"That beard is out of control." I sipped at the coffee; it was exceptionally good. Which is puzzling, because it's not like he used different water, beans, or brewer. He used everything we have here in our kitchen, but the coffee just tasted better than when Nick or I made it. What was his secret?
"That beard has it's own Facebook page. Legit. Look it up sometime: Puck's Beard. It's crazy. He has as many products for that fucking beard as you do for your hair. You have no idea."
I laughed out loud. "A Facebook page? You're joking. You've got to be joking."
"Truth, babe." He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, opened the Pages app, and tapped on, yes, Puck's Beard. "Take a look."
And there it was in all its glory, the beard itself in dozens of different photographs. Selfies of Puck, close-ups, pics of women touching it, a little boy tugging on it out on the street somewhere, and even a photograph of a cockatoo peeking its head through the middle of the beard.
"That is the craziest thing I've ever seen."
"You should see him groom it in the morning. He's got special shampoo, balms, oils, brushes, combs, and all sorts of shit. We all rag on him for how long it takes him to get ready in the morning. Thresh won't room with him when we're on assignment. Says it's too much like having a bitch around, the amount of time it takes to get Puck out the door." At my raised eyebrow at the "bitch" comment, Harris held his palms up defensively. "Thresh's word, not mine."
"I really don't know where you dig up these guys, Nick," I said.
Thresh was...another rather unique individual. Standing a full seven feet tall, with a bodybuilder's physique--acres of muscles piled on mountains of more muscle. White-blond hair cropped into a Mohawk three inches wide and spiked an inch or so tall, with permanent blond scruff on his cliff-sharp jawline, as if he never shaved but couldn't grow an actual beard. Scariest motherfucker I've ever seen. Spoke four languages, deadly with any weapon and even more so with his bare hands, and was a proficient hacker, although Lear Winter was the resident tech expert. But Thresh was just...ungodly gargantuan. I watched him deadlift a Ford Taurus right off the ground, once. And not just lift it, but haul the vehicle a half a dozen feet away. The owner of the Taurus had parked too close to Thresh's pickup, and that was his way of dealing with the situation. The owner, being still in the car when Thresh moved it, had learned his lesson, I imagined.
"Put the bandoliers and M4 back, yeah?" Nick said, gesturing at me with his mug. "And keep that shit secret, okay? You're the only person aside from myself that has access, or even knows about it. I'd like to keep it that way."
I shot him a two-finger salute. "Yes sir!"
He tossed back the rest of his still-scalding coffee. "I've got to throw on some clothes so I can brief Puck."
"When are we going?"
Nick closed his eyes, visibly counting down from ten. "Layla. You're staying here. End of discussion."
"End of discussion for you, maybe."
He was in front of me, suddenly. He had my chin in his fingers, and his eyes were blazing. Not with sex, this time, but with irritation. "Do not test me, babe. I will tie you to the bed, I swear to god."
I brightened at this suggestion. "Really? I've always wanted to try a little light bondage."
"Let me clarify: I will tie you to the bed and then I'll leave. And you'll be stuck there until I send someone to let you out."
I knew he wasn't joking. But then, I don't listen.
And Nick tying me up sounded like fun. He may leave me there, but not before he had his way with me first.
Or better yet...I knew he was heading to the LA office, since Jon and Callie lived in Malibu. I could let him think I was going to actually listen to him, and then surprise him in LA...
Now my wheels were spinning, I went upstairs to shower while Nick briefed Puck and sent him ahead to LA to work the scene. I'd have to plan this carefully, as it wasn't easy to surprise Nick--as I'd just learned. He didn't miss much.
2
TROUBLEMAKER
Layla was planning something. I knew it. She had that look in her eye that she only gets when she's scheming. It was the same look she'd had whenever she used to casually refer to the location of the bunker--I knew all along she was driving herself crazy trying to find it and it was kinda funny when she actually managed it. Of course, I wasn't about to tell her that.
Which means she'll be trying to find a way to get in on this Lonigan op, and that I'm going to have to figure something out because I really don't want her in L.A.. She does a great job on the information analytics side of things and, while she knows a lot, I don't tell her everything about my work, especially when I'm personally called in. When it gets to that point, things have gotten gnarly and I just don't want her in harms way.
In this case, Jon and Callie had been swimming in their pool when they heard a scream, and a gunshot. In the space of a few short minutes their nanny had been shot and critically injured and their daughter had been kidnapped. The kidnappers had left a ransom note. No cops, obviously. Fifty million dollars within a week, or they'd get Cleo back in pieces. The note wasn't handwritten. It had been sent digitally, encrypted, the signal bounced all over the place, and it had included a photograph of a masked and hooded man holding the point of a knife to Cleo's throat.
Cleo was three.
Who the fuck kidnaps a three-year old?
Sick fucks, that's who.
By the time Jon and Callie had made it out of the pool and into the house, their nanny was near death in a pool of her own blood, and Cleo was gone. The ransom note had appeared as an email in both Jon and Callie's inboxes before they'd had a chance to make the first phone call. They hadn't called the cops. Instead they called a friend of theirs to get my number, and then they had called me. I'd done security for this friend of Jon's, and he had said I was the only one to call. He also stated flat-out that it would cost them a tidy sum. They called me five minutes later asking if I would be willing to go after their daughter.
Willing? Try to stop me.
I'd take the fee, of course, but the kind of scum who would kidnap and threaten to kill an innocent three-year old girl? They're dead men, they just don't know it yet. That's the thing about my guys: you won't see us coming, and when you do, it's too late.
I watched Puck straddle his Harley and fasten his Kaiser-style helmet onto his head. I hit a speed dial on my phone and it rang three times, and then a quiet, accented voice answered. "Ja. I have heard of the kidnapping. I am on route to the compound for briefing."
"Actually, Anselm, I have a different assignment for you."
"Which is what?" His accent rendered this vich isss vat?
"I need you to keep an eye on Layla for me. She's bound and determined to get in on this case, and I have a bad feeling about things. This is going to get worse before it gets better, and I don't want her involved. But you know how she is."
"She is very strong-minded, this is true." A pause. "And if she does something not so wise?"
"Just watch her. If she goes off the wire, do what you gotta do to keep her safe. Yeah?"
"Ja. Is no problem."
I hung up, and dialed another number. While it rang, I wondered to myself if having a man like Anselm See shadow my woman was a good idea. He was a ghost, that man. He didn't exist in any official sense, anywhere. He wasn't a technical citizen of any country, didn't have any official documentation. I knew very little about him myself, only that he was the single best shadow in the world. He operated in darkness as easily as you or I do in broad daylight. He blended utterly into any crowd, and was a master of the subtle disguise. All I really knew was that he'd been raised somewhere remote, way, way off the grid in the backwoods of Europe or Scandinavia or something. Like, out in the wilderness, where there was nothing but trees for thousands of clicks in every direction. I knew this because he'd often talk about how he missed it there, the peace, the simplicity, and how he plans to retire back there someday. But how he got his skills, I don't know.
He'd probably worked as a spy for some government or another, doing the kind of ops that are so far off the books that even the black-ops guys don't know about them. Anselm See was, in his quiet, unassuming way, the scariest of all my guys which, all things considered, is saying something that makes even my blood run a little chilly.
As I expected, this next call rings for a solid minute. Knowing Lear's habits, I let it ring. Finally, he answers. "Yo."
"Lear, I need you at the compound."
"I'm in the middle of running this program, so could it wait, I dunno, an hour?"
"Lear."
He clears his throat. "Got it. I'll just...let it run then."
"Good plan. Get your ass up here."
"Got an op?"
"Why else would I be calling?"
A pause. "Oh. Good point."
Lear Winter was, in some ways, a quintessential computer geek. He'd made a fortune as a white-hat hacker, and still moonlighted doing that when he wasn't on assignment for me. At first glance he looked the part of a computer geek, too--tall, wiry, with a curly, unruly mop of sandy blond hair, a few days of growth on his chin and his thick black-rimmed glasses perpetually sitting on the tip of his nose. But the thing is, this was a look he intentionally cultivated. It kept people underestimating him. He'd made his fortune as a hacker, and then had been recruited by the NSA.
Mainly for fun, he'd tried to hack into the NSA servers. They'd caught him and kept him out, of course, because you can't actually hack the NSA. But he'd tried, and he'd gotten farther than anyone else had ever managed, so they snatched him up and taught him some new tricks. He enjoyed the work, but had tired of that gig, as well.
Somewhere along the way he'd been bitten by the adrenaline junkie bug. Free-climbing, wingsuit flying, homemade jet packs, HALO diving, motorcycle racing. Real Pointe Break stuff. He could and would jump off the top of a skyscraper in a wingsuit and insert himself into a moving convertible. I'd seen him do it: I'd dared him, doubting he could actually do it. He'd proved me wrong, which had cost me a hundred grand.
So if I needed someone to get in somewhere difficult while doing some Mission Impossible style fancy computer shit, I'd send Lear. He wasn't a combat specialist, though. The only man I trusted who hadn't killed anyone--that I knew of, anyway. Didn't mean he was soft, though. He could take care of himself, this I knew. But those were skills he kept deep under wraps. He didn't care for violence, much. He was content to let the rest of us do the dirty work, and considering Lear's prowess in other areas, the arrangement worked for us just fine.
I had one last call to make. I hit the speed dial and let it ring. "Harris. What's happening?" This was Duke Silver.
"I need you and Thresh to come in."
"I heard some rumblings. Some celeb's kid got snatched?"
"Yeah."
"If they're calling you, it must be a good one."
"I don't know if 'good' is the operative word, here. They kidnapped a three-year old girl, Duke. And they're threatening to kill her and send her home in pieces if Jon and Callie don't pay up. They're willing to pay, but they want their daughter back in one piece."
"A three-year old girl?" His voice took on a low growl.
"Cutest you've ever seen."
Duke was Thresh's best friend, and suited to the position. Almost as big, and just as deadly. And they both, despite being stone-cold killers, had soft spots for little kids. Didn't want any of their own--they claimed-- but if you put a cute little girl in front of Thresh or Duke, they turned into big ol' puppy dogs. They'd play tea-time and blow bubbles and do their best dancing bear impressions. So I was sort of blatantly pushing his buttons. Not that I needed to--if I told him to suit up, Duke suited up. I sure as fuck paid him enough, so he'd better.
"Thresh is with me," Duke said. "We'll be there in forty."
"Make it thirty."
"See what we can do." He ended the call, and I pocketed my phone.
I didn't want to know what Duke and Thresh got up to when they were off-duty. Probably bench-pressing Hyundais and deadlifting entire buildings and eating entire cows, hooves and all, raw. You know the old cartoons where a big beefy guy would pick up a horseshoe and eat it because he was so badass? Duke and Thresh were like that.
The crew called in, I decided it was time to pack. And see what my dear, stubborn, mischievous Layla was up to.
Not much, it turned out. I found her sitting at her iMac, browsing through the info Michelle had sent over from LA. She was doing it naked though, because that was Layla. She got me off three times before noon, and now was prancing around naked hoping for more. Yeah, I'm a lucky-ass man. I mean, just fucking look at her:
Thick black hair in an explosive mass of springy ringlets hanging loose down her back. Mocha skin stretched tight and toned and flawless over a body that had curves for goddamn days. Didn't matter how recently I'd blown my load, didn't matter how many times we went at it, I always wanted more. She just had that effect on me. She also had the effect of driving me to my actual wit's end. Stubborn, impossible, difficult, high-maintenance. Not because she was needy or clingy, but because she was just so goddamn determined to do everything her way, and never ever listened to a fucking word I ever said.
"Hey babe." She heard me, felt my presence behind her. Turned, smiled at me. "Got the troops rallied?"
"They're all on their way in, with bells on." I gestured at the computer. "Whatcha got?"
"Not much, yet. Profiles on Jon and Callie, mostly. What you'd expect. Insanely rich, though not quite up to Roth's standards. House in Malibu, one in the south of France, another in the Caribbean. Both are A-list actors, six Oscars and five Golden Globes between the two of them, with the numbers being in her favor, actually. She's got four Oscars and three Globes, he's got two and two. Both divorced three times each, to high profile A-listers. Had affairs, left their respective spouses, dated for a while before finally getting married in a quintessential Hollywood wedding, millions spent, a who's-who guest list, the works. Had Cleo three years ago, and Callie actually Insta'd the whole thing, no filters, no hair or makeup, just her raw experience giving birth. Kinda crazy, actually, and pretty impressive. By all accounts, they're both well-liked and well-respected in the industry, to the point that even their exes don't really hold grudges."
"So no motive that we can see? No obvious enemies?"
Layla shook her head, curls bouncing and swaying--and other bits too. Yum. Mesmerizing. I had to focus on her words rather than the way her body swayed and jiggled with every twitch.
"...They're fucking actors, you know? How would they have enemies who would hate them enough to do something like this? Puck hasn't worked the scene yet, so we don't have his report to look at, but this looks financially motivated. I mean, duh, right? Two rich-as-fuck A-list actors? Of course they have the cash to pay a fat ransom. But the fact that whoever did this was willing to shoot the nanny? They mean business."
"Which is why you're staying here." I grabbed the back of her desk chair and spun it around, stopping it when she was facing me, looking up at me. "Right, Layla?"
"Yes?" Her expression was...worrisome She was going for soft and seductive. Which meant she had a plan up her sleeve.
"Layla."
"Harris?"
Dammit. She's definitely planning something hugely stupid.
I bent over her, took her cheeks in my palms, and kissed her. Went for soft and sweet. "Baby, please. I'm going to ask you one last time, as nicely as I know how. Please stay here. Please? I have a bad feeling about this case. Like you said, they've already shed blood. You get in the way, they won't hesitate to drop you."
She didn't answer. Instead, she reached for my pants. Dug her hand in. Got a good grip.
"Fucking hell, woman. Isn't three times in the morning enough for you?" I pulled away, reluctantly, because it wasn't enough for me either, and if I let her distract me again, I'd never get packed and out of here.
"You know it's not," she said, putting on a fake pout
ing moue. "Come back over here. Give me something to remember you by."
"I just did. Not twenty minutes ago." I held up my cell phone. "I'll send you some pics when I get to LA."
"You better."
"Promise me you'll stay here?"
And fucking goddamn Layla, she just blinked at me, eyes wide and innocent, legs crossed at the knee, arms folded under her big beautiful tits. Seductive, enticing. Jesus, how could I possibly want her again? But I did. Ten more seconds in the room with a naked and mischief-planning Layla and I'd have her sitting on my cock again, fucking a promise out of her.
Thing about Layla is, she'll never lie to me directly. Which is why she's not answering me.
I know this, and she knows I know this, and I know she knows I know.
I just confused myself, I think.
Or actually, I'm pretty sure that made sense.
Point is, she's gonna pop up at the most inopportune time.
Hopefully my ghostly friend Anselm will keep her out of too much trouble.
I turned away before I gave in to temptation. I did actually have to leave. I promised Puck I'd be in LA by three, which meant I didn't have much time.
I made short work of packing. Duffel bag full of clothes, another full of gear, plenty of cash on hand. Then I went out to the landing strip and got the jet warmed up, going through pre-check a few times and then got it ready to taxi to the head of the runway. I logged the flight plan and did a final check of the cockpit. At which point Lear, Duke, and Thresh were all on the compound and shoving their shit into the cargo hold of the jet.
While they got situated, I grabbed a Gator and headed back to the house to pay Layla one last visit.
I found her in a loose, thin robe, watching some idiotic reality show. Women arguing, it looked like. What fun.
I knelt on the carpet in front of her and took the remote from her hand, putting her show on pause. Then I kissed the ever-loving hell out of her. "I'll miss you," I told her.
"I know." She returned the favor, kissed me dizzy. "I'll miss you, too."
Harris Page 3
