Benediction: Diversion Book 9

by Eden Winters

  Why did adulting have to be so hard?

  CHAPTER 3

  Although they drove separately to work, Bo and Lucky met in the parking garage beneath the SNB offices and rode the elevator together.

  The moment the doors closed, Lucky whirled, trapping Bo between his arms and leering up. “Wanna play executive and the maintenance man? I got a pipe wrench I want to show you.” He turned and clasped his hands in front of him. The picture of something he hoped passed for innocence.

  “Lucky, what…?”

  The doors slid open, and Lucky stepped off the elevator. Oh, yeah, Thoughts to get him through the day.

  The hand smacking his ass made Lucky jump and he threw a glance over his shoulder. Now Bo looked innocent-ish, flashing a quick smirk and schooling his expression back into business normal.

  “Hold that thought.” Lucky slung his backpack off his back, letting it hang down in front to conceal his rising erection. He strolled down the hall, trying to hide the spring in his step.

  Nice job perk—sitting right down the hall from the man he’d like to bend over a desk and…

  So not helping his stiffy. “Later dear,” he said once they’d gotten past the reception desk.

  “Have a good one.” Bo winked and disappeared into the office he currently shared with Walter.

  A few years ago, Bo would’ve had a few choice words for Lucky. Now? Lucky had definitely rubbed off on the guy.

  Speaking of… He’d love to rub one off on the guy.

  Lucky’s mood dropped a bit when he took in the Bo-less desk next to his. He could do worse than Johnson for a new cube mate, but he missed Bo, glancing over and catching sight of his lover.

  He put his bag down on the desk and turned to face Johnson, who currently had two fingers and a string of dental floss in her mouth. She paused, held up a finger and went back to flossing.

  Yeah, he missed Bo.

  “There! Got it!” Johnson crowed.

  Lucky really didn’t want to know. He pulled his laptop out of his bag and set up for the day.

  “What you up to today?” Johnson rolled her chair over to Lucky’s side of the cube.

  “No trainees, so I’m typing up final reports on Robinson and Salters.” He shrugged. “Reviewing old cases.” Freedom. He’d released Robinson and Salters from training, making them full agents. He won some, he lost some. These two stayed.

  Future drug dealers would one day curse Robinson’s name. The woman possessed two speeds: full throttle and full stop. Don’t get in her way for the first. “What’s on your plate today?”

  Johnson closed her laptop. “I’m taking Robinson for a warehouse audit. She might get bored with no asses to kick. That woman is entirely too much like you.”

  “Me?” Well, yeah. Road Rage Robinson did share his charming interpersonal skills.

  Johnson shoved her laptop into her computer bag. “I’ll be back around two.” Blowing him a kiss, she loaded up and wandered down the hallway. “Yo! Robinson! Let’s go!”

  Lucky sipped from a cup of lukewarm coffee. Cold coffee. Blech. He swilled down the rest before it grew too cold to drink and lobbed the cup in the general direction of the trashcan. Later, if he got up the energy, he’d toss the other six cups sitting on his desk.

  His DEA consultant role earned him two emails about cases they’d like his help with. Ha! For years he’d done the hard work, only to have them sweep in and take credit. Now, his name appeared on reports too. Ah, sweet karma.

  He raised a coffee cup halfway to his lips and stopped. Fuck. He’d nearly drunk yesterday’s. Or the day before’s. The cup joined the other he’d tossed into the trash. Oh, what the hell. Sixty seconds later he’d gotten rid of the assorted cups, and resumed reading emails.

  The cases involved suspected drug diversion by a transportation service. Lucky’s area of expertise.

  He held the highest rating in the department for number of successfully closed cases, and had managed to keep Simon Harrison’s name off the SNB’s memorial page.

  Barely.

  He’d taken some risks. Risks he’d smack some rookie upside the head for. How had Walter not killed him during his first five years?

  “Patience of a saint,” as Lucky’s mother used to say.

  He read over the case list, occasionally doodling on a Post-it pad. Joshua might be a good name for a boy, and Patricia for a girl. No, too much like Patrick, a name Bo vetoed.

  Patrice? Hmmm…

  One case involved undercover work at a nightclub suspected of being a front for illicit drug sales. Amarillo. He’d been there, and never wanted to go again. Right up Johnson’s alley. Maybe she could take Robinson with her.

  Though the admission might kill him, Salters was ready for his own case load too.

  Time to start taking those two on more inspections at pharmaceutical companies. Plenty to be learned, both by companies doing things right, and companies doing things wrong. They’d save Lucky from hanging out in board rooms with pharma execs.

  Felons of Atlanta, beware, though. One day Robinson might win the office betting pool for most asses kicked in a single year. Another record currently held by Lucky.

  His desk phone rang. Please let it not be a rookie, please let it not be a rookie. The receptionist’s extension showed on the caller ID. A safe call then. Maybe. “Mawnin’, Lisa.” Please. No bad news.

  “Um… Good morning, Mr. Harrison. Mr. Smith would like to see you in his office.”

  “Sure thing.” He needed to lose the good mood before he ruined his reputation. Something to be said for starting the day with a few moments of family time—and a full breakfast of grits, eggs, and toast with real butter straight from his parent’s farm and a jar of Mom’s homemade strawberry jam. Meanwhile, Charlotte was on a black beans and scrambled eggs kick.

  Bo took her side and said, “She needs the protein.”

  As long as nobody expected Lucky to fill his plate with her weird food choices.

  It felt good to have his family back in his life, his sister’s cravings notwithstanding. He forcefully pushed back the memory of the years spent without them. Too many lost years that he’d never get back, where they’d believed he’d provided the goods to his drug-addicted brother, nearly ending Daytona’s life.

  Okay, those thoughts weren’t so easily dismissed. His good mood plunged downhill.

  He rose and, before stepping into the corridor, donned his best, “look at me wrong and I’ll shoot you” demeanor. He relaxed at the boss’s office, rapping his knuckles against the door twice before entering.

  “Ah, Lucky. Nice to see you today.” Walter Smith sat behind his massive desk. Hair gone more salt than pepper, and bushy gray eyebrows, served as a constant reminder of Lucky’s mentor getting older. Still a force to be reckoned with. Even the hardest-core drug lords feared Walter Smith.

  A gentle hint of Bo’s cologne mingled in the air with the boss’s Old Spice. He must’ve recently left.

  The normal piles of folders and papers occupied Walter’s desk, but had now spilled over onto the floor. Boxes stacked to the side contained even more files. Finally cleaning up?

  “Wazzup, boss man?” Lucky plopped down in the chair he considered his, stretching his legs out in front of him and resting his hands over his stomach. Sometimes he heard good news here, sometimes bad. Sometimes Walter asked him to do things he’d rather not, like be nicer to assholes like Keith or O’Donoghue.

  Might as well get comfortable. The news wouldn’t get better for him sitting up straight.

  Walter kept his poker face firmly in place. Sometimes he played the role of favorite uncle, sometimes worst nightmare. He hadn’t been a nightmare to Lucky since his early—and admittedly disrespectful—days at the bureau. “Officially? You’re here to discuss case assignments. Unofficially? How’s Charlotte and the baby? Have you found out yet if it’s a boy or girl?”

  “We decided to wait and see the old-fashioned way.” Why, Lucky couldn’t say. Served him right for z
oning out when Bo and Charlotte broached the subject, rather than admitting he hadn’t been paying attention.

  Lesson learned. Knowing would mean less time spent on choosing names.

  “I understand.” Walter’s smile fell a bit. Disappointment? Did not knowing mean Walter and Mrs. Smith couldn’t go out and spend a fortune on baby clothes yet, like they’d done for Alejandro?

  “They’re doing fine. Charlotte complains a lot, but she did with Todd and Ty. Wants to get it over with. She’s keeping up with her classes too.” One day she’d become the nurse she’d always dreamed of becoming.

  “That’s good. I can’t wait to meet my new grandson or granddaughter.” The boss rubbed his hands together. They no longer even pretended that their relationship hadn’t grown past employer and employee.

  Hell, between all the adoring family and friends, Lucky might never see his own kid.

  Walter settled more fully into his chair, twirling an ink pen on his desk blotter with a finger. Nervous? Boss?

  “Out with it, boss.”

  Walter remained silent for several moments. He huffed out a breath. “Remember how I told you I’d been asked to retire?”

  “Yes.” Those assholes better not be breathing down Walter’s neck to get on with it. Besides, Bo wasn’t fully trained yet to take his place.

  “The SNB directors approved my choice of Bo as replacement.”

  “I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

  Walter’s expression turned grim. He twirled the pen faster. “The leadership team at Southwestern has challenged the decision.”

  “They what?” Lucky shot out of his chair. “What do they have to do with us?”

  “They have disputed Bo’s qualifications. I’m not sure you knew this, but their director first questioned Bo’s fitness for duty after the Corruption case.”

  The asshole.

  “In light of recent regrettable events here at the SNB, they feel we need a department manager with more experience.” Only the clenching of Walter’s hands on the desk gave away his agitation.

  More experience? “Who?” No need to ask. Lucky already knew. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach offered up the name.

  “Jameson O’Donoghue.” Walter’s face remained impassive. Must’ve taken an act of will.

  “He’s not even SNB!” The boss might hold his emotions in check and remain professional, but Lucky’s pain-in-the-ass reputation meant folks expected him to speak his mind.

  “Yes, but he does have experience, both behind a desk and on the streets.” Was Walter trying to convince Lucky, or himself? If trying to convince Lucky, better quit now.

  “That mother… What’s he saying about this? Bragging?” Wait until Lucky ran into the sonofabitch. Oh, wait! Now there was an idea. Running into him. With a Mack truck.

  “He claims to know nothing about the matter.”

  Claims. Interesting choice of word. “And you believe him?” Lucky didn’t. Not one damned word out of the man’s mouth.

  Tap, tap, tap went the pen on the desk. Lucky’d never seen the boss more agitated. “I’ve no reason to doubt him.”

  “I do.” Mainly, because a primitive part of Lucky’s brain declared O’Donoghue an enemy. Lucky listened to the primitive part of his brain. It had saved his ass on more than one occasion.

  Walter shook his shaggy head—a head more frosted with white than Lucky remembered. Seeing the man on a regular basis blinded him to changes. “I realize you don’t trust him, but haven’t all your doubts been put to rest?”

  “No. You’ve told me more than once you trust my gut feelings.” Lucky sank back down onto the chair.

  “Your instincts have proven to be right more often than not. However, I can’t condemn a man based on gut feelings. I don’t believe he’s conspired to take the job from Bo.”

  Lucky sure the hell could condemn the asshole. “Have you told Bo?”

  Another pause, then, “Not yet. I’ll meet with him later today.”

  What would the news do to Bo? And why listen to Southwestern? “Can they actually make you hand your job over to O’Donoghue?”

  Walter let out a sigh worthy of a hurricane name. “My direct superiors are taking the concerns under advisement. I can’t predict how this drama will play out, but I wanted you to hear it from me before you heard the news from someone else.” Walter cracked a half-smile. “I’m more likely to survive the encounter.”

  Lucky might beat the crap out of anyone else, but not the boss. “What can I do?”

  “Do you not wonder why Southwestern is making it their business? Occasionally we collaborate on a case, but they run their division, we run ours. They recently promoted a new director. He’s more hands-on than the last, I believe.” Walter stopped toying with the ink pen. “I’m not supposed to play favorites, and they have presented my endorsement of Bo as favoritism. It’s my job to ensure this department and division survives and thrives, either with me at the helm or otherwise. I believe the best man for the job is Bo. While O’Donoghue has law enforcement experience, he can’t hold a candle to Bo’s interpersonal skills. His bias against you nearly brought this bureau to its knees. Bo would have listened to all sides of a situation with an open mind.

  “Truth is, I fear what might become of this bureau under O’Donoghue’s direction.”

  In other words, boss man didn’t trust him either. Lucky asked again, “What can I do to help?”

  Walter released a mirthless chuckle. “While I’ve just spoken of bias and open minds, I have to say that I do not trust O’Donoghue.” Lucky knew it. Walter smiled more genuinely. “My top agent doesn’t trust him, Bo doesn’t trust him, and neither do I.”

  “Keith wants Bo for the job.”

  “Oh?” Walter’s bushy eyebrows reached for his hairline. “I haven’t asked many people, because I don’t want to plant doubt where none exists. I had no idea of Keith’s opinion. Quite frankly, I’m surprised he’d tell you. You’ve never been friends.”

  Lucky scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Well, we… uhhh… had to work together through the Landry thing, after you went to the hospital.”

  “I see. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend?’” Walter’s smile crinkled the corner of his eyes.

  “Something like that. Now, what can I do?”

  “Whatever you can to ensure the right man sits at this desk once I’m gone.”

  Simply put: Do what you do.

  CHAPTER 4

  O’Donoghue lost his earlier bid for power, and now planned to make a comeback. No way the man didn’t know about Southwestern sticking their nose in SNB business.

  The SNB wouldn’t take this lying down. They took care of their own. O’Donoghue might be a familiar face, but he wasn’t SNB. Would never be if Lucky got his way.

  Johnson sat at the next desk, head in her hands. “She’s gonna make one hell of an agent one day, but Robinson spends way too much time watching bad 80’s cop shows. Keeps wanting to go all ‘Lethal Weapon’ on me.”

  “This from the woman who walks into a room and makes bad guys shit themselves.”

  Johnson looked up. “You know, you’re right! What the hell is wrong with me?”

  Lucky chuckled. “Why, Rett, are you getting too old for this shit too?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What? I thought you lived for terrorizing lawless shitheads.” Swearing at work, out of hearing range of the kid, didn’t count, did it?

  “I do, but damn.” Johnson shook her head. “I’m starting to understand why rookies make you want to run screaming. I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

  “Would I let you into my cube if you were?” No one officially mentioned her moving in as Bo moved out. Boxes labeled with her name showed up one day—not that she had to fight anyone for the honor of sharing space with him.

  Johnson raised her Big Gulp in toast and proceeded to drink from a lipstick-stained straw.

  He should tell her about O’Donoghue and Southwestern. Maybe she had some i
nsight since she’d once been a part of that organization. “Rett…”

  Lucky’s cell phone rang. He held up a finger and leaned back as far as he dared in the chair known as Hell Bitch for its determination to throw him flat on his ass. The display didn’t say who called. Could be a drug lord, an informant, or family member with a new number. Spin the wheel, take the risk. He’d learned to hide a wince every time he answered an unknow number. “Harrison.”

  “Mis… Mr. Harrison?”

  Lucky jolted upright in the chair, grabbing the desk to steady himself. “Who is this?” The voice coming through the cellphone sounded run through a woodchipper.

  “This… this is Chastain.”

  Lucky’s brow furrowed. He made a conscious effort to smooth out “the trench deep enough to plant potatoes” as Bo said. Wracking his memory didn’t bring anything to mind. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Chastain Pharmaceuticals.”

  Oh. That Chastain. Owen Landry’s intended victim, whose company developed a state-of-the-art diabetes drug Landry intended to steal and sell to a global giant corporation in exchange for a lofty position pulling in megabucks.

  The Chastain the SNB saved from a hitman.

  Landry’s plot nearly cost Walter—and Lucky and Bo—their lives. “What can I do for you?” Please let it not be another voluntary company audit. He’d nearly died of boredom last time. Johnson might be interested. She’d definitely been interested in Chastain.

  “I’m being followed.”

  Not Lucky’s area. “Have you called the cops?” Let Atlanta PD earn their keep.

  “They won’t help me without proof. They… they say I’m being paranoid.”

  Paranoia kept a man alive. Yet, Chastain hadn’t struck him as the paranoid type. Having a hitman stand over you with a gun might’ve ensured a lifetime of paranoia. “So, why call me?” Lucky’d had his nose smacked enough for encroaching on jurisdictions.

  “Because you give a rat’s ass.”