did you know?” she asked. Her voice was strung tight, about to snap. She didn’t care. “When I reported back to you and said he wasn’t our guy for the Santos case – did you know I’d slept with him? That I’d been compromised?”
“Eden,” Fox said, softly.
“Did you want that to happen?” she pressed. “Were you going to use me that way? To keep track of him?”
Fox stood. “Eden, love–”
“Do not–!” She whirled on him, his sad, confused face. “Do not call me that! You never gave a single damn about me, so don’t pretend you did! Did you know what he was doing?” She waved at Morgan. “Were you a part of his plan all along? Work with MI6 to keep your record clean, and put me in the middle, so I could take the fall if anything went south? Just the slut who slept with her target, and blew the whole case to hell?”
“No–” Fox started.
“Agent Adkins!” Morgan snapped, and she turned back to him, old habit snapping her head around. That was his captain’s voice. “Sit down.”
She did, plopping onto the end of the sofa beside Evan, and to her great shame, tears burned her eyes.
“I said I would explain,” Morgan said, “and I intend to. Give me that chance. This is bigger than all of us. I’m not proud of the things I’ve done, but they were things I had to do.”
“Story of our lives, huh?” Devin asked.
Twenty-One
Of the nine half-siblings, Cassandra was the only one who boasted the last name Green. Cass had a theory that all of the nine women her father had impregnated had at one point or other fashioned themselves “the one”: the one who’d finally convinced Devin to settle down for good.
Cass figured that bothered Phillip the worst. He was the firstborn – the first to be abandoned. By the time Cass came along, she had eight siblings to tell her exactly what kind of louse her father was, and to fill that father gap with overwhelming brother and sister love.
So, she was Cassandra Green, because her poor mom thought Devin might stay. Had thought maybe having a daughter with his own last name would matter somehow. Cass didn’t care. She enjoyed Devin’s visits, rare and brief as they were, but she didn’t miss him, or cry over him, or portray herself as a poor abandoned kid. She tried, every day, to model herself after Raven, who didn’t give a damn that she was essentially fatherless, and whose mother hated Devin in a cold, uncaring sort of way. She filled her days with other pursuits – worthwhile ones – and she didn’t worry about the things she didn’t have.
She left school on foot, scrolling through her phone, checking up on all the Twitter and Tumblr activity she’d missed. She was an artist. An aspiring artist? She didn’t know. She favored pastels and charcoal, real paper, and she had social media accounts where she shared her work. Not to brag, but, she had a lot of followers. A lot for a nobody just doing her own thing in her bedroom with the cheap supplies she could buy on Amazon. She was pretty proud.
“Cass,” her friend Emily said, snagging her arm.
She halted and glanced up, to find they’d come to a crosswalk. “Oh. Oops.”
“You were just gonna step out into the street!” Emily said with a laugh.
“Damn.” Cass laughed and tucked her phone away. It was a cloudy, humid day, and traff
ic was its usual clog. She needed to pay better attention. Businesspeople crowded around them, waiting for the light, some on their phones, some scowling moodily at traffic.
Her hand twitched, wanting to reach for her own iPhone again. That had been a gift from Dad. She couldn’t post if she didn’t have a proper device, and Mum couldn’t afford the iPhone X that Devin had offered her. Cass had hated accepting it, but. She wanted to put her art out there. To…
Squeal of brakes. A van sliding into the intersection. Horns blaring.
“What–” Emily started.
A van screeched to a halt at the curb, and its side door slid open. Men in black poured out, wearing masks.
“Oh, shit,” Cass said. She knew. Somehow, she knew. She did grab her phone then.
Fumbled it. Dropped it.
Rough hands gripped her arms. She kicked, and fought, but she was grabbed.
A cloth pressed to her nose and mouth.
“Cass!” Emily shouted.
But everything went dark.
~*~
“Albert–” Raven started, and her phone rang.
She looked down and saw Cassandra’s number. She sent the call to voicemail and rounded on her brother. “I want to know what this asshole knows. Why was I targeted.”
Albie nodded, his expression sympathetic. “You know why,” he said, gently. “You’re our sister. And–”
She sliced a hand through the air. “And this can’t be about you!” she shouted.
Dogs crowded around her, most looking away, out of respect.
Her brothers sent her sympathetic looks.
“I’m sorry,” Albie said, “but it is.”
“Ugh.” She turned away and sank down into the nearest booth. The pub had been cleared of regular customers. Clive waited, bound with chains, a few rooms away, and she wanted to know what he knew.
Just as much as she didn’t want to know.
She’d worked so hard to secure herself a stable life of models, fashion shows, and clothes. One that didn’t involve drugs, or guns, or any kind of illegal shit.
And yet here she was. Caught up in a Lean Dog plot, a respected businessman a hostage in the next room.
Albie sat down across from her, his face serious.
“Raven. Darling,” he said.
She turned her face away, but his words pressed on.
“This isn’t pleasant, but we have to get to the bottom of this. So long as Dad is in the crosshairs, we all are.”
Her phone chimed with a voicemail.
“Raven.”
“I know, okay?” She finally looked at him. Glared. “I get it. But I don’t like it.”
He smiled. “None of us do.”
She fished her phone from her pocket, finally, and opened up her voicemail.
It wasn’t Cassandra’s voice. Above a din of shouting and indiscernible noise, Raven heard: “Raven? Raven, this is Emily Davis. Cass’s friend.” Breathless, frantic. “These guys in a van – Raven, they took her! They took Cass!”
Twenty-Two
“Raven. Raven, I need you to breathe. Okay? Take a deep breath.”
Albie was prepared for the slap that came his way, weak though it was, and caught his sister easily by the wrist.
She bared her teeth and shrieked at him. A broken, animal sound of rage and pain and terror.
He’d never seen her like this. He’d seen her cry, elegant tears dabbed away with manicured nails; furious tears dashed away with pocketbook tissues. He’d seen her angry; heard her shout; seen her stare thoughtfully, steeped in the kind of depression that models made look so appealing in magazine spreads.
But this was a mother bear separated from her cub. This was frenzied, mascara-running, hair-falling-down desperation, and it broke his heart.
He wasn’t going to let her hit him, though. And he wasn’t going to succumb to it himself. He couldn’t afford to.
“Raven…” he started again, still holding her wrist.
“Don’t you dare!” she shouted. “She – she – they took her! They took her, and–” Little flecks of spit sprayed his face. Her chest heaved as she sucked in breath after useless breath, hyperventilating.
“I know, I know. And we’ll get her back. We will.”
“She’s bloody sixteen, Albie!”
“I know, love, I know.”
“Then stop being so fucking reasonable and save her, you emotionless asshole!” She swung with her free hand, and he caught that too. “God, I hate you!”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that!” Then she pulled back, shoulders dropping, twisting away, and he let her go. They were in the kitchen, and she braced her hands on the edge of the stainless countertop, head dropping down between her arms as she struggled to breathe through the panic. “She’s your sister too.” This last quiet, reedy, clinging.
She was. And she was sixteen. And she was all alone. And who was to say that the ones who had her wouldn’t–
He cut that thought off at the knees. He couldn’t allow himself to give in to imagination. Couldn’t let the panic that was slowly building and building like an oil slick in his belly climb up to the surface. It would suffocate him. He swallowed it down and reached to place a hand between her trembling shoulder blades.
“Don’t touch me,” she choked out.
“Fair enough.”
Movement drew his gaze, and he looked up to see that Axelle was steadily edging closer, eyes wide with fear – but gaze calm, jaw clenched tight with resolution. She had her head on straight. He needed that.
Albie reached to tug at his shirt collar, wondering at its tightness, and realized he was still wearing his damned suit. He’d lost the coat somewhere in the van, but the shirt and tie were choking him. He tugged the tie loose, and hurriedly thumbed open all the buttons, shrugging out of the offending garment and tossing it backward over the counter. He still wore his flak vest over a white t-shirt, but that was nearly his daily uniform; its pressure served as a comfort rather than a torture implement.
“Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath that didn’t accomplish much. “Someone’s on the way to talk to Cass’s friend, yeah? We’ll find out what she knows, and see if there’s anything at the scene. Probably there’s cops there already, since it happened right in broad daylight, and we can’t do much there. The best thing we can do right now is rough up your boy in there.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the pantry, where he could hear voices as the boys secured Clive. “Really grill him, and see what he can tell us.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“I know. But it’s all we can do. We will find her, Raven. I promise you.”
She didn’t answer.
Axelle finally reached her, after her slow creep, and laid a hand on Raven’s arm. Raven jerked a little, but didn’t throw her off the way she had with Albie. “Come on,” she said, quietly. “Let’s go see what Clive knows.”
A jolt moved up Albie’s spine. “Oh, I wasn’t–”
Axelle’s gaze snapped to him, downright hostile. “I’m sure Albie’ll let us sit in on the interrogation,” she said, perfectly reasonable, and he realized what she was doing.
Manipulative little shit.
He almost grinned.
Instead, he sent her a heavy scowl and said. “This is club business–”
“No,” Raven said, straightening, turning toward him, more composed despite the mascara streaks on her face. “This is family business. This club is nothing but our family.”
She had him there.
And thanks to Axelle’s sly interference, he had no choice but to let the two of them observe.
When he glanced at her, he thought she looked victorious, but the expression was there and gone again so fast it might have been a trick of the light.
Axelle pulled a paper towel off the roll by the sink and dampened it under the tap. “Here,” she said, handing it to Raven. “Maybe wipe your face first.”
~*~
Axelle was
an only child, and she’d never had friends close enough to think of as sisters. But family was family; she thought of the awful, choking anger that kept trying to crawl its way up her throat after she lost Dad. An anger that propelled her away from home, so far away it had taken an ocean to ensure she didn’t wind up at his graveside, fuming and hating…everyone. Especially hating those goddamn Lean Dogs. Who knew they were in London, too? Were they everywhere? Yes. And that old anger had turned her venomous and cagey with this crew, though none of them had ever offered to do her personal harm. None of them had even been rude to her, and…
She was getting off track, spiraling again. Anger did that to a person.
For the moment, she was struck by the sincerity of Raven’s devastation. She couldn’t say for sure if she liked the woman – though she suspected she was starting to respect her – but she could see the anguish in every shaky breath and unsteady flicker of her lashes. Albie had tried to be comforting, but he was shit at it, and concerned with the club business side of things besides.
Axelle felt needed, now, in a way she hadn’t at all expected, as Raven finished dabbing at her face with a towel and said, “How’s that?” She’d managed to get every speck of mascara without a mirror, though her eyes were still red, and deep lines had pressed themselves around her mouth.
Axelle offered her a smile. “Good as new. You ready?”
Raven nodded, and together they walked to the big pantry where Clive sat tied to a kitchen chair.
He was still tall, and long-legged, and broad-shouldered, but all traces of the posh CEO had abandoned him; his hair fell in greasy disarray across his forehead, skin ashen from a combination of shock and blood loss. Someone had stripped away his suit coat and shirt, leaving him in a white tank that offered a view of his injured arm, the bulky bandages tied around his biceps, stained red where he continued to seep blood. A shiny strip of duct tape covered his mouth, and he stared down at the floor, pulse throbbing visibly in his throat, fast as a rabbit’s.
Prodigal Son (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 3) Page 19
