by Liz Maverick
Jane sighed and forced the words to come out: “Very. I am very, very desperate.”
Fortunately, Allison was somebody who was very good at turning nothing into something, across a whole realm of scenarios. And right now, Allison was considering whether to share one of those scenarios with Jane. It was a scenario she’d been discussing with her roommate, Cecily, using coded language. The name “Nick Dawes” was the only clue to whatever was lurking up her sleeve.
Jane could only hope that Nick Dawes was an actual human being who wanted to pay someone—well, her—a substantial sum of money to do something that wasn’t too gross or too illegal. She liked to think she had the guts and self-possession to handle almost anything, but she also had to respect her limits.
Allison continued chewing on her cuticle, looking hesitant. Her free hand was holding the stem of a glass of wine. Her stilettos were abandoned on the floor, and she was curled up on the pity couch, where Jane would be sleeping unless she pulled herself out of this mess. In the upholstered wingback chair across from Jane was Cecily, drinking from a liter-size bottle of orange seltzer. It did not strike Jane as a good sign that there was a furrow marring Cecily’s usual upbeat expression. A furrow large enough to plant something in. Maybe she’d be willing to pay Jane to pull weeds or something.
But at least they had a scenario. A “Nick Dawes.” An idea. And, man, did Jane need an idea. “It’s not that I mind so much about me, but I can’t pay for Nana,” she said. Jane’s grandmother was the one family member who’d been a true port in the storm. The only family member who had always been there for her through any kind of weather. Nana’s health was starting to go south, and there was no way—barring total catastrophic disaster—that Jane was failing her by not coming up with the money to keep her in the senior living condominium, where she was happy, safe, and well cared for. “I really need something, you guys.”
Allison and Cecily looked at each other. “I think she can handle the crazy,” Cecily said. “I mean, this is Jane we’re talking about. Jane knows how to handle crazy. I know that, and I haven’t even known her as long as you.”
Then Cecily shrugged and Allison sighed.
Jane’s neck was getting sore from ping-ponging her gaze from one to the other, but it seemed pretty important to let them run the concept—whatever this concept was—through its paces. Jane could definitely handle crazy. She’d been raised by a free-spirited con-artist father who reinvented himself every year and an up-and-down mother—“up-and-down” was how they referred to it—who spent Jane’s early childhood throwing insane dinner parties, often attended by people she’d met earlier in the day. When Jane was older, the family moved from town to town, earning a living through a combination of odd jobs and varying degrees of criminal behavior that Jane stopped thinking about when she went to live with Nana. She hadn’t seen her parents in years, and plenty of birthdays had passed without so much as a phone call.
There’d been a major pause in the processing as both Allison and Cecily sipped their drinks. Then they spent another five minutes debating what to do without actually using any nouns. And then Allison said, “We’ve known each other for a while, Jane. I trust you.”
Jane cocked an eyebrow and said, “And I trust you, Ally.”
Cecily said, “I think it’s a great idea. We know of a job that pays really well . . . if you don’t mind getting involved with a group of men—”
Oh, god, thought Jane suddenly. One of my best friends and her roommate, who I already think is nice and cool, are about to reveal some weird secret that I really don’t want to know. “Actually, maybe I’m not that desperate,” she blurted.
Allison looked at Cecily again; they burst out laughing. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, it’s not that,” Ally said. “One of them is Shane, Cecily’s fiancé. One of Shane’s friends needs someone to house-sit, take care of his fish, keep up his place. His name is Nick. Nick Dawes. He’s got one of the most gorgeous apartments in Manhattan, and the fish are, well, you know, just fish, so it seems pretty cush.”
“It’s just that . . . well, Nick is . . . um, Nick is . . . well, he’s part of a . . . ,” Cecily began.
“Mercenary team,” Ally supplied.
“Yeah,” Cecily said. “So, there’s that.”
“So this doesn’t involve weird sex, bad odors, or illegal behavior?” Jane asked. Because house-sitting fish in a penthouse seemed too good to be true, especially considering she was out of work, homeless, and pretty much down on her luck.
“No sex of any kind desired or expected,” Cecily said. “And if you fancy a light touch of high-end cologne, you’re not gonna complain about what he smells like, and . . .”
Jane waited for Cecily to complete her sentence. The part where she also acknowledged that illegal behavior wasn’t involved either.
“And?”
Ally bit her lip and tipped her head. “Wellllll.” She looked at Cecily for help.
“Tough to say. Best keep an open mind,” Cecily said. “Hence the question, How desperate are you?” She smiled again, high wattage. She’d been doing that a lot lately, especially when she talked about anything that reminded her of Shane. Jane had forgotten how being in love could do that to a person.
“Their hearts are in the right place, I guess,” Ally muttered, looking away with a grimace.
Cecily raised an eyebrow. “High praise coming from you.”
“Keep it to yourself. I don’t want Rothgar thinking I’m getting soft.”
“In the vault,” Cecily responded, hoisting her seltzer.
“And this isn’t a gang?” Jane asked.
“No,” Cecily said.
“Or a cult?”
“Well, there is something uniform about their impressive size and strength and general hotness, but no,” Cecily said.
“I’m interested,” Jane said.
“He’ll want to meet you first,” Ally said. “And there’s one other thing.”
“Isn’t there always?”
“How did he put it? Um, he prefers someone who’s bright enough to follow specific instructions, but not too bright,” Ally said. “Someone who doesn’t stand out. Someone who’d be ignored walking down the street. It’s just an extra precaution.”
A precaution? What kind of fish were these? Jane could have bottled the silence and sold it to rich tourists for profit. “Did he actually say this to you? And if he did, were you actually supposed to repeat it?” she asked.
A belligerent look came into Ally’s eyes. “The Hudson Kings know what they are getting with me. I’m sure Shane and Nick would not tell us anything they expected me to keep a secret, without telling me it’s a secret.” She gave a dismissive little shrug and added, “And even if they told me it was a secret, they know there’s still a twenty percent chance I’ll spill the secret if I think I have a good reason. I have an understanding with Rothgar.”
The Hudson Kings? Jane knew a little about Ally’s past—well, mostly the part about her brother and her boyfriend dying too young. She was essentially alone in the world, outside of her friends. More so, it seemed, even than Jane. Her odd refusal to completely break ties with an organization she clearly despised was confusing—a little heartbreaking, even. Maybe they were all the family Ally really had, just like Nana was all the family Jane really had. Definitely confusing—as confusing as a secret organization that didn’t mind telling secrets to a woman who couldn’t keep a secret.
Ally and Jane had been party acquaintances for years, and had only grown close in the last two or so after Ally had stopped being so secretive about her life. Which, Jane calculated, was probably about the time she’d distanced herself from this Hudson Kings organization. “Who’s Rothgar?” Jane asked.
“Shane’s boss,” Cecily quickly explained. “He’s . . . intense.”
Jane stared at Ally, who managed to keep her expression blank for an impressive period of time. Jane had always known Ally and Cecily knew some unusual people
. Cecily’s fiancé, Shane, was quite possibly the best-looking man Jane had ever seen. He was also the most terrifying by virtue of size, tattoo, and resting face, and seemed to have an occupation that made good use of those attributes.
Over a few too many girlie drinks, certain phrases about Shane’s job would come out in conversation. Nothing that made Jane think she should turn around and run (or that her friends were being inappropriately indiscreet), but enough so that she knew there was a part of their lives they hadn’t let her into that Cecily believed in 100 percent and Ally had mixed feelings about.
Jane had assumed it was either spying for the government or some weird domestic ops. A mercenary team wasn’t exactly her first guess, but, then, was it ever anybody’s first guess?
Jane looked at Cecily, who was chewing a little nervously on her lower lip. “This is about actual fish feeding, yes? This is not fish feeding as a euphemism for something else, right?”
Cecily burst into laughter. Ally’s mouth twitched even though she was trying to be businesslike and stern. “What sort of euphemism?”
Jane gave the girls a bit of side eye. “I’m just saying that the requirements . . . well, that’s a pretty interesting list for someone you want to hire to feed fish.”
Ally just sat there calmly blinking. “Yes, it is.”
“I can definitely do that,” Jane said. “For a generous amount of money, I can look stupid and be boring and feed fish on time, and in whatever manner requested.”
“You have to understand, Jane, that we’re not telling you everything,” Cecily said. “So, no saying later that we should have told you.”
“I understand,” Jane said. “I’ll do it. Assuming he’ll do it.”
In unison, Cecily and Ally’s gaze moved head to toe. “Hmm,” Ally said. “Try ditching the makeup. Maybe it’ll confuse him.”
Cecily gave her a dubious look. “Nick Dawes does not get confused.”
“Oh, I’ll confuse him,” Jane said confidently. “I could have Nick Dawes so confused by me he’d want to pay me double.”
CHAPTER 2
The mood in the war room was tense, to say the least. Dex tapped the keyboard, and the angle on the cam shifted, pulling back to provide a wider view of the situation. Nick’s heart was pounding, but he didn’t move, couldn’t move. Couldn’t do a lot of things, damn it, because he wanted to stay close to the Armory. That’s what happens when you want to keep a low profile because you’ve misplaced $20 million of a powerful Russian businessman’s heist money, and he’s—not to mention the other freelance operatives on the gig—trying to decide what to do about it.
“He’s tested things out twice,” Dex said. Romeo, Chase, and Shane leaned in. “Oh, he’s gonna make another break,” Shane confirmed.
Nick’s entire body tensed. The little guy on the screen was serious. He was dead serious.
“Ohhhh!” everybody yelled, as a beautiful little blue-and-red-striped guppy jumped clean out of the tank and landed on the floor.
Nick sucked in a breath of air, wishing he could do something about the fish flopping on the floor of his apartment. It’s not like you gave them all names. But it was painful. Watching a pet die—even a fish—was fucking painful. Against his will, he felt a muscle in his face twitch, giving himself away. He shrugged, hoping to cover. It didn’t cover.
His teammates had quieted, as the fish struggled to breathe and then stopped. A couple of the men turned and glanced at Nick.
“It’s not a person,” Romeo said to the other guys, clearly confused.
Nick couldn’t bring himself to answer; he just stared stonily at the feed on the screen.
“I don’t think it’s just a fish,” Shane said. “You’ve never had pets, have you?”
Chase cleared his throat in the silence and tried to make it better in his way. “Well, one is pretty hilarious. Two, maybe not so much.”
“That’s three this week,” Missy said.
Thanks for reminding me.
Dex moved the angle on the lens again. The remains of two other fish lay on the ground. Nick looked away.
“Sorry, man,” Dex said quietly. “Luckily, you got a whole bunch more in there . . . not that that fixes . . . uh, never mind.” He typed into the keyboard, and the camera moved away from the damage. Each of the brothers headed back to work.
Nick stared at the video, now back on the idyllic visual of his massive, cylindrical fish tank, the oxygen rig bubbling away, and the lovely green sway of the seaweed. But the tank had too much algae in it. The balance was off. Fuck, he thought. Balance is off everywhere, everyone, every fucking thing. He looked down at his shoes, stared at the laces for a while, and finally just shook his head.
“Your problem’s not going away, is it?” a voice said from the back of the room.
Man, he’d forgotten Rothgar was back there. No, the problem was not going away. And, no, Rothgar was not talking about his fish. Although the fish thing was collateral damage; Nick hadn’t been to his apartment in a week, and the neighbor originally feeding his fish had abruptly taken off for the Hamptons. Nick rubbed his eyes. The girl Ally and Cecily had in mind to take care of his place while he figured out this shit better work.
Nick shook his head. “Nope.” He sighed. It wasn’t cool when your freelance activities got screwed up and then impacted your work with the Hudson Kings. He didn’t know how the other guys felt, but for Nick, part of it was that he generally entertained taking on freelance activities only if he thought it would help his team in the first place. That, plus that niggling little issue about thinking he needed to prove something . . . “I know I haven’t been too useful lately.”
“What are you doing here, Nick?” Rothgar asked. “You know everybody on this team has a room and a life here if they want it, but you have the sweetest pad I’ve ever seen in my life. What are you doing holing up at the Armory?”
“I want to be near the resources. That’s always been part of the agreement; we can use resources for freelance. Since I’ve taken a vacation from Wall Street, there’s no need to live in the Financial District. I’d just as soon wake up, get going, fix this problem.” Plus, why make it easy for people to find me?
Rothgar studied Nick’s face; Nick wondered if the tension he felt in his body all the time now was visible. He also wondered if Rothgar knew that he was trying to keep a low profile from the handful of freelancers wandering around New York, feeling pissed at him.
“Hell, Nick, your skills have paid for more than your share of resources. Whatever’s here is yours for the taking. The question is, Why is it a solo? Why isn’t this problem of yours on the team mission board?”
Roth said it in the same tough, blunt way he said most things, but Nick could read between the lines. The boss’s loyalty to him and concern for his well-being felt like the warmth of a candle lit up in an otherwise cold, dark place.
Geez, Roth. That’s so damn sweet. Also, there is no damn way I am making this a team problem. “Don’t want to involve anybody else.” Nick looked away, shaking his head. “I can handle it on my own.”
“Why bother?” Rothgar asked. “We do it as a team. We do it in a way that means it’s finished business, doesn’t ricochet.” Into the silence, Rothgar added, “Nick, I know that we have an ‘as needed’ policy when it comes to sharing information about your personal freelance activities, but it’s time to come clean.” He didn’t try to hide his impatience. “And at this point, that’s not a request.”
Nick took a deep breath and focused on a chair across the room, feeling totally deflated. “It was a heist, Roth. Right up my alley. Figured it would be easy. It was. Until it got complicated.”
“Who were you working for?”
Nick steeled himself and looked straight into Rothgar’s face. He deserved whatever lashing he got. “Vlad Sokolov.”
Rothgar’s eyes flashed. If he hadn’t fucked up so badly, Nick would at least have taken some pleasure in shocking the hell out of the boss man. It didn’t happ
en very often.
Vlad Sokolov was the boyfriend of a beautiful Russian sleeper agent named Anya Gorchakov, whom the Hudson Kings had investigated and successfully outed as a spy as part of an ongoing mission sponsored by the US government. It was around the time that Shane was going ballistic over Cecily’s situation, and Dex was recovering from his nasty leg injury; just before all that, Nick had realized that the unexpected overlap between his freelance work on Sokolov’s heist and the first job in the Hudson Kings’ long-term Russian sleeper-agent investigation might be a bigger deal than he initially thought.
Full disclosure wasn’t expected or assumed with the Hudson Kings, and Nick had meant to keep this freelance mission to himself to avoid drawing direct lines connecting Rothgar and Sokolov. It was all supposed to be very clean.
“Before you ask me why I didn’t say anything about the heist when I was doing the forensics on the source of Anya’s money, just know that I thought I was doing the best thing for you and the team,” Nick said. “I didn’t want there to be any hint of a connection between you and Sokolov. At the time I accepted the gig, you hadn’t announced the Russian sleeper-agent mission. My plan was to tell you once I finished the job and collected any intel. You know that my loyalty to the Hudson Kings always comes first.”
Rothgar waited patiently, the throbbing muscle in his jaw the only giveaway about just how pissed he really was.
“Anyway, this was supposed to be a quick job. And then I did something stupid.” It was painful to have to say it. It was just so unbelievably rookie that Nick almost couldn’t imagine how he’d let himself take it so far in Sokolov’s van.
“Which was . . . ?” Rothgar asked.
Nick sighed. “He insulted me, and I didn’t let it slide. I don’t know if this will make any sense to you . . .” Oh, hell, just say it. This is Rothgar you’re talking to. “Someone’s been counting on me to . . . uh . . . well, I’ve been trying to live up to . . . aw, shit, I don’t know, man. Somewhere along the line I took a wrong turn. I don’t even know if Sokolov knew what he was doing when he goaded me like that . . .” Yeah, definitely file this under NICK MAKES NO SENSE. He shrugged, unsure what else to say. It wasn’t such a problem to admit that he didn’t like the idea of his brothers taking all the physical risk while he sat around at desks and inside getaway vans, wearing shirts with French cuffs. But he couldn’t get the part about Jemilla out of his mouth. He just wasn’t going there.
