Chapter 21 #2
“I thought as much,” Kurt says. “For your security contractor role, if I’m not mistaken.”
I never told him about that. It’s part of my cover, but the only person who’s supposed to know is sitting next to me, staring at Kurt in surprise.
She didn’t tell him. He’s looking smug.
He wanted me aware he’s been digging.
“Exactly that,” I say, nonplussed.
Ah, we all have secrets, but my cover is solid. It’s Kurt’s hidden goals that interest me.
What is in that vault that’s so damn important to him?
I take an Uber home alone, doing my best to ignore the hurt look in Raven’s eyes.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and we need the space. She needs the space. I need her.
I also need the privacy to pull the dresser aside, lift up my loose floorboard, and retrieve my burner phone. I grimace at the number of messages that start coming through, don’t bother reading any of them, and dial Mercer’s number.
She picks up immediately. “Where the fuck have you been?”
“I got shot. Apologies if my almost-death is an inconvenience.”
“You’re alive, though. That doesn’t stop you responding.”
“It does when I’m not here. I’m fine now, thank you for the sympathy.”
She mutters something I don’t catch. “Why didn’t you keep our scheduled call?”
“Because I’m undercover,” I say slowly, emphasizing the words. “It means—”
“Fuck you, Maddox. That isn’t good enough, and you know it.” She’s breathing hard down the line. “We’re talking a bank job, a jewelry store smash-and-grab, a security guard with a concussion, and a lot of unanswered questions. You won’t believe the pressure I’m under, and you’re giving me nothing.”
“I have confirmation of the next job.”
That stops her. For almost five seconds. “And Renner’s contractor?”
“Confirmation there is one, but I’m not sure yet—”
“Confirmation?” she snaps. “You already assured me that the contractor existed!”
Oops. I might’ve at that. I’m getting sloppy, and I know why.
Raven. Distracting me.
“Now I’m assuring you again.”
“This Wednesday evening. Eight o’clock. We need to meet, face-to-face.”
I can’t help my sigh. “I have a gunshot wound, Mercer. I’m not riding anywhere, and I don’t even have my bike right now.”
“Fine, then I’ll come to you. Make sure you’re in, Hale.”
“I’m undercover, for fuck’s—” But I’m speaking to a dead line.
Damn it. That woman is the most infuriating one I know.
I chuckle to myself. That may not be entirely true.
At least the Wednesday commitment is an excuse that keeps me from seeing Raven. I can’t afford more distractions, not when I have to balance my job, and I need the time to think.
It gives me three days. I spend some of it researching Meridian Pacific through my FBI access, and some of it in the gym, working mostly on my upper body, being careful of my side. A little on my legs, as much as my thigh will bear.
I also order new leathers. The same Dainese jacket again, as mine has a bullet hole in it. More pants, two pairs this time. Off the shelf, fortunately, and they turn up within a day.
The rest of my time is filled with thoughts of Raven. I can see her so clearly, especially her looks of disapproval every time I pull my thigh and wince. It’s like she’s standing right next to me, not just in my head.
She texts, from time to time. Asking if I’m all right.
Telling me she secured my bike to her anchor.
Letting me know my front brake pad only has a few hundred miles left.
Apparently, I owe her a new mattress for bleeding too much on the old one.
Every message she sends makes me smile, and I text her back, making hellcat references and occasionally dropping in the odd comment about being willing and the tastiness of my ass.
Picturing her blush so perfectly, and chuckling to myself.
Late Tuesday night, her text is more pointed. Are you up to full strength yet?
I know exactly what that means. My little hellcat is pining, as I want her to be.
For a ride you mean? I hit send on that innuendo and wait.
The three dots of typing come along the bottom of my screen, disappear, come back, disappear.
You’re the worst, asshole.
You can’t judge until you’ve licked it.
She sends me a middle finger emoji, and I chuckle. Tormenting her is as much fun as I’ve had in… hell, years.
What does that say about my life, my job?
Wednesday, I’m marking time. Spend an hour at the gym. Make sure my apartment is clear. Go over my research on Meridian Pacific again. I’m not looking forward to Mercer’s visit, but I have my plan ready—for that, at least.
As to the rest of it, I still haven’t decided what the hell I’m doing, or how the hell I’m going to do it.
There is no way I can see of taking down the rest of the crew while keeping Raven out of prison. And even if I do, and she finds out what I’ve done, she’ll never forgive me.
I know I’m slipping. The signs are everywhere. It’s not even just Raven anymore—although she’s the influence on everything, the lens through which I now see the world.
Like Steven, the doctor working illegally, who’s trying to get by after whatever mischance led him to losing his license. He was competent, professional, and kind. No judgment from him.
It’s Cole and Dario, two guys who could’ve killed on multiple occasions, but didn’t.
It’s Cammy and Tasha, both of whom Raven clearly values. Her opinion affects mine.
It’s Kurt Renner, who might have arranged ‘accidents’ for people who hurt Raven, but fuck me if I’m not one hundred percent in agreement with him on that. Compared to what I’d do, the guy’s been moderate.
And every job we’ve done has been engineered for minimum disruption. No collateral damage, no body count. Self-interest, yes, but I no longer care about a bunch of wealthy people losing highly-insured valuables they’d forgotten they owned.
The conclusion is inescapable. None of the crew are bad people. My gut tells me they’re good. Does good trump legally wrong?
The most worrying thing is that never used to be a question; now it is.
They may not be legally in the right, but I’m hardly whiter-than-white there. I work undercover for the FBI for the sole reason that I don’t fit anywhere else. I know damn well I couldn’t do an office job.
For three years I’ve been operating in legal grey areas with institutional sanction, but only since Raven came along have I started to doubt myself.
It’s almost a relief when Mercer knocks on my door, precisely at eight o’clock.
I let her in, closing it quickly. For once, my boss isn’t wearing a suit.
She’s in skinny jeans and a strappy crop top, trying to blend in.
Strangely, she reminds me of Raven, only older.
Not quite as tall but a similar build, courtesy of time spent in the gym.
Hair almost as dark, though nothing can really compare to the lustrous black of Raven’s locks.
Same scowl, too. But Mercer’s is genuine pissed-offedness, whereas Raven’s always has a playful hint beneath it.
“Tell me,” Mercer says the moment she walks in. “And you’d better make it good.”
I’ve practiced in the mirror for this moment, and know my expression is perfectly composed, professional, and serious. “Renner’s new job is a corporate HQ. There’s a vault with a few million in uncut, unprovenanced diamonds.”
Her eyes narrow. “That’s not his modus operandi.”
“No, it’s not. But it is where his contractor is sending him.”
“Who you still have no name for.”
“No. But I know that Renner wants something from that vault besides diamonds. He’s given up his share for it.”
Mercer’s eyebrows rise. “He’s given up his share? Why?”
“To persuade the rest of the crew to take the job.”
She nods thoughtfully. “And the target?”
“Meridian Pacific Capital.” I spin my laptop around and show her what I’ve compiled.
“Clear Chinese origins. Connected to a shell company that appeared in the Panama Papers, all circumstantial. On our watch list for suspected Ministry of State Security connections. Just flagged, nothing actionable. Unusual transaction patterns filed automatically by the bank. And named in an investigation of the Big Circle Boys. Triads.”
Mercer reads through quickly, while I wait. “MSS?” she mutters at last. “Chinese intelligence, Beijing connections. We go in on that, we’re stepping on a landmine.”
“Agreed,” I say. Renner is ballsy.
“But it’s all smoke,” she says, thoughtful, and with a lot less of her usual hostility. “Nothing to get a warrant on. And it only begs the question of why Renner’s involved. How he even knows.”
“I asked; he put that on his contractor.”
“Who we don’t know.”
“Exactly.” I pause. “I intend to go through with it, find out what I can. I want that contractor, Diana”—first name deliberate—“and I want to know what’s in that vault that has Renner so fired up.”
She nods slowly. “This is big enough to justify your continuation. What’s the timescale?”
“Two weeks from today. Call it three for mop-up afterwards.”
“It’s in San Fran,” she notes. “I’ll get you a safehouse there, just in case. Coded only to you. A stash of weapons, wall safe, medical supplies. Usual stuff.”
Actually useful for once. “Thank you.”
“Good work, Maddox—”
She cuts off as there’s a knock on the door.
It’s Raven. I don’t know how I know, but I do.
Shit.
And Mercer just called me by my real name.
I step swiftly to the door, pulling it open, half prepared to see Raven fleeing down the hallway.
But she’s not. She’s standing there in a black hip-length jacket and heels, her long legs bare, her hand still raised in the act of knocking. Looking as startled as I feel.
Then her gaze flicks past me to Mercer.
The change in her expression is slow, but clear. I track all of it. Her eyes snap wide, head jerking back half an inch, chin coming up. Two spots of color appear high on her cheeks. Her lips press together, then the fight goes out of her face all at once, and her shoulders slump.
“Raven—”
But she’s already turning away.
I reach for her, my injured leg forward, and it tightens at the suddenness of the move, stealing my balance and drawing a wince from me.
Raven slips out of my reach, the hem of her coat flirting with the tops of her thighs.
A hand comes down to pin the material in place, and I know—I just know—she’s naked beneath it.
Her gaze meets mine and she doesn’t blink, chestnut eyes going liquid. Then she turns and hurries down the hallway toward the elevator.
Fuck.
“Raven!” I leave Mercer shoving my laptop beneath the couch, and limp down the hallway after her. Raven’s at the elevator, pummeling the button with her thumb. A sob slips out, frustration punctuated with the sharp, high note of her distress.
Then I reach her, my hand closing on her arm.
Mercer’s followed me, but I don’t care. I’m barely conscious of her taking the stairs, making her exit. My focus is on Raven.
“Let go of me!” she cries.
“No.”
She takes a breath, chest rising and falling, coat shifting enough to show bare skin where the two sides overlap. Hinting more at what I already suspect.
“Let go of me.” She says it again, calmer, colder, and more resolute.
“There is no force in this world that will pry my hand from your arm right now,” I tell her. “Not until you’ve come into my apartment and let me explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain, is there?” she says. “I have eyes. I’m sorry I… interrupted.” The word carries all her hurt and disdain, but I barely notice.
Fuck me. She didn’t hear, she only saw. This is still salvageable, and I’m the luckiest bastard that ever lived.
I shouldn’t feel relief, but I do. And she somehow senses it.
She tries to break my grip again, fighting against me. “Let go of me right now, Declan.”
“No. I told you—”
“Fuck you.”
Then Raven clenches one hand, and drives her fist right into my thigh.