Original Justice (Justice Brothers Book 4)

by Suzanne Halliday

  “And there you go,” Parker jeered. “One of the room’s elephants joins the party. Why the hell not?”

  He sneered at the perceptive comment. Elephant, indeed.

  “I picked up some intel. Very quiet. Murmuring at this point but there’s no question now. Polaris is ghosting around the Middle East. Highest bidder stuff.”

  “Jesus. Could this guy be any more dangerous? Blood money is a step over the line.”

  “He’ll come for us. For me. At some point.”

  Parker nodded, pulled his earlobe, and then rubbed his chin. He went someplace in his thoughts for a moment and then adopted Alex’s table leaning posture. The noise surrounding them acted as a shield, but they still spoke in low murmurs.

  “I put him on the list. If he gets scooped up and we have him, I’ll hear about it. And I’ve got someone monitoring the black sites. Analyst stuff—it’s what we do now so nobody notices.”

  Alex growled. “You know I really fucking resent that it’s this dickbag rocking the boat. He’s forcing my hand and making me do shit that’ll be hard to extricate myself from if it ever goes south.”

  “Welcome to the fucking club, pal. The deeper Washington sucks me in, the scarier it gets. Word is that the gang of pocket protector shits running the NSA has a hard-on for you, man. Watch your back.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck them. They can’t have it both ways. If it’s my brain they want, then maybe sticking my ass in the middle of a fucking war and then forcing a command on me that I didn’t want wasn’t such a good idea. I fixed their simple-minded high school computer club system, and what’d they do for me?”

  Parker scowled. “You’ve made some enemies. That fucknut general from the Pentagon, for one.”

  “Oh, cut me a break. He needs to grow a pair. That idiot didn’t know how to use his cell phone. All I did was point out that their so-called secret technology task force was run by old white guys who can’t program a DVR. These assholes we’re fighting are exploiting our systems. Global reach and easy information make it easy to hide. It’s not my fault that Washington is so out of touch.”

  “Yeah, well, he wants your balls in a jar on his desk.”

  “Whatever.” Pfft. “The Rolling Stones, man. Ya can’t always—”

  “Get what you want,” Parker finished. His sly smile and smirk reminded Alex of their hell-raising high school days.

  “Don’t worry,” he muttered. “I know how this works. Times have changed. Cyber and technology threats are the new wars. Battlefields are changing. We all knew what we were signing on for. This shit is for life. Even after we’re all back in the world, they can come calling.”

  “No joke,” Parker muttered.

  Alex sat back and finished the last mouthful of whiskey in his glass. “Buzzkill,” he drawled.

  “On the money,” his friend replied. “So change of subject. Tell me what you have planned for this evening. Is this a date? Should I bring flowers?”

  Alex had a good laugh. “Sinjin would love that. Do it, and I’ll kill you both because you know he’d view flowers as competition.”

  “And you know damn well that spoiled pussy could make Sawyer a rich man for loading your base office with bouquets!” Parker rocked back in his chair and slapped his thigh as laughter rang out.

  Alex spelled out the evening’s agenda. “It’s your basic Justice revelry. We meet up at the club around seven. Sawyer hooked us up. It’s a hole right out of the movies. One of those anything goes places. Should be interesting.”

  “Hey.” Parker sniggered. “Do you think there’s a place like the BJ Bungalow for the ladies?”

  “What the fuck brought that on?” Alex boomed with laughter.

  Parker shrugged. “I don’t know. I was just thinking—or the whiskey was just thinking—that Domineau must find this place pretty sexist. Unless, of course, clit ticklers are available.”

  “I wouldn’t say those words where she can hear you,” he warned his friend. “She’s one of the team. One of the guys. Period. She will roast your dick on a spit for lunch if you make it personal.”

  “Ouch, but I hear you. And I really wasn’t trying to be a dick about it. It’s a real question. What does she do to stop the noise? Besides kill people.”

  “I have no fucking idea,” he admitted. “But if she wanted me to know, I would. That tells me Domineau Rivera is not interested in my shit or in sharing her shit.”

  “She’s a cold-blooded motherfucker. That doesn’t just happen. The woman has to have some sort of dark and serious shit in her past.”

  “Well,” he drawled. “I don’t know about her past, but I do know she rides with some serious folks. There’s a CIA umbrella over her that’s hard to miss. And the paramilitary contractors avert their eyes when she walks by.”

  Parker chuckled. “Yeah, I know. I think they named a deep freezer at Langley after her.” Alex thought the snide remark was oddly funny.

  “Did she actually put a pistol to Al-Awadi’s forehead and threaten to blow his brains out?” Parker chomped on a hunk of ice and waited for Alex to answer.

  He shuddered at the memory and chuckled at the same time. “Yes, she did. And I gotta tell you—that was one of my finest command moments. I was tapping a pencil on the desk when she stood and pulled her gun out, and swear to god, I never missed a beat. I know Domineau. She wasn’t going to shoot him, but the prince didn’t know that. He’ll think twice before being that big a dumbass ever again.”

  They sat in silence for a while, and then Alex commented. “This must be weird for you. The double life, I mean. Don’t you have some fawning law clerk girlfriend wondering what the fuck you do?”

  Parker ducked his head and studied the floor. Alex found the reaction odd but wasn’t that why he asked the question in the first place.

  “Yeah, um, no. I’m starting to hate Washington. I’m stuck for now but for real, man. Some days, I just wanna pack it in and forget all about this shit.”

  “My dad wants me to run the vineyard and winery with him.” Alex blurted out the admission and let it hang in the air.

  “Holy shit. Are you considering it?”

  Alex shrugged. “No. And he knows it, but he asked anyway. When all this ends,” he said with a dismissive wave, “I’m going home. To Arizona. Fuck the world, man. A couple of tours in a war zone and you stop being housebroken or socially agreeable. I wanna be left alone.”

  “Ever think about a family of your own?”

  He looked at Parker like he was nuts. “Not anymore. Too much blood in the river and bodies floating downstream, ya know? Every time I have to write one of those deceased soldier letters, a piece of my sanity peels away. I hear Uncle Ed in my head. Some sins can’t be redeemed.” He shuddered.

  “Nothing like a priest in the family to kill the mood.”

  “What about you? I’m pretty sure Uncle Matt and Aunt Wendy are starting the grandchild chant. Am I right?”

  “They’re gonna be waiting a long time then.”

  Parker’s voice held a touch of regret that struck Alex as out of sync with the comment. He wondered what his friend was covering for—or at least trying not to say.

  Checking his watch, he grinned and pulled out his wallet to settle their bill. “Time to party on, man.”

  “You mean it’s time to unleash the wild rumpus?” Parker laughed a they both stood. He touched his chest and pockets as if he was taking inventory. “Okay. Got my ID and bail money if we need it. Let’s do this.”

  “Something tells me tonight is gonna be big.” Alex nodded as they walked out of the bar. “Look”—he pointed at the sky—“full moon, right?”

  Parker laughed. “Nah, that’s just Bangkok, man. Every fucking night here is a full moon.”

  His friend was right—which was exactly why the team chose it to begin with.

  4

  The fuckery was in full swing when they got to the club. He shoulda been better prepared. Of course, they’d assemble early.

  Alex
realized he was stepping into a shit storm the minute they walked through the door. People yelling, clapping, and laughing crowded the dingy club. In essence, a free-for-all was in progress.

  And who the fuck was right in the middle of this free-for-all? Jason Cameron, of course. Why not?

  With Parker chuckling behind him, Alex grunted as he marched up to the table where some of his laughing hyenas held court. After he had kicked a chair to announce his presence, they turned from the spectacle in the middle of the room. Realizing he was in their midst, they immediately jumped to attention.

  It was almost funny. Almost

  “What the hell is going on? Why isn't anybody stopping this?”

  Domineau was the first to break rank and smirk. “He said he was warming up the crowd. Who are we to stop him?”

  A collection of loud groans filled the air. He craned his neck to see what was happening. Ah, Jesus. It was Jason doing his fight club thing. A nearly empty bottle of Macallan on the table told Alex he was way too late to get control over his gang.

  Drae saw where he glanced and offered a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Major. That was me. I brought Cuban cigars and a bottle of ’79. We shoulda waited for you, but you know how it is.”

  Rafe tried to make it better, but he quickly shut up when Alex glared at him.

  “Go stop it. Now,” he barked. Rafe nodded sharply and turned toward the melee.

  Alex put a hand over his eyes and squeezed his temples. Roman walked up to the table, oblivious to the fact he was there. He was chuckling and counting out a handful of paper money.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. They were taking bets? Really? He had to get control of this before the police stepped in.

  Time wasn’t on his side, though. A loud roar of approval rose when Rafe in all his beefy glory stepped into the fight space. Shit. Things immediately went supersonic.

  A very drunk Cam threw punches at Rafe, who easily batted away the attempts. They were ridiculously mismatched. The brick wall they called Muscle had five inches and many pounds of pure brawn over Cam.

  Parker got involved and was having a great time egging everyone on. The fucker. He also had a pocket 35 mm camera and was giddily taking pictures of the slugfest.

  Before long, they were at the edge of the crowd that was energetically cheering on the brawl.

  Drae stepped into the fray to try to stop the fracas, but Cam coldcocked him with one punch and put him on the ground. Parker laughing his ass off and Domineau with her arms in the air like a touchdown was scored made the whole scene a cartoon.

  Cam landed a few, but Rafe was a fucking machine. The bald slab of muscle barely flinched from each hit. Alex could see Cam becoming frustrated. It didn’t matter that he knew Rafe. That wasn’t the point. When he was in the zone—and lubed with booze—it was the process, not the product. He needed to fight his way out of the bullshit in his head, and Rafe denied him the chance.

  “Boys will be boys, huh?” Roman looked at Alex with a fake frown on his face. Nice try.

  Alex turned to look at Roman and arched the appropriate brow to let him know what he thought.

  Two guys dragged a groggy Drae to the table and dumped him on the floor. He slowly sat up, wobbling on his ass, and rubbed the side of his face.

  “Popeye, Popeye, Popeye,” the crowd chanted.

  In the center of things stood a grinning Rafe with one arm outstretched. His palm rested against Cam’s forehead.

  Cam was dug in and trying to land a punch, but Rafe’s reach and the slanted angle of Cam’s stance made for a cartoonish moment. His arms swung wildly with veins popping from his neck as he pushed against Rafe’s hand in a ridiculous scene.

  “Way to go, Brutus,” Roman bellowed.

  Alex saw Parker in the midst of the melee, laughing his ass off and taking pictures.

  Finally, the club’s people stepped in and threw water on the men, stopping the fight amidst disappointed groans. Money changed hands. Where the hell was Bishop? Alex squinted into the crowd and found him collecting his winnings.

  Rafe marched to the table with a half-conscious Cam draped over his shoulder. He lowered him none too gently into a chair, arranged the limp guy’s arms on the table, and guided his head down.

  Sawyer magically appeared a half an hour later. By then, everyone was in a post-fight funk. Alex still wanted to smack all their dumb asses, but he got over it pretty quickly.

  “I come bearing gift bags for you ladies,” Sawyer announced. “Just a little something to remember the occasion.”

  Domineau tore a bag from Sawyer’s hand and leaned close enough to say something. They both laughed and then looked straight at him.

  When Alex dumped his bag on the table, his bark of laughter rang out. Fucking Sawyer!

  A small dashboard hula girl was the first thing to catch Alex’s eye. He remembered fucking with the guy about hula dancers as entertainment. The wiggly ballerina with the coconut bra and grass skirt was the perfect souvenir.

  He turned to Sawyer and offered a salute.

  The rest of the bag contained random shit. A few Bangkok postcards—already stamped for easy use. A couple of condoms. Hand sanitizer. Two chocolate bars. A list of tourist attractions on a handy, laminated card. A voucher for dinner at Siam Sam’s.

  Alex’s favorite thing, though, was the airplane-size bottle of Glenfiddich. He cracked the cap on his and downed it in one gulp. Sawyer was watching him and laughed. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a ziplock bag full of the small bottles.

  “For clearer vision.” He smirked as he dumped the bag in Alex’s lap.

  “What the fuck is this?” a fierce voice growled.

  Alex searched for the source and found Domineau wearing an expression that made him drop a protective hand into his lap. He liked his balls where they were.

  Sawyer stepped up to Domineau with a dumbass smirk. Alex squinted to see what had Domineau’s shorts in a knot. She was holding something up.

  “You don’t like it?” Sawyer asked. “Shit. Got that special for you, honey. Shopkeeper swore all the ladies like that perfume.”

  Rafe immediately started laughing in a way that got a few double takes. Alex watched the scene unfold with interest. Cam’s head bobbled as he began to join the land of the living. Parker’s jaw was on the floor. Drae had his hand over his mouth—probably from laughter. Beside him, Roman muttered, “Uh-oh.”

  Suddenly, Domineau grabbed Sawyer by the front of his shirt and pulled him in. With her other hand, she put the perfume bottle to her mouth, pried off the cap with her teeth and spit it out. Then she took hold of Sawyer’s belt, yanked really hard, and upended the perfume into his pants.

  After that, there wasn’t enough alcohol to stop the laughter.

  The brainstorming session at their table was fucking fascinating. With a thoughtful grunt, Roman interjected his thoughts in the conversation. “I don’t know, man. All that’s well and good, but franchises are an iffy business.”

  Cam nodded. “You’re probably right. If one fucks up, they can take the whole chain down. No control.”

  Alex puffed on a fat cigar and watched them, wearing a thoughtful expression. Around his head, a cloud of smoke swirled like a thought bubble. He sat forward, stopped smoking, wiped something off the tip of his tongue, and then stabbed at the paper placemat with a beefy finger.

  “No control equals no deal. We need an original idea—not this shit.”

  Domineau pulled a chair closer and propped her legs on it like an ottoman. “I work alone.” She said it as a statement that sounded more like a challenge.

  Drae put his cigar down and picked up a pen. “We need a way to make money—lots of it—while maintaining control and working alone.”

  “Car dealership,” Parker called out.

  Anything capable of being rolled and thrown was tossed at his head. Roman shot a wadded up wet napkin at him.

  “Sex club,” Sawyer muttered. “There’s a shit ton of ‘em here. Make mountains of cash.�
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  Roman’s curiosity woke up. After considering the man’s suggestion, he went for it. “Seriously?”

  “Oh, fuck yeah. I can arrange a field trip to one if you’re interested.”

  Rafe chomped on the end of his cigar. “Sleazy Thailand sex clubs don’t translate well—if you know what I mean. Attract the wrong sort at home. The mob and shit like that. Team Justice needs a new focus.”

  “Why?” Cam asked.

  Alex nodded while looking at the taciturn loner, and Roman thought, Why indeed?

  Cam continued. “Wouldn’t it be easier to do what we do, but just do it in a way that makes us rich? And I’m not talking any of that hired gun shit.”

  “What are you talking?” Drae asked.

  “Well, let’s see,” Cam murmured. “Roman can get information out of a used snot rag. Domineau does impossible mission crap better than anything Tom Cruise dreams up.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Rafe, the obnoxious fucker,” Cam growled with a deliberate waving of his middle finger, “looks like an ad for Bodyguards-R-Us. Drae is the resident ninja. Sawyer? You don’t count.”

  Roman chuckled when Sawyer pretended to cry.

  “Sullivan is the Justice consigliere, and Alex is the tactician. The brains.”

  “What do you bring? Besides a decent right hook?” Domineau asked.

  “I find Waldo and make people nervous with my sparkling wit and warm personality,” he answered dryly.

  Roman nodded. “Truth.”

  Parker spoke up. “I don’t know, guys. Sounds to me from what you’re saying that you want to keep this dysfunctional squad together—somehow—and keep on doing what you’re doing. Do I have that right? If that’s what you’re thinking, why not private security? Shit, since 9-11, all anyone thinks about is safety and security.”

  A group of fully drunk Brits wearing Union Jack t-shirts sidled by—bumping into everything in their path. They pointed at Cam and laughed. “Popeye, ahahaa!” A club hostess who was probably taking the dumb shlubs for their every penny had the balls to run a hand across Rafe’s bald head. When she cooed, “Brutus,” the Englishmen howled with laughter.