“Holy hell, you were serious?” His head snapped toward her. She was shimmying into a pair of pants.
“Well, yeah.” She gathered the gown from the hem and pulled it off over her head. A plume of shimmery white material floated toward him. He swatted it back toward the passenger seat. He missed all but the briefest flash of breast as she pulled down a black t-shirt and tucked it into her black jeans. She dove between them and grabbed the huge purse she’d deposited there earlier. She pulled the boots out and plopped them onto the floorboard. The high heel shoes went in seconds before she started cramming the gown into the satchel.
“What is this? A scene from some type of grown-up, contract killer, Mary Poppins rip-off? Is that bag bottomless?” Dixon pushed the white fabric, that somehow had escaped her efforts to plunge it into the deepest recesses of the never-ending suitcase, off the center console towards her.
“Oh crap, I loved that movie. Julie Andrews was badass in that one. She didn’t take shit from anyone, and she was connected, you know. Like she was my O.G., Original Gangsta.” Joy spoke to the floorboard because she was bent in half putting her boots on.
“Only you would equate a British nanny to a gangster.” Dixon slowed to wait for the light to change. He glanced at the dashboard. It wasn’t even ten o’clock and fuck him if he didn’t feel like he’d run a marathon today.
“Yeah? Really?” She popped up and blinked at him with a sincerity he didn’t think she could fake.
He laughed. “Honestly. I kinda like the way your brain works.”
Dixon was rewarded with a wide smile. “Well, Quick Draw, I kinda like the way your things operate, too.” She pointed toward a building on the right. “Stop here.”
Dixon pulled over as she gathered her purse and checked around her. “Ah ha!” She grabbed a folded piece of paper, which he assumed was what she’d taken from the gallery, and crammed it into the pocket of her pants.
“What were you working on tonight? A contract?” His words stalled her exit.
Her brows furrowed in that now familiar way, telling him he’d confused her. “Did I kill anyone?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” He half laughed that comment.
She pulled the purse into her lap. “Then I obviously wasn’t working a contract.” She snapped her head up. “I have skills in other areas.”
Something about her tone demanded he acknowledge her comment. That specific declaration seemed important to her. “I have no doubt. I’m sure I’ve only glimpsed half the skills you possess.”
She kept their gazes locked and searched his expression as if looking for any indication he’d been less than serious. Finally, she nodded. “Okay.” She opened the door and jumped out, throwing her mink over her shoulders. “See you.” She shut the door and started down the street.
Dixon put the car into drive and moved forward, lowering a window and calling out, “Don’t be a stranger.”
She laughed and flipped him off. “I am a stranger. Keep driving, sexy. You ain’t getting none of this tonight.” She turned and walked the opposite direction, going back toward where they’d started.
Dixon shook his head and took his foot off the brake. His stomach growled in protest, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The human refuse he’d dealt with at lunch had killed his appetite. He headed back to his neighborhood and called in a take-out order from his father’s pub. The bartender delivered it curbside along with a bottle of Maker’s Mark.
The Philly cheese steak smelled amazing. Dixon grabbed a handful of seasoned fries and munched on them on his way back to his apartment. He’d give anything to talk to Drake right about now. His mind was spinning. Between his fucked-up sperm donor, the work he’d done, the things he’d seen today, and his totally unexpected experiences with Joy this evening, his brain was pegged in the red zone. Checking the parking area, he grabbed another couple fries and popped them into his mouth. A couple argued as they passed by on the sidewalk. A car horn honked ahead of him and he watched as the animated couple made their way to the hybrid. His eyes followed them as they got in and pulled away.
What would it be like to have that…well, not necessarily that—although there was angry sex and make up sex to think about—but what would it be like to have a lover you could talk with, argue with…make up with. He’d been a serial dater. The only constants in his life were Drake and Guardian, and the latter had separated him from the former. Which sucked on par with the supermassive black hole at the center of the universe and that was a cosmic fuck-ton of suckage.
With one final glance around the area, he locked up his vehicle and headed back to his apartment. Dixon opened the lock and turned on the lights. He dropped the food and whiskey onto the high granite counter that divided the small kitchen area from the living room and grabbed the television remote. He lifted it, pointed it over his shoulder and while he pulled his sandwich out, he hit the power button. Dropping the remote, he pulled his automatic out of its holster at the small of his back, set it beside his sandwich and pulled out a stool. Swiveling so he could see the screen, he flicked through channels before he landed on the one where the local news would come on in…ten minutes.
He took his tux jacket off and draped it over the chair. Just as he’d done earlier, he walked his apartment and swept it to make sure Joy's little visit hadn't deposited any electronic devices. Once again, he found nothing.
He rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt and sat down on the stool at the kitchen bar. Dixon took a huge bite of the cheesy steak goodness and reached out for his computer. He called up the sports page and several other pages before accessing the benign link at the side of the web page. He waited for the fantasy football app to queue up and pulled up his league. He glanced at the personal message board and watched as someone typed a message. Fuck, Guardian had been waiting for him to log on. He checked this emergency board once a night. His jaw froze, and he swallowed the bite before he read the words couched in sports vernacular for a second time.
>Trade request: Drake for Fury vs Morales.
The food he’d just swallowed threatened to come back up. He leaned forward and tried to suck air into his lungs. If he understood the message properly, Drake had been killed—as far as anyone other than Guardian knew. Trade Drake for Fury versus Morales. Some years ago, the assassin “Fury” had appeared to have died during an op gone bad. It allowed him to have his life back as Joseph King. If Guardian had “killed” his brother, there existed a direct, credible threat against Drake, but from whom? Guardian had removed a valuable asset from their arsenal. Whoever they were, Guardian considered them lethal and remorseless, and he wasn’t there to watch Drake’s six. The danger inherent to their job was always a reality; sometimes it was more real than others. His hand shook, making hitting the right letters on the electronic keyboard difficult.
>Trade accepted.
He typed the words before he carefully backspaced, removing all traces of his response. The message on the board disappeared before the blinking cursor typed a single word.
>Fire.
Dixon stared at the blinking cursor for several long minutes. No, he wasn’t going to tuck tail and ask to be pulled out. Fuck, he was working in a vacuum here. He carefully tapped out the response.
Fight.
If he needed to be pulled out, he would have typed, “Fly”. He deleted his response and watched the original message disappear.
<3
The image appeared briefly before being erased. Jewell. She was an amazing person, and he loved her like the sister she’d become to him. Still…what the fuck was going on?
He sat watching the message board for several minutes. When nothing else came up, he updated his fantasy team, replacing a defense that was on a bye week, and logged out. The forum was real. They had dummy bot accounts logging in and running the other teams. He futzed around with his team because the competitor in him didn’t want to have a fucked up showing against a computer program. He closed out his browser a
nd left the history intact.
Jewell had blessed the communication and routed herself through so many wickets she swore nobody could ever know it was her posting in the group. Dixon trusted her. She knew more about tech than almost anyone on the planet. The odds of her being right were always in his favor, so she was a safe bet.
His appetite suddenly gone, he rolled the sandwich up in the foil it came in and tossed it into the garbage. He grabbed his gun and the television remote and transferred his ass to the recliner in the front room. A flick of his finger muted the station and allowed him a brief respite from the overload of high-volume commercials.
So…Guardian would leak reports Drake was dead. Dixon steeled himself for the gut punch his fucking father would no doubt land. Though no one else could know, as long as he knew Drake was alive, his father’s response didn’t matter. He’d have to be fucking careful to craft his emotional response correctly. Too much or too little and his father’s always hyper-active suspicion would destroy all the trust he’d tried to build in the last few months. How to react? He was supposed to be estranged from his brother, but they had had a lifetime of experiences.
The flash of a red ‘breaking news’ banner crossed the screen. He lifted the remote and unmuted the television.
“Initial reports say the westbound car crossed the median and drove straight into Senator Waxman’s hired town car. The senator had reportedly just concluded a personal appearance on the Upper West Side. We have been informed the driver of the other vehicle was pronounced dead at the scene. However, hospital officials are not releasing any information about the driver of that car or occupants of the senator’s vehicle at this time. Stay tuned as details develop.”
Dixon stared at the smiling photograph of Senator Waxman that flashed up on the news backdrop. He’d stood not five feet from that man this evening. He leaned forward when the recorded video of the accident site filled the screen. The detritus of the wreck had shut down all traffic. His eyes scrutinized the vehicle that had taken out the senator’s car. The mangled piece of metal had formerly been a small SUV. Police officers could be seen scouring the wreckage.
The anchor cleared for a commercial and Dixon hit the mute button. He dropped his head back on the soft suede of the recliner. His mind automatically tracked to Joy. He’d dropped her only a few blocks from the gallery and very near the crash site. He closed his eyes and reconstructed every detail of the wreckage in his mind. A breeze of dread swirled over him. She hadn’t been scoping out a contract tonight. She’d been at the art gallery for whatever was on that paper. He leaned forward and dropped his head between his shoulders. She couldn’t have been the driver of the SUV. Life couldn’t be that fucking cruel. Didn’t he deserve the small portion of lightness his private moments with Joy brought into the shitstorm that was currently his life? He lifted his eyes and looked at the television. Probably not.
Chapter 7
“What are our people telling us?”
“Massive trauma from the impact. He’s brain-dead. His parents and his wife are at the hospital. Doctors are recommending life support be terminated.” Her assistant clipped the report out at an efficient and professional pace as they walked through vacant, pristine halls.
“Our operative?” She glanced down at the shorter man as he walked beside her.
“She requested her family be taken care of.”
“And?”
“It will be done.”
“The Governor?”
“Will be appointing our man after a respectful period of time.”
“We have reins on the new appointee?”
When there wasn’t an immediate answer, she stopped walking and peered down at the man. His forehead scrunched, and his face looked as if he’d eaten something particularly distasteful.
“What is it?” She drawled. She’d done the background. She knew what a foul piece of putrid waste Simmons was, but he was a perfect veneer, and he had failsafe measures in place to ensure no one but the most aggressive could trace him to any criminal activity.
“Honestly, ma’am, I’m not sure. He is insulated. From the reports, he seems to fall in line, but…”
And this is why this little curmudgeon of a man had become her trusted assistant. “I agree, hence the stay of execution on his heir. We have almost two months to ensure our agenda is completed.
“And if that doesn’t happen?”
She lifted a solitary eyebrow at him.
“My apologies, ma’am. In my zealousness to protect our goals, I overstepped.” He bowed slightly as he spoke to curtail her growing ire.
There was always an alternate route and an escape mechanism. Cutting losses in this instance, however, would set their agenda back years. The alternate route, while risky, might have benefits that complemented the expediency they desired.
She turned and continued down the Carrera marble floor toward her office as her assistant fell into step beside her. She had moved her pawn, and it was the world’s turn to respond. They would observe, learn, evaluate and consider all information before the next move in this particular game would occur. Now that they'd recovered the wealth and position lost by the women who’d previously held their position, exhuming the multiple tentacles of Stratus from the faded past would serve them well. Witnessing the rebirth and growth of Stratus had become addictive.
“Operator Two-seven-four.”
“Sunset clearance, zero operative.”
“Standby, zero operative.”
“Archangel.”
“Asset is still in play.”
“Have you made contact?”
“Briefly. I believe he is…managing.”
“I may need to pull you. Another can fill in.”
“I don’t recommend that.”
“Substantiate.”
“Gut instinct. I’m here. You’re not.”
“…I’ll juggle other assets to keep you there…for now.”
“He’s no longer on the street.”
“Watch him closely. I don’t need to tell you this is where shit could go south.”
“No doubt. I’m lurking.”
“Check in as scheduled unless something happens I need to know about.”
“Of course.”
“Did you see the news last night?”
Dixon glanced up at Smith, who stood in the doorway to his office at The Residence. For a big guy, he was awfully quiet. The bespoke suit he wore somehow hung wrong, as if his body was rejecting a transplant. “You mean the Senator’s accident?”
Smith cocked his head as if confused.
“It was all over the media. They had special coverage. I turned it off at midnight. Why, what did I miss?” Dixon pushed his chair back and stood up, stretching his arms to the ceiling. His weapon gouged into his back, and he shifted to alleviate the pressure.
Smith leaned against the door and once again studied his shoes. “They’re both dead.”
Dixon snapped his eyes up to the big guy. “Who? The Senator?” At last report the man was in critical condition, so the news wasn't totally unexpected.
“No, the people in the photographs.”
Dixon’s knees went weak, and his ass planted into his chair. “What?” He didn’t need to ask, he knew. He fucking knew his father had both people murdered because he wouldn’t make a choice. He went cold.
“Choose one.”
“That one, sir.” Dixon pointed to one of the puppies his father had brought down to the place where he lived. His father called it his training room. Dixon thought the windowless cell scary and lonely, but he’d never admit it.
“This one? Are you sure?” His father reached down and picked up the black furry puppy and stroked its head.
“Yes, sir. He’s the one.” He was so excited. A puppy. He could play with it and teach it to do tricks and love it. He wouldn’t be lonely anymore.
The echoes of the puppy’s last whimper, as his father broke its neck, rang like a solemn knell through his memory. How could I ha
ve forgotten? Jeremiah said blocking memories was a defense mechanism. Defense mechanism...as if there was any defense against the engulfing evil of his father.
He glanced up at Smith. “Because of me.”
Smith glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room without responding. He stepped backward and glanced down the hall. “He wants to see you.” The man turned on his heel and headed out of The Residence.
Dixon dropped his head into his hands and gulped air, pulling himself together, quickly. He was the stronger man; he knew it, and soon enough that motherfucker would know it too. He needed out. Out of the house. Out of his thoughts before he lost it and put a gun to that bastard’s head. He stood and grabbed his jacket, fastening the middle button.
He stopped at the closed set of double doors and rolled his shoulders, trying to cloak his rage with normalcy. He knocked and waited for his father to bid him, “Come in.”
“You wanted to see me?” He fucking tried to hide his anger, but of course, his father sensed his emotional turmoil.
“Your weaknesses will not taint me.”
Dixon didn’t even flinch at the words, and his father laughed. “You’ve forgotten so many lessons, but I’m feeling lenient today. I’ve received two pieces of excellent news, and I’m debating how to inform you of my joyous tidings…” His father chuckled and shook his head.
Dixon kept his mouth shut. Asking a question was beyond him at the moment. He needed out of this office before he drew his weapon and put the barrel to the motherfucker's head and pulled the trigger. He was hanging on to his pledge to Jason King by his bloodied fingernails.
“To hell with it, I’m in such a good mood, I’ll just tell you. Your waste of a twin was killed two days ago. DNA has been confirmed.”
Dixon blinked back his rage. His hands tightened at his sides, folding into shaking fists. “How did he die?”
“Ha, get this, someone blew his ass up along with some whore.” His father threw back his head and laughed.
“Where?” Dixon swallowed hard, the deaths of the two people in the photograph still fresh in his mind.
Dixon Page 6
