Chapter 4 #2
“I’d heard you and Danny moved.” He tucked his briefcase under his arm and climbed aboard.
“We did,” Mel replied, brushing back her windswept curls. “But ay dios, living and working with him, I needed a space of my own.”
Nic laughed. “So you turned the floating bachelor pad into your office?”
“Let me show you the improvements,” she said with a smirk.
He followed her below deck, through the showcase-worthy living room, past the kitchen that looked rarely used, and into the main cabin area. Where the bedroom should have been was instead one of the most advanced private command centers—there really was no other word for it—Nic had ever seen.
He turned a full three-sixty in the middle of the room, trying and failing not to gape. “Should I be seeing this?”
“Probably not.” She claimed one of the ergonomic desk chairs and used her high heel to toe over a second. “Now, what did you need help with?”
Right to the chase. He took the offered seat and lifted his briefcase onto the long metal table that ran the length of one wall. Mel rolled beside him as he snapped open the locks, lifted the lid, and removed the false bottom, revealing the two handguns from last night snug in foam.
She pulled one free. “Not your weapon of choice.”
“Not my weapons.”
She flipped it over, running a French-tipped nail over the scratched-out serial number. “Other one like this too?”
“The same.”
“I might be able to salvage something but no promises.” She laid the pistol on the table and sat back in her chair, nails tapping the armrest. “This for a case or personal?”
“Personal.” He mirrored her faux-relaxed posture, the both of them taking the measure of each other. Friends, yes, but how much to say? Or better question, judging by her dark assessing gaze, how much did she know already? “You don’t seem surprised.”
“The FBI has a very thick file on Mr. Vaughn.”
Nic forced himself not to gape again. “I didn’t—”
She nodded at the handguns. “His weapon of choice. Right down to the make and model and the half-assed scratched-off serial numbers. They came after you?”
He could play dumb, but she was already halfway down the trail. And she gave no indication of stopping. “Last night. And possibly yesterday morning too.”
“At the Kristi? raid?”
Apparently that police ban radio in the corner wasn’t just for nostalgia.
Nodding, he lifted the other handgun out of the case, set it next to the first, and removed the foam.
He withdrew the evidence bag containing the phone Lauren had hacked.
“We took fire in the surveillance van. Thought it was connected to a third-party rip-off but then this was found in a sniper’s nest.” He took it out of the bag, powered it on, and handed it over, photos open. “Only thing on it are pictures of me.”
She swiped her thumb over the screen, a crease forming between her dark brows. “And you said they came at you again last night?”
“At the brewery. Distracted me with a call from an Unknown number, then tried to jump me.”
“Idiots,” she muttered, handing the phone back. “Do you want me to trace the call?”
“Please.” He sealed the phone back in the evidence bag and dropped it in his briefcase. “Came into my cell number around ten thirty.”
“Easy enough.” She spun to one of the keyboards, typing in commands that lit up the closest monitor, a call search running on-screen. “Does Byrne know about any of this?”
He clicked shut the briefcase. “No.”
She turned from the wall of computers, angling toward him. “Because you think this has to do with your father’s debts. To Vaughn.”
He startled this time, no hiding it, at just how far down the trail she’d already sprinted. Mel, it seemed, knew just as much, if not more, about his father’s financial situation than he did.
“Your father was also being monitored by the Bureau,” she added, shocking him further. “No surprise the sharks are circling. Those are some dangerous fish, Price.”
Nic was still hung up on his father being under FBI investigation. He was surrounded by FBI agents these days and not just in a professional context. None of them had said a thing. “Does Aidan know? About my father? About Vaughn?”
Mel shook her head. “Walled off. Conflict of interest.”
That statement was too absurd, too accurate, for comment. He did anyway. “Because that’s stopped Talley before.”
“Different department, low level, relatively. Which was why the matter never got to him. Before I left, I turned everything over to Assistant Director Moore with the recommendation to keep Aidan—and Cam, for that matter—walled off.”
“Is the case still active?” he asked.
“As part of a bigger one to nail Vaughn, yes,” she said with a tilt of her head toward the pistols. “But if Curtis’s situation gets worse, if he gets desperate, he might get back on the radar in his own right.”
Nic debated whether to ask for something he had no right to.
The FBI and the US Attorney’s Office were both DOJ, and while they often worked together, they were separate agencies.
Sometimes, logistical and ethical walls between them were necessary.
This had been one of those times. But if the FBI knew the full scope of his father’s financial dealings and failings, he needed to get his hands on that information.
To assess how it might blow back on him.
Before he could ask, Mel carried the pistols across the room to a corner wall safe and tucked them inside. Nic prayed her lockpick husband couldn’t crack that one or his secrets wouldn’t stay secret for long.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” she said, turning back to him. “About the call and guns. Usual searches?”
He nodded. “Acquisition, ownership, used in other crimes, etcetera.” The other ask still hovered on the tip of his tongue.
She beat him to it, making the offer. “I’ll make some additional inquiries too. Discreetly, of course. See where the agencies are on Curtis.”
“I have no right to ask.”
“But you were going to. Friends and family benefit.” She folded her arms. “And I don’t want Bowers to get his hands on it and blindside you.”
He pushed to his feet, hand extended. “Thank you.”
She pulled him into a hug instead. “What’s your plan once I get you this information? Believe it or not, certain people do care about you. No one wants to see you step into the line of fire.”
The sentiment both warmed and chilled his heart. The last time someone had cared for him, had stepped into the line of fire, or rather fists, for him . . .
He banished the memory and answered her question instead. “My father and Vaughn aren’t giving me much choice. So I’m trying to build a shield for myself and for those who care for me.” He swallowed hard, forcing the truth out of his arid mouth. “Who I care for too.”
“You’re building a case,” she correctly surmised.
“I don’t want to have to bring it. I don’t want to air my family’s dirty laundry for everyone to see.”
“For Cam to see.”
He turned away, grabbing his briefcase and hiding the truth she was perilously close to. He headed out of the command center and across the living area toward the stairs that would take him above deck.
“How much do you know about the ancient Spartans?” Mel asked behind him.
The non sequitur halted him mid-step. “Not much,” he said, turning back to face her. “Beyond what I’ve seen in movies.”
She leaned a hip against the end of the nearest leather couch. “The Spartans were famous for their shield walls.”
“Shield walls?”
“When under attack, a Spartan phalanx would lock shields and advance together. As one. They were nearly impenetrable. Saved countless lives.”
Not so non sequitur after all.
“Before you dig into this further, Price, think long and hard whether your shield of one is enough. For both—for all—our sakes.”