Veils: A Killers Novel, Book 4

by Asher, Brynne

  I need to get this shit done. “The one and only. Look, I know you’re busy thinking you run half the universe, but I need to talk to you about a certain journalist who’s been poking around, asking about me. My associate said he approached you.”

  I hear the frown in his tone. “I’ve been approached by someone looking for you but I don’t think he was a journalist—at least he didn’t say he was. A man confronted me when I was leaving a lunch meeting. He didn’t state his name or his position. He did ask if you were my son.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “Despite your estrangement from our family, you still are, in fact, my son, Noah. You might not claim me but I certainly will never negate you.”

  I can’t help the pure fire in my tone when I growl, “What the hell did you say to him?”

  “Have you forgotten I spent my career in the military and now work with a certain level of clearance that most don’t even know about? Give me some credit, son. I said I didn’t negate you, that doesn’t mean I’d throw you to the wolves just because you won’t grace our threshold at Christmas. I would never do anything to put you at risk and I could tell this man wasn’t an old friend of yours. I said nothing and my driver stepped in to act as security.”

  I shake my head. Driver. Security. Fuck me.

  “How do you know about this?” he goes on.

  “He approached a colleague of mine, similar to what he did to you. Mentioned you which spurred this little family reunion because I want to know why this guy is asking around about me.”

  A heavy pause blankets the line before his tone turns to one I’m not familiar with—concern. “Yes. I’d like to know why he’s asking around about you, too.”

  I ignore that and press send with a screenshot of Prosk. “I’m texting you a picture now.”

  There’s a pause before he returns. “Who am I looking at?”

  “You don’t recognize him?”

  “Why would I?”

  Shit. I sit up and rest my elbows on my knees. “That’s not who approached you?”

  “No. I know for sure that’s not him.”

  “What did your guy look like?”

  “It was a few weeks ago. I can’t remember details. But the man I’m looking at isn’t him. He was bulkier, shaved head, piercings. Even had an accent. Not this guy.”

  My eyes fall shut. “I need you to let me know if you see him again.”

  “You mean you’ll answer if I call?”

  I open my eyes but I don’t see the canvas of white in front of me. All I see is red. “Pretty sure this is the first time I’ve seen you on my caller ID since you chewed my ass for embarrassing you after being discharged without reason. Don’t throw that shit at me.”

  Another ugly silence falls between us that’s more familiar than it should be between a parent and a child. And there’s no way I’m going to break it. There’s no way I’ll allow him any comfort or let him off the hook. That’s why his next question blows me away. “You can think what you want but I do miss you. Tell me the truth. Are you in trouble?”

  I feel my face pinch. “No. No fucking way. I just don’t need anyone poking around about me. And, honest to God, I’m more worried if they approached you, whoever they are, will do the same to Mom. I don’t know who these people are or their intentions. I don’t need her worried or subjected to that but I need to make sure she’s safe, too.”

  “I didn’t think about that.”

  “Why would you?” I toss back just as fast as his confession of neglect.

  “Despite what you think, I love your mother.”

  “Love was always an interesting piece of art in our house. There might not have been any abstractionism on the walls but it dripped heavy in the air. We were forced to choke that fake shit down every single day to save face, weren’t we?”

  “Fuck, Noah. There are things you weren’t privy to growing up,” he hisses and I know I hit a chord, and not a melodic, light soprano. A dark, foul bass that probably matches the beat of his cold heart. “Your mother and I did our best.”

  My mother is an artist. I grew up surrounded by art, was enriched with it, and its beauty and symbolism were beaten into my head for as long as I can remember. My parents’ home is filled with her work, and it’s no surprise, her heart is filled with nothing but impressionistic ideals. She always told me art was her passion but it was clear to see as I grew older, it was nothing but an escape. Her art is her life, viewed through rose-tinted glasses—improved by color and brush strokes and perfect lighting.

  Abstraction, on the other hand, would have better suited the home I grew up in. Twisting and turning our reality until it looked nothing like it really was, but rather, how my parents needed everyone to see us.

  My mother masked her life with paint long before Instagram went and fucked-up the world with its fake filters. She learned this coping mechanism from Monet and van Gogh before the rest of the world caught up and stuffed it into an app.

  “Yeah, fuck,” I agree. “Needless to say, I don’t want anyone who thinks my life is any of their interest near anyone I know. I also don’t want Mom to know about any of this. She’ll worry—more than she does already—and I’m not sure I can take more of that guilt.”

  “If you don’t want the guilt you should come and see us.”

  “I told her I’d take her back to Napa next month.”

  “She wants you to come for the Fourth.”

  Just when I think this little family reunion is dragging on longer than necessary, my phone alerts me of a message.

  I ignore my father just like I did my mother when she brought up the family get together that sounds about as enticing as being tortured. “As fun as this has been, I’ve got to go. Keep an eye out and do what you can to mask Mom from this—whatever the hell it is—until I can figure it out.”

  “Noah, wait—”

  Another alert hits my ear and I swear, this one goes straight to my dick. “Gotta go.”

  Hanging up on him is as easy as leaving the Navy.

  Lover – I’m good.

  Lover – Nervous but good. Everyone is nice and welcoming, but busy.

  Me – What’s on the schedule for tomorrow?

  Lover – Doing medical stuff somewhere in Uganda. At this point I’m just going with the flow. My head is still spinning from the time change. I had no idea jet lag was so real.

  Me – Jet lag hates fresh air, sunshine, and exercise.

  Lover – That’s interesting. I hate exercise, too.

  Me – If you were with me, I’d make sure you were thoroughly worked out.

  I see nothing but dots blinking and have to adjust my hard-on thinking of all the ways I’d wear her out.

  Lover – I don’t think you’d be good for my jet lag seeing as I lost a whole night’s sleep because of you. I’m not sure where you are right now, with all your scary pockets, but it’s dark here and I need to try and sleep. We’re starting bright and early in the morning.

  Me – Go to bed, Gracie. But you can do it knowing someone in Paris is thinking of you.

  I get nothing. Not even dots.

  I’m not worried. At least not now that I’ve talked to her.

  I toss my phone to the kitchen counter and open the fridge to find something to eat. I grab a hunk of cheese, some pre-cut meats, veggies, and another beer.

  I don’t even bother with a plate when my phone goes off again.

  Lover – It’s official. You’re the worst one-night stand in the history of sex, Jarvis.

  I smile as I chew.

  Me – I’m happy to be your best mistake. Go to bed and try not to miss my cock grinding into your ass as you sleep.

  Lover – What are we doing, Noah?

  I take a drink of my beer before putting my fingers back to the screen.

  Me – Mark my word, little Lover. I’ll become your hardest habit to break.

  Chapter 11

  International Language

  Somewhere in Uganda
r />   Gracie

  Nursing school did not prepare me for this.

  Uganda is a multilingual country. Many speak English, but some of our patients don’t, and there has been a language barrier.

  But I do understand hugs. They’re the international language that I’m counting on to get me through.

  A baby just crawled into my lap where I’m sitting on the floor. I don’t know how old he is, yet he’s communicating my unspoken language loud and clear. He has a fever and we’re treating him for malaria even though he’s yet to test positive. The disease runs rampant here and we can’t take the chance with a baby. After spoon feeding him and managing to get his meds down, I topped him off with a kiss and one of the five hundred pieces of candy that weighed down my suitcase.

  That’s when I got a weak hug. And that hug was totally worth paying the airline’s surcharge for my suitcase going over the allotted weight.

  So far, we’ve traveled to clinics that were understaffed and stopped in remote villages that are on their routine route. We’ve handled everything that can be done outside of a hospital. My muscles are sore and I’ve had very little sleep from late nights and early mornings. I’ve seen the big, fat orange ball rise on Africa every day and I’ve decided it’s more beautiful here than the US. I’m weary and worn but it’s the best sort of exhaustion.

  Finally, after four days, we’ve made it to our first orphanage. This is my dream—to steal as much time as I can with kids I have a little in common with. It doesn’t matter what tragedy or turmoil got them here—they don’t have parents and that’s something I understand.

  I pick up the little guy and help him unwrap the Smarties and show him he can eat the colorful candy he’s never seen before. He looks up at me with his beautiful dark eyes that are too tired, but still manages to tip his lips up at the corners when the sugar hits his tongue.

  I’m working with a handful of doctors and nurses from all over the US, a few others from Uganda, and two translators. When I signed up for this mission trip, I was told I’d have an orientation.

  That orientation was squeezed into thirty minutes and included Dr. Dal pointing out the supply closet followed by the quickest overview of policies that were sketchy at best. He ended my training with, “Just roll with it and do what you do best. We see as many people as we can a day. I know your specialty is kids, but we treat everyone.”

  So, I’ve rolled with it. And I’ve enjoyed every minute. Until now.

  Reality hits me and it’s immense—heavier than the sun beating down on us.

  This little guy in my arms, so tiny and sweet, babbles a mix of baby gibberish and a few words of what I think is Luganda as he eats Smarties for the first time. The look on his beautiful face is nothing but mesmerizing.

  This is the moment I remember why. Why I saved for a year and took a leave of absence from a job I love. Why I left my sisters and made my brother an even broodier grump than normal because he didn’t approve of my decision. And why I left Moose behind in my apartment with little-to-no human interaction since he hates Raine as much as she hates him.

  It was for this. This hug. If I don’t get another one the rest of the time I’m here, it’s okay. My heart is full.

  I have no idea what life will be like for this little boy but I gave him candy and made him smile. I hope he remembers me for a least a day or two.

  I pull my phone out of my back pocket and snap a picture of us cuddled on the floor.

  “Gracie?” Dr. Dal calls for me. “You done over there? We need help with the vaccinations.”

  I don’t want to, but I give the little guy a kiss on the head and put him down in his small crib before I slide my phone back into my pocket and head to Dr. Dal.

  * * *

  Karachi, Pakistan

  Jarvis

  After shaking the hand of the pilot, I step off the private jet onto Pakistani soil and walk through the dark, but I don’t take my eyes off my phone.

  Gracie sent me a picture.

  I didn’t know what it was like to lose my breath but I do now. All the fucking air in my body—gone, because I’ve never seen anything as beautiful.

  The first and only picture I have of her, she’s sweaty, her hair is piled high on her head like it was the night I met her, but this time it’s curling at the ends and pieces are sticking with sweat to her flushed face. She’s wearing a Buckeye’s T-shirt and I can’t see anything else besides her and the baby she’s holding. He’s tiny in her arms, especially given how small she is, and he’s smiling and drooling around his fingers but her smile is bigger.

  I stop in my tracks standing on the airstrip in the middle of the damn night, because I’ve never seen that look on her face even though I’ve touched every spot on her body and spent a decent amount of time with her.

  Okay. Not that much time.

  And most of it was spent devouring each other or her trying to get rid of me or her so tired from jet lag she couldn’t keep her eyes open.

  So this is what it looks like for Gracie Cain to be happy.

  She’s answered my messages every night since we’ve been apart. She’s told me a little about her work, described the people of Uganda as a gentle culture focused on family, and how she hasn’t even left yet but she already wants to go back.

  She hasn’t asked what I’m doing because she said she knows I won’t tell her since her brother wouldn’t either. I confirmed that assumption.

  Our written conversations have been short and quick, as she always claims she’s on the verge of passing out, which I believe.

  I close out of the picture and open the first message Gracie has ever sent me on her own.

  Lover – His name is Eze. He’s why I came.

  And that’s it.

  I’d answer her now but I have a meeting and I’m already a few minutes late. I slide my phone into my back pocket and head for the small office building where I’m meeting Crew’s contact.

  That’s when it happens.

  I don’t see it, but I sense it. I’m farther from the building than I am the plane when I hear a sound. The stagnant air shifts.

  I don’t hesitate. Wavering gets you killed.

  The moment I pivot, my bag flies and I throw my elbow up, blocking someone encased in black with my forearm. By the time my bag hits the pavement, I’ve already turned, kicking his legs out from under him. He lands on the ground with a thud.

  I reach for the gun holstered at my ankle, but he pops up so fast it’s like a throwback to The Matrix. I stand, blocking a high kick, grab his combat boot around the ankle, and twist.

  He dives but I don’t let go.

  We both go head over feet on the pavement, putting him behind me.

  I twist on my ass—just in time.

  He pounces, his sharp-ass elbow jabs my temple. I grunt because it hurts like hell but I’m still able to roll. Then I take advantage.

  For being so skinny, he’s got impressive ninja moves for his size. I have him pinned—his face concealed in a black mask is now glued to the concrete.

  I press the barrel of my gun to his forehead. “Who the fuck are you and why the death wish?”

  He’s breathing hard but that doesn’t stop me from feeling his body go tense below mine.

  That’s why I couldn’t be more surprised if flood lights lit the space and every single fucker from my past jumped out and screamed, Jarvis has been punked! because the voice is not what I expect. “Welcome to Pakistan, Jarvis.”

  What the fuck?

  * * *

  I work alone for many reasons.

  One: I don’t like people.

  Two: I don’t trust anyone to do it the way I can do it. It being whatever the fuck needs to get done.

  And three, again, because I feel so strongly about it: I don’t like people.

  Besides petite brunettes who think they can save the world. My cock enjoys her very much and my brain is trailing along because, let’s be real—my cock is bigger in spirit. He wins every time.
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  * * *

  When that voice hits me, it doesn’t matter how bad I want the barrel of my gun to become one with the skull pressed to the ground, I release some pressure but don’t move. “What the fuck did you say?”

  “I said welcome, even though you’re also a messy bloke with no finesse. Though your arse is down-right scrummy.”

  “My arse is scrummy?” I don’t know if I’m more shocked by my ass being scrummy—whatever the hell that is—or the smooth, accent filling the dark air between us that is very, very fucking feminine.

  “Indeed. But you’re all brute with little elegance. Once I caught your mug, I let you pin me, Jarvis.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “I should be your next instructor in hand-to-hand combat but I’m sure you’re just like every other American operative and have your head so far up your arse, you can taste your crumpets with your tea and because of your tiny dick, you think your sheer mass will suffice. But instead of delivering that lesson you so badly need, I’m your one AM meeting.”

  It can’t be, and if it is, I’m going to kill Crew with my own two hands for the tiny dick comment alone. “Donnelly?”

  “You sound like you’re at the end of your tether but I suggest you get off of me straight away because I have no desire to chew the fat. Vega is paying me handsomely and I have a job to do.”

  Without giving her an inch to move because she wasn’t lying about the finesse—I’m sure she could ninja her way out of my tying her into a pretzel—I reach up to yank off the mask.

  I see nothing but messy golden hair fall around her face. I do a pushup and we’re both vertical in a matter of a nanosecond and I’m standing five feet away with her in the sight of my gun.

  “Code word,” I demand.

  She has the nerve to roll her eyes as she unzips her black jacket, revealing a matching tank underneath that’s as tight as the rest of her clothes. No wonder I thought he was skinny—when I thought she was a he. She’s tall, probably five-eleven in her boots, but there’s hardly anything to her. Had she not just come at me in the dark, I’d never know she was skilled at anything besides dressing up as the Black Widow and throwing insults in her accent.