“Distracted?” Fox guessed. “Or losing your touch with wood?” He made an obscene gesture, and barked a laugh when Albie gave him two fingers in return.
“What’s wrong with you?” Albie asked, closing his sketchbook with the air of a man who’d decided he wouldn’t get any more work done. “Why are you acting like a court jester? Why are you so…happy?”
He couldn’t deny it; he was happy. He’d gone to sleep with a smile on his face and woken up in the same condition. There was probably something wrong with him, but he’d accepted that fact a long time ago.
“Because,” he said, “I got a call last night from our lovely niece.”
“Which one?”
“What?”
“We have more than one niece.”
Fox thought on that a moment. He tended to forget most of the time that Walsh had procreated. King had always been nearly as monkish as Albie – at least in front of all the guys – so, if not for her giant blue Devin Green eyes, Fox could have easily believed that Walsh had had nothing to do with Violet’s conception. An uncharitable thought toward Emmie, sure, but he was a realist.
“The one who can actually work a phone,” he clarified. “Someone tried to run Michelle off the road last night.”
Albie gaped. “Shit. She okay?”
“Frightened. And rightfully so. Apparently, there’s all sorts of murder and mayhem unfolding in Amarillo, and Candy’s done fuck-all to put a stop to it.”
Albie’s expression shifted. “I doubt that.”
“The victims are being tied out with stakes.” He held his arms out to demonstrate the posture Michelle had described. “And then their throats are cut.”
“Jesus.”
“No one knows who’s behind it, not even the FBI – who are apparently involved.”
Albie whistled.
“I’m heading that way in a few hours.”
“She asked you to come?”
“Her exact words were ‘I need your help.’”
Albie looked gobsmacked. He leaned an elbow against his makeshift table and scratched absently at his jaw. Thinking. “You talked to Candy yet?”
“No. And I don’t intend to until I get there.”
More thinking. He gave him grief, but Fox’s brother was no idiot. “Chelle say anything else?” he asked, gaze narrowing.
“She didn’t have to. I could hear it in her voice.”
They shared a look, and Fox knew their thoughts were in alignment. As lovable and respectable as Candy was – Fox generally liked him better than he did his own siblings – Michelle was sacred. Fox would take her back to London himself if that needed to happen.
He was jumping the gun a little, yes. But he was so excited. Something to do, finally. A situation begging for his talents.
“Want to come with?” he asked.
Albie didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
~*~
Leaving for Amarillo “in a few hours” was fine in theory, but there were problems with that plan. The first one presented itself a half-second after Fox left the warehouse.
As he approached the clubhouse, he saw a lanky figure lying flat on one of the picnic tables, shades on, hands folded over a flat stomach. The new leather jacket gleamed softly in the sunlight. Fox walked up and moved to flick Tenny’s ear, but his brother sat up – smoothly swinging his legs over the edge of the table – before he could connect.
“Isn’t there something you’re supposed to be doing?” Fox asked.
His answer was a lifting of brows.
“You might try to earn a living, you know.”
“I’m not a mechanic,” Ten said, tone flat bordering on offended.
“Does this look like the sort of place that employs full-time assassins?”
“No,” Ten said, disgusted.
With a sinking feeling, Fox realized he wouldn’t be able to leave the little shit behind. No one here was equipped to handle him. Mercy had done well with Reese, but Reese was an obedient creature; eager to please, willing to take direction. Tenny was acting like a spoiled show pony whose new owner didn’t know which buttons to press. Intimidation wouldn’t work on him.
Maybe, Fox thought, almost desperately, what he needed was a chance to get his hands dirty. Sitting idle certainly hadn’t served him.
“I’m going out of town,” Fox said. “A murder case; the feds can’t make heads or tails of it.”
Tenny uncoiled the slightest fraction; a barely noticeable sign of something like real interest, finally.
“And you’re coming with me.”
He expected to be mocked; expected a protest or some snide comment.
But Ten hopped to his feet and said, “When do we leave?”
~*~
The next obstacle was trickier.
Axelle’s GTO was parked in Eden’s driveway when he pulled up, and it was Axelle who came to let him in when he knocked at the locked door.
He’d always thought her pretty in a casual, natural sort of way, but he couldn’t help but notice that she wore a little more eye makeup than normal today; her hair looked like it had been curled on an iron, rather than left to its own tumbled, wavy devices. She wore low-heeled boots and a cropped suede jacket that looked new.
“Eden, the asshole’s here,” she called cheerfully over her shoulder, when she saw that it was him.
Fox grinned at her. “Do I smell a new perfume? I wonder if Albie’s partial to floral or citrus scents.”
“Bite me,” she said, with a fake, saccharine smile, and led him down the front hall to the kitchen.
The room, with its musty rooster-patterned wallpaper, had been transformed into a kind of command center for the day. Glossy, blown-up photos laid out on the table, notebooks open, a half-dozen pens uncapped and waiting beside notes already taken. On the peninsula that separated the eat-in area from the kitchen proper, Fox noted several Chinese takeout boxes, and a host of dirty mugs. The air smelled of sesame chicken and strong coffee.
Eden was at the table, poring over the photos, one leg tucked up beneath her bottom in the chair in a pose that struck him as girlish and unguarded – it nudged at a tender place in his chest that he refused to name.
She glanced up when he entered, smiling readily, if not downright warmly. “Hello,” she said, soft, tired-edged, as if they were alone.
Axelle went to poke around in the fridge in a very obvious attempt to give them a semblance of privacy – a thoughtful little gesture he hadn’t expected, and which made this all the harder.
If things had been different between them – more stable, that unhelpful voice in the back of his head piped up – telling her that he was leaving town would have felt more like simple news, and less like he was running away to alleviate his boredom.
Not that he was bored.
(He was hopelessly bored.)
“Hey,” he said, and Eden’s smile fell away.
“That’s certainly a look you’ve got on,” she said, wary now.
The fridge slapped shut, and Axelle slid into her seat across from Eden, looking at him too – more critically, gaze narrowed.
Great.
“Oh, yeah, well,” he said, hating that he sounded dodgy and nervous – that was very unlike him. “I came by to say that I’m going out of town for a while. Leaving tonight.”
Her brows jumped, a quick moment of shock played across her face, but then she smoothed it down. “Club business?”
“A little. Mostly family. Michelle called me last night: bad dealings in Amarillo have her spooked, and she could use an expert eye on the situation.”
“Expert,” Axelle said with a snort.
Eden pushed her chair back so she could face him fully, concerned notch forming between her brows. “Is she alright? What’s going on?”
He gave her the rundown; brief and to the point.
“Shit,” she said, after, her expression remarkably like Albie’s had been, earlier. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Is – oh, don’t look so surprised,” she said, frowning. “It’s been a while, but I’ve spent time with your niece. She’s lovely.”
Our lovely niece, Fox had said to Albie, only hours ago.
“Of course you’re going,” Eden continued. “But what about her husband? I thought he was some great big strapping fellow. He-Man or something?”
“Candyman.”
“Ha!” Axelle said, and nearly choked on the sip of tea she’d just taken.
“Laughter isn’t the normal reaction once you set eyes on him,” he said dryly. “But, yeah. He’s usually got this sort of thing covered. It must be a special case.”
Eden nodded slowly, considering, her expression once again mirroring the one Albie had presented back at Dartmoor. Her gaze wandered across the table, the spread of photos and notebooks, and then she locked eyes with Axelle.
Axelle said, “Are you going by yourself?”
He hesitated a second, feeling like an actual fox, a wild one, poised at the edge of a trap hidden beneath the leaf litter. “I’m taking the kids. Ten and the other one. Reese. And Albie says he’s coming, even if I don’t know what good he’ll do.”
The women regarded one another a second longer. Then Eden nodded and turned to him. “We’re coming, too.”
“Why?” he blurted out, like an idiot.
“I’m a private detective, in case you’ve forgotten,” she said primly.
He swept a gesture toward the mess on the table. “A busy one, it looks like.”
“This?” She lifted a photo and turned it toward him; from this angle, he could actually make out its subject: a heavyset man with bad hair and a worse nylon jacket with his arms around a woman at least two decades younger, their lips locked. “This is my third cheating husband since I arrived here. This ugly tosser – who looks to be a terrible kisser, by the way – has somehow talked this poor girl into being his mistress. And he hasn’t got any money. His wife took out a loan to pay me for the investigation, and I felt so bad about it I’m doing this one pro-bono.
“I’m bored to death, Charlie. So yes, I’d like to come help you solve a murder in Texas.”
“But…the house,” he protested weakly. “It needs…redecorating.”
She scoffed. “It can sit here being ugly all by itself for a while just fine.” Another frown threatened. “Unless…you don’t want me along.”
He gathered a breath, and tried to touch on just the right answer.
A moment of hesitation too long.
“Ah,” she said. “I see.”
“No!”
She and Axelle both shifted back in reaction. He’d shouted.
“No, that’s not what I meant. It’s only – you don’t have to.”
She stared at him. “Charlie…”
“But you’re welcome to come, if you like. Both of you.” Even if the idea worried him, a little.
He couldn’t deny, though, that hearing her say she was bored had been something of a relief. Thank God it wasn’t just him. Thank God.
“Come,” he said, surer now. He grinned. “I could use someone to be the co-brain of this operation.”
“Co-brain,” she said flatly.
“You didn’t think it would be Albie, did you?”
~*~
“Texas,” Fox said. “Amarillo.”
That was where they were going. Reese had spent enough time with Fox at this point to know that he was someone who didn’t mince words, and who didn’t like to waste effort.
Reese appreciated that. He understood it. Mercy was like that, too – but Mercy was busy. He had a wife, and three children, and he liked to linger over lunch with Aidan, Tango, and Carter, laughing in that loud, bright, open way that Reese struggled to comprehend. He knew what laughter was – but didn’t know what inspired it.
Fox laughed, some, but it didn’t strike Reese as the explosive, involuntary release of good humor like with Mercy. With Fox, it seemed performative; he laughed when he was supposed to, when it was socially appropriate; an effort to blend in with the others, though his eyes flashed darkly, and the way he bared his teeth didn’t speak to good cheer.
That Reese understood perfectly.
So he was fine with going to Texas. Was glad of an opportunity to put his skills to use, actually. Training was important, was necessary, but not a replacement for actual wet work. This was perhaps the longest he’d gone without performing an op, and he could feel himself growing complacent. Maggie’s rich cooking, and Aidan trying to explain the wonders of college football to him, and Tango explaining Instagram to him – a phenomenon for which he had yet to find a justification. Roman was courting Kristin, and Reese was keenly aware that he and his sister viewed the world very, very differently.
I’m happy, she’d told him. I want you to be happy, too.
He didn’t understand. Probably he never would.
So he would go to Texas, and he would work, and he would be useful.
But they were traveling via bike, Fox had told him, and Reese couldn’t take his usual arsenal.
It lay on top of his neatly-made bed, now, arranged in orderly rows, largest to smallest, all the guns clean and smelling of oil, all the knives gleaming in the soft glow of lamplight.
The sniper rifle he would have to leave behind, he decided; even broken-down, it would make for awkward carrying. He stared at it a moment, already missing it, then dismissed all thought of it. His regular shotgun wouldn’t work, either, but the sawed-off he thought he could manage, in its leather scabbard.
He would take the .45s, worn in their usual shoulder holster; there was a slim little sheath built into one of the straps that held his two-inch, double-edged emergency knife, so that would go, too.
He’d take the Glocks, and plenty of extra magazines, ammo for all the handguns. The bowie knife he’d leave, but take all the others, the slender stabbers and the serrated utility knives. A switchblade for each boot. All of that he could wear on his person, save the mags and ammo; those he’d pack in his knapsack, along with a bit of wire, some gauze pads, tape, eye drops, and a tin of grease paint.
“We’re going to Texas,” a scathing voice said from the doorway behind him, BBC British; a cultivated accent, carefully chosen for the weapon who would wield it. “Not Fallujah.”
Reese cinched the knapsack and carried it to the dresser to set beside his folded hoodie and Kevlar vest. Only then did he acknowledge Ten.
Fox’s brother lounged in the doorway, a shoulder braced against the jamb, arms folded, and hips cocked negligently. He had this way of melting and adhering to whatever wall or bit of furniture he was near. A kind of casual that he’d perfected, Reese knew, through long hours of practice, but which wasn’t natural. It was too perfect, too artless to have been anything like Evan’s unconscious sprawling across surfaces.
“Preparation is important,” Reese said, because that logic had been drilled into his head since his earliest memories. Tie your shoes, clean your plate, preparation is important.
Tenny rolled his eyes. “Yes, it is.” He pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room. “Are you taking that?” He pointed to the broken-down rifle where it rested on the pillow.
Reese knew a sudden, intense urge to throw himself down on the bed and shield the gun from view. His things were his things, and he didn’t let others touch them. Didn’t share.
When he didn’t respond, stood there with his hands at his sides, open and loose from great effort, Ten took a few steps closer to the bed, and reached out.
“It’s clean,” Reese said, voice tight, and Ten’s hand paused, hovering in the air.
His head lifted, gaze sharp and assessing. “You don’t want me touching it.”
Reese swallowed. “The oils from your skin–”
“I know how to pick up a gun,” Ten said, faintly insulted. “But you don’t want me to touch it.” Probing now, the way he always seemed to.
When they’d arrived home from London, and Fox had introduced Ten to everyo
ne, Ghost had said, “Shit, now there’s two of them.”
(“Um, three?” Evan had said, but no one had listened.)
He and Tenny had been slapped with the same label. Reese had known that he didn’t fit with the Lean Dogs. He did like them, and when he thought of Knoxville, of this clubhouse where he had a dorm room all to himself, he thought home. But he didn’t think like them; didn’t act like them. Didn’t understand, for instance, what was so special about the girls in the skimpy clothes who Boomer looked at with such round-eyed, baldly appreciative stares. Chanel had looked at Reese once, and closed one eye, and Boomer had come hustling over with his chest stuck out, his voice too deep, and told Reese to “back off,” He’d apologized after, when Reese only stared at him, pale and stammering. Chanel had laughed.
Reese didn’t understand.
But it didn’t bother him, not knowing; not speaking the strange social language that everyone around him did. He had his skills; he knew his place.
But then Tenny had come along.
Tenny who’d been raised to fight, and kill; to assess, and assault, and act without hesitation or prejudice.
But Ten had been groomed differently. He spoke a dozen languages, and he could slide into a conversation in the same easy way Reese slid a knife from his boot. He understood the social cues that Reese didn’t; his master hadn’t been just a man like Reese’s, but a government. An organization. They’d had the resources necessary to teach Ten to blend into a crowd; to seduce, and set at ease, and play mind games.
Ten thought Reese was weak, and he hadn’t been subtle in expressing that.
The idea of him touching Reese’s belongings left Reese thinking about the distance between them, and the force necessary to put his emergency knife in the other killer’s throat.
“No,” Reese said, “I don’t.”
Ten smiled, the blade-sharp grin that looked like Fox’s, the one that confused delight with aggression. “Because you don’t like me.” It wasn’t a guess.
I hate you, Reese thought, but didn’t say, startled by his own hostility. Hate wasn’t a prudent emotion in an assassin.
Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7) Page 11
