“What?” she said.
“Time to go,” Brand answered.
“Go?” she said sleepily. “You’re kicking me out?”
He stopped and stared at her. “Let me guess. You thought I picked you up at the Congress Club and it was true love.”
“Well, no, but…”
He threw her clothes at her. “Get dressed. I’ll call you a taxi.”
“Asshole.”
He looked at her like he was offended. “I’m going to pay for it.”
Once he got Siri or Sherry or something like that out of his top floor condo, he turned on the TV, made himself a nightcap, and watched the stock market report. When he went to bed, he couldn’t sleep. He felt a little like a kid who thought he was going to get the bike he wanted for Christmas.
At eleven sharp Brandon rode through the compound gates and strode into the clubhouse.
“They’re waiting for you in there.”
Ruby was drying a glass. So she motioned toward the conference room with her head.
Brandon raised his chin at her while treating her to a drool-worthy smile. That was the only way Ruby could tell the difference between Brash and Brand. Brash had a sexy grin that he saved for Brigid. Brand had a drop dead gorgeous smile and he wasn’t stingy with it.
Brant, Car Lot, Judge, and Miles were waiting. He nodded to all of them.
“Close the door,” Brant said. “Let’s get started.”
At one o’clock the briefing was complete. Brandon had a good handle on the plan.
“Brand wants to talk to Carmichael,” Brant told the group. To Brandon he said, “You have any objections to putting him on speakerphone?” Brandon shook his head. “Okay. Let me get him.”
Brant grabbed the land line phone behind him and set it on the table. Putting on his glasses, he read the number from a little notebook he kept in his breast pocket.
“Mr. Carmichael’s office,” said a female voice.
“This is Sanctuary Security. Can you put him on the phone, please?”
“Just a moment.”
The symphonic strings of the elevator music that everyone hates equally began to filter into the room over the speakerphone. The four men gave each other looks that said, “If he doesn’t pick up in thirty seconds, I’m putting that shit out the nearest window.”
“Mr. Fornight?”
“Yeah. It’s me. Got the man here who’s going to move your package. He wants to talk to you directly. That okay with you?”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Carmichael, my name’s Brandon Fornight.” He glanced at Brant, who raised an eyebrow because Brand had always gone by St. Germaine. “Is there anything you want to add about this Trey Michaels? He was your son-in-law for three years. I’m sure you’ve got some personal insights that wouldn’t turn up in a dossier.”
“The main thing I want to get across, and I can’t express this too strongly, do not underestimate this man. He managed to fool me and I’m not being overly vain when I say that’s not easy to do. He doesn’t seem to have a conscience and that, paired with almost unlimited resources, makes him dangerous as it gets. He’s very likely connected to organized crime. If everything I’ve heard is true, his influence is,” he broke off for a few seconds, “extensive.”
“Okay,” Brand said. “Just one more question. How does she feel about camping?”
There was a lengthy pause before Carmichael spoke. “My daughter camping. Under other circumstances I might be laughing until tears came to my eyes.”
“I see,” said Brand. “Is there anything else you want me to know?”
“Yes. If anything happens to my little girl, you are a dead man.”
“Duly noted,” Brandon said drily.
Brant spoke up. “I’ll call you on the secure phone tomorrow morning with final plans.”
“We’ll be ready,” said Carmichael.
When the call was ended, Brandon turned to Brant and said, “I didn’t want to use the name St. Germaine because he’d probably recognize it and question why I, of all people, am escorting his daughter to safety.”
Brant nodded. “Smart.” He didn’t add that it had given him a little rush to hear Brandon use the surname, Fornight.
CHAPTER TWO
New Jersey
Brandon was picked up at Newark and taken to a warehouse where a van painted like a Con Ed truck was waiting inside. Camden Carmichael’s luggage was also waiting. It had been shipped to a Fed Ex facility and held there until claimed by one of Brant’s operatives.
“These her bags?” Without waiting for confirmation, Brandon unzipped and started going through her things.
“What are you looking for?” Dyson was a chocolate-colored guy with beautiful white teeth. The whites of his eyes were just as arresting, the color of arctic tundra. He’d picked Brand up at the airport in a beater, wearing jeans with holes, not the kind that looked like they’d been deliberately made for purposes of fashion. The kind that looked like the result of wear. The jeans complemented a long-sleeve tee showing bits of some message that had once, no doubt, been crisp and colorful.
Brand looked at the car, then looked Dyson over.
“No. Really. You didn’t need to work so hard at trying to impress me.”
Dyson was mildly amused. When they were both in the car and pulling away, he glanced at Brandon and said, “We haven’t been able to hide in a sea of dark suits and white shirts since the sixties. The only way we can stay inconspicuous is to look near-homeless. People don’t ogle folks who are down and out.”
Brandon nodded. “Makes sense.”
Dyson eyed Brandon’s search through the bags.
“Trackable devices.”
“I checked already.” Dyson sounded a tad indignant.
“Good. If we both check and find nothing, then we stand double the chance of being right.”
Dyson seemed to relax with that explanation, hearing that it wasn’t a commentary on his performance or a lack of belief in his competency.
“There’s a room over there.” He nodded toward a back corner. “It’s got a bed, a TV, a refrigerator, microwave. We have you as go-time tomorrow at ten. You’ll need to leave here at nine fifteen to be in position. Here’s your cover.”
He handed Brandon a black windbreaker with the Con Ed emblem on the left breast, where a pocket might be if there was one.
“Thanks.” Brand took the jacket.
“Need anything else?”
Brand looked around. “Food in the fridge?”
“Yeah. More than you can eat.”
“Then no. I’m good.”
“Alrighty then. See you in the a.m.”
Brandon had just polished off two microwavable ham and cheese breakfast biscuits and downed eight ounces of orange juice when he heard one of the warehouse bay doors opening. He glanced at the clock on the microwave. Nine o’clock.
He slipped the Con Ed jacket on. Tucked his toiletries into his dopp kit, zipped the kit up inside his leather bag, and pulled the strap over his shoulder. He looked around the room one more time to be sure he hadn’t left anything. It was force of habit. He’d left a Sig Heuer watch in a hotel room once. Needless to say, it didn’t turn up in lost and found.
Sure. He could afford to buy the Sig Heuer company without even affecting his bank account, but even rich people don’t like to waste money.
When he reached the Con Ed truck, Dyson was standing next to it. “Have a good night?” he asked cheerfully.
“I’ve had worse.”
“No doubt. You need directions?”
Brandon let himself smirk since his back was turned putting his bag into the back next to the Carmichael girl’s. He was as New York as it came and could have found his way around in his sleep.
“No. I studied up.”
“You sure?”
“Positive, but thanks.”
“Okay. The package is in play and on schedule. See you back here,” Dyson looked at his watch, “before ten thirty.
”
Brandon nodded as he opened the van door and settled in behind the wheel.
When Cami Carmichael left her building she spotted the three bodyguards her family had hired to make sure she was delivered safely into the hands of the SSMC. They were dressed randomly, one in a suit, one in jeans and a hoodie, one in athletic wear. One was across the street and two were on either side of the door to her building, spaced a few yards apart. Her gaze deliberately passed over them so that no one would notice that they drew her attention. She went inside the Starbucks that was on the street level of her Boston condo building.
When the barista handed over her cinnamon latte, she said, “Sophie. Can I please go out the back door? My ex is playing at being a stalker.”
“Oh, sure. It’s that way.”
Sophie pointed, but Cami knew the way. She’d checked it out when she and her dad’s people were devising her getaway. It was still dark outside, always helpful when you’re running.
The car was waiting in the alley, just as had been planned. She climbed in the back, deciding that she didn’t much like acting out thriller adventures.
“Good morning, Ms. Carmichael,” the driver said.
“Morning.”
“I’m Raleigh. Let me know if you need anything.”
She looked out the window at the familiar sights of her neighborhood and felt sad to be leaving it behind. What I need is a normal life.
When they reached the corner, they stopped long enough for the guy in the suit to get in.
When he closed the door, he said, “Nice to see you again, Ms. Carmichael.”
She nodded and smiled, but her anxiety was probably evident. She didn’t think she was cut out for clandestine operations.
“Hello, Logan.”
Other than the large shoulder bag, she had no luggage. She and Logan went straight to security at Logan Airport. Normally she would have had them scan her boarding pass from her smart phone, but she’d been told to leave her phone behind.
She sat next to the window in the first row of first class and Logan took the aisle seat. The flight to LaGuardia was just a little over an hour. Just enough time for a Bloody Mary and two reruns of Friends.
When they gave the okay to deplane, Logan stepped into the aisle, which blocked other passengers from exiting before Cami. She hitched her bag up on her shoulder, walked up the jet way and turned toward baggage claim where a car would be waiting at passenger pickup. Halfway up the concourse she stopped at the Ladies room. Logan took up a post leaning against the wall, presumably waiting for the woman he was with.
Inside a handicapped stall, she removed her silk dress and pumps, donned jeans, a ribbed green hoodie, and high top Converse, stuffed her mahogany tresses under a black wig with a severe chin-length cut, and pulled a cream-colored knit hat over that. Her stylish slouch bag was reversible. She turned it inside out so that it was a muted satin stripe instead of burgundy leather. She threw the silk dress and pumps into the waste receptacle and exited the restroom, keeping pace with the fast-moving crowd. Logan didn’t acknowledge her in any way.
A man wearing a black tee and dark slacks with a raspberry scarf had fallen in beside her. She wasn’t alarmed. She’d been told to look for him. All part of the plan that seemed to be working.
So far.
As he escorted her to the exit he said, “My name’s Loomis, Ms. Carmichael. I’ll be accompanying you to the city. Keep your face down and turned toward me as much as you can.”
She nodded as they got into the taxi line. She kept her face averted as he said until they reached their turn at the head of the taxi queue.
“The Park Lane,” he told the driver.
The ride into Manhattan was silent. At least it was silent as soon as she figured out how to turn the volume off the commercial-playing video screen attached to the back of the front seat.
It was an overcast day, the perfect backdrop for a life that had taken a turn for the worse. When the taxi pulled up in front of the Park Lane on 59th, Loomis paid the driver and ushered her inside. He covered their reason for being there by getting a room while she went to the Ladies room off the lobby.
Inside she changed into a silk dress and pumps, and changed the black wig for one that was short auburn. Last, she put on sunglasses and the wide-brimmed black hat that had been rolled up in her bag. She kept the demure clutch, but left everything else inside the big slouch bag and stowed it all under the overhung sinks.
She headed out the Park Lane back door on 58th. The town car was waiting for her as planned, back door already open.
The man who closed her door got into the front passenger seat. He angled his body toward her as they pulled away from the hotel.
“Relax, Ms. Carmichael. Everything is going as planned.”
“Alright,” she said, feeling like the entire sequence of events was a surreal game, more like an out-of-the-body experience than anything. It was an odd, numb feeling and hard to describe. Like being part of reality physically, but not emotionally.
The back windows of the town car were so dark that people outside the car wouldn’t be able to tell if there was a passenger, much less identify a person. So, if she’d been able to get to the car without being followed, she was probably safe. It was still rush hour. Again, that had been part of the plan. It’s hard to be followed in rush hour traffic. Too many taxis playing chicken, squeezing into tight openings between cars.
“Would you like to listen to music, Ms. Carmichael?”
She pulled her attention away from the hypnotic fugue state of watching buildings go by and said, “Whatever you want.”
Loomis turned to a satellite radio station that featured pop soft. She sighed and resumed watching the people crowding the sidewalks, busily going through the motions of heading to work, getting groceries, delivering documents, or whatever else top of the day meant to six million people.
Eventually the town car navigated stop and go until they reached the Park Right located adjacent to the Lincoln Tunnel. They pulled in next to a large sign that said Open Twenty Four Hours and drove to the service door where a van painted to match a Con Ed service vehicle waited.
Loomis opened the back doors of the van before opening the back door of the town car. He, the town car driver, and the Con Ed driver were all three out of their respective vehicles scanning the surroundings for any sign that they were being observed. Cami got out of the car and into the back of the van, where she sat on the rubber mat covering the floor. She was pretty sure it was covered in a millimeter of dust and grease in equal parts.
“Looks clear to me,” Loomis told Brandon.
Brand nodded.
“Let your boss know we’re on schedule and I’ve got it from here.”
For a second she deliberated whether staying alive was really worth the discomfort and humiliation of being jostled in the back of a dirty van like a used appliance on the way to the dump.
Brand took the tunnel under the river and drove to Newark without seeing his passenger or speaking a word to her. When he arrived back at the warehouse, he used the remote on the visor to open the bay door. Dyson was waiting, looking pleased that things were going according to plan.
Since Brand had left, they’d turned a section of the warehouse into a mini salon on call with bright lights on tripods, a chair with hydraulics, rolling stands and fancy sprayers attached to the sink.
He turned off the engine and got out. Dyson had already opened the van doors and helped the package out. That was the first time that Brand got a look at Cami. She’d pulled off her hat, sunglasses, and wig in the van. She looked over at him before she headed for the salon chair and his breath almost froze in his lungs.
She had the most unusual violet-colored eyes he’d ever seen and a heart-shaped face surrounded by long mahogany hair so glossy it looked like she was getting ready to do a TV commercial. Brandon knew that it would be a crime to do a radical make-over of a creature as perfect as Camden Carmichael. But it had to be done.
>
He moved her luggage into the green Chevy Tahoe they’d be taking for the first leg of their journey, then settled into a corner of the warehouse that was outfitted like a makeshift lounge with coffee, couches, and magazines. Repeatedly he tried to find interest in one of the articles, but his curiosity kept pulling his gaze over to the salon.
The stylist cut away a full twelve inches of dark shiny hair, then bleached the tips so that, instead of looking like a society babe, Cami looked more like a rock chick. A little tough. A little hip. And a lot of f.u.
The whole process took almost two hours. When it was over, her eyes were still arresting, but they looked different with smoky eye makeup and blond-tipped pixie hair.
Brandon had to give her credit. If she was attached to her former look, she didn’t let on. She stoically walked to the restroom, put on a thin cotton tee, jeans torn at one knee, and a plain gray cotton hoodie. The pumps she’d worn into the warehouse were replaced with boots that could have functioned equally well for hiking or combat.
She thanked the stylist, walked to the van and climbed into the front seat. As Brandon slid in on the driver’s side, she looked at him, really seeing him for the first time, and thought she saw something vaguely familiar. Deciding that she’d probably seen a model who resembled him on a store poster, she turned toward the front seeming resigned to whatever was coming next. She still hadn’t spoken a word to Brand, nor he to her.
“You have a cell phone on you?” She shook her head. “Okay. Put your head down between your knees. I’ll let you know when I’m sure we weren’t followed.”
She gave him a withering look, but complied, putting her head down, presumably so that she wouldn’t be seen while he pulled out of the bay doors on the other side of the building.
She was thinking this last humiliation was a bit of overkill because, post make-over, her own mother wouldn’t recognize her. Not that her mother had looked at her closely for years.
She remained in that position for almost twenty minutes while they sped south on the interstate. After they turned onto Highway One, he said, “You can sit up.”
The Biker's Brother (Sons of Sanctuary MC Book 2) Page 2
