Man in Black

Chapter 31

Two weeks later...

The Fisher and Eliza era sure didn’t last long,Britt thought as he helped Hewitt drop a shiny, new V-twin engine into the frame of one of Becky’s spec bikes.

Hewitt must have been thinking along similar lines because he muttered, “Is it my imagination, or are they even worse than before?”

Britt shot him a look of agreement that ended with a grimace.

For over a week, Fisher and Eliza had been on each other like white on rice. One night, Britt had gone to get cereal from the pantry for a midnight snack and had caught Eliza down on her knees…uh…polishing Fisher’s chrome, so to speak. Just FYI, there wasn’t enough brain bleach in all the world to erase that memory from his mind. Hewitt had complained he’d found them half-dressed and making out like high schoolers on the sofa in the TV room after everyone had gone to bed one evening—the couch they all had to sit on, mind you. Gross. And Graham had admitted he’d walked in on them in the kitchen early one morning and, even though Graham had refused to give details, he”dalluded there’d been whipped cream involved.

That last incident had prompted Britt to corner Fisher in the shop and have a talk with him about keeping his exploits with Eliza in the bedroom. Because while Fish might think Eliza was the sexiest thing on earth, the rest of them thought of her as a sister and…

No. Just…no.

But Fisher had simply scowled and said, “Ya don’t have to worry, bruh. We’re done. Back to bein’ friends without the benefits.”

That had been five days ago. And in that time, Fisher and Eliza had returned to bickering like they were getting paid to do it. Except previously it was like they’d been making a buck per word and now they were making a cool G.

They never stopped sniping and snapping at each other. And even now, with Ozzie’s music blaring from the second floor, they could be heard above Guns N’ Roses welcoming folks to the jungle.

It was getting out of hand. It was keeping everyone on edge. And it was starting to worry Britt because he wasn’t sure how this new dynamic would ultimately affect their band of merry men.

I think I preferred it when they were doing it in the pantry.

“I love to shop, but I’m not buying your bullshit.” Eliza stood over Fish with her hands on her hips and her jaw thrust out at an angry angle.

Fisher was crouched in front of his motorcycle, hand-painting details on the front fender.

Poor Mardi Gras had suffered some serious wear and tear when Fish had gone after the bagel shop shooter. Ever since it’d been delivered to the shop the day after the debacle, Fisher had been working to get it back in shape.

Although, it was safe to say he’d redoubled his efforts since he and Eliza had called it quits. In fact, Britt figured his wingman for life was now using Mardi Gras as an excuse to avoid their girl Friday as much as possible.

“It’s not bullshit,” Fish countered, not looking up from his work. “I said I’ll get to it, and I will. I’m just goin’ to get to it on my own schedule and not yours.”

“It’s our schedule,” Eliza emphasized. “As in BKI’s schedule. I can’t get clearance for the next op until you finish your report. And I take issue with you acting like I’m asking you for the moon and stars.”

Now Fisher deigned to glance up at her. “I could’ve sworn I canceled my subscription to your issues.”

“Oh, no.” Hewitt muttered from the side of his mouth. He and Britt were no longer pretending to work. Instead, they unabashedly watched the train wreck that was Fisher and Eliza’s exchange. “How much you wanna bet she grabs that lug wrench and brains him with it?”

“My money’s on the tire iron,” Britt deadpanned. The smell of axel grease was strong in the shop this morning, but not as strong as the coffee Eliza held in her hand. He could see the steam rising from the mug and rethought his response. “Scratch that. Ten to one she dumps her coffee over his head.”

“I hear Northwestern Memorial has a decent burn unit.”

“Question is, do we call an ambulance or pull the child seats out of Becky’s car, load him up, and drive him ourselves?”

Before Hewitt could answer, Eliza took a step closer to Fisher. Hewitt and Britt both held their breath, waiting to see what violence would follow.

“My father is expecting my summary tomorrow,” she growled menacingly but, thankfully, didn’t resort to death-by-scalding coffee. “The president is expecting it too. And here I am stuck between a rock and someone I’d like to hit with it!”

“I’ll finish it this afternoon,” Fisher assured her cooly, refusing to match her animation and only pissing her off more because of it. “Until then, have a nice day…somewhere else.”

Eliza threw a hand in the air. “I can’t have a nice day when I’m going out of my mind. I haven’t left this stinking factory in two weeks.I haven’t even seen the sun! Oooohhh!” She stomped her foot, then turned on her heel to march angrily toward the kitchen.

To keep from committing homicide, no doubt. Smart girl.

She stopped in her tracks, however, when her phone chimed in her pocket. Lifting the device to her ear, she barked, “What?” Her tone was instantly contrite when she quickly added, “Sorry, Geralt. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. But I’ve got the worst case of cabin fever you can imagine, and Fisher isn’t helping matters by?—”

She quit talking and walked over to the television screen hung next to the front door. “Really?” Now there was curiosity and maybe a bit of excitement in her voice. “Are they coming to tell me this is all over and I can go back to having a life instead of hiding in this sunless hovel? A hovel that’s home to the world’s most frustrating troll, I might add.”

Britt felt a little kick of adrenaline. Tilting his head around the bike frame, he saw on the monitor that Agents O’Toole and Douglas stood at the front gate.

Julia…

He’d made it a point not to think of her for the past two weeks.

Had he rewatched every Star Wars movie and TV series ever made in the interim? Sure. But he had not thought about her.

And dreams don’t count because I don’t have any control over them.

He wiped his hands on his jeans. His palms were suddenly sweaty. So was his brow. He dashed his forearm across it.

“What’s with you all of a sudden?” Hewitt lifted a bushy eyebrow. “You coming down with something?”

“Nah.” Britt shook his head. “It’s just hot in here.”

Hewitt narrowed his eyes but refrained from calling bullshit.

Hewitt could be counted on to keep his mouth shut, and Britt decided he’d never given the man enough credit for that particular trait.

He watched on the television monitor as Julia and her partner made their way across the grounds after Geralt opened the gate. Her pantsuit was black. Her shirt was gray. But instead of her usual ponytail, she’d piled her long, blond hair atop her head in a sloppy bun.

It suited her.

But maybe he thought that because it gave him an idea of how she’d look postcoitus, hair all tousled and messy.

Before he could stop them, his feet had skirted the bike lift and were taking him across the shop to the front door. “Ozzie!” he called. “Cut the music, man! The feds are here!”

Night Ranger, who’d been in the middle of singing about Sister Christian, immediately switched off. In the sudden silence, the clacking of Ozzie’s fingers on a keyboard sounded as loud as gunfire.

Britt nodded to Eliza. Ever-dutiful, she pressed her back against the brick wall beneath the TV screen so she didn’t present a target should someone nefarious be on any of the surrounding rooftops. Once he was assured of her safety, and before the FBI agents had time to knock, he threw the door wide.

The day was sunny and bright. And hot.

Heat mirages waved atop the blacktop. But he noticed them as an aside. Because his eyes were instantly glued to Julia O’Toole.

Her brow was dewy-looking. Her button-down shirt was damp and wrinkled from the humidity. And she whipped off her wayfarer-style sunglasses when he said without preamble, “We meet again. At last. When I left you I was but the learner; now I am the master.”

Just as he’d hoped, her pale, pink lips quirked up in a smile. “Darth Vader’s famous line when he meets up with Obi-Wan in A New Hope.” She cocked her head. “Is this a thing with us now?”

He experienced a frisson of delight at the thought of them being an us, much less having a thing. Then he castigated himself for feeling anything.

“Just trying to make up for my poor showing of Star Wars knowledge the first time we met. I wouldn’t want you thinking I’m slow on the uptake.”

“I just assumed you were a superhero fan instead of a space opera fan.” When he frowned, she nodded to his T-shirt. Printed on the front was a picture of Groot holding a cassette tape. “Marvel movies, right?” she asked.

He shrugged. “What can I say? I like a good antihero.”

“Deadpool must be your favorite then.”

He blinked at her accuracy. Although, he didn’t know why he was surprised. He’d never met anyone as observant as Julia O’Toole. Which, undoubtedly, was why she was already a senior agent at the tender age of…what? Thirty? Thirty-one?

It was hard to guess since her diminutive stature made her appear younger than her years. And the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose screamed preteen.

“Not that I’m not enjoying this little tête-à-tête,” Agent Douglas spoke up. “But the heat coming off this blacktop could fry an egg. And it’s making my shoulder ache like a bad tooth.”

“Right.” Britt stepped back to admit the feds.

Did he notice Agent O’Toole smelled festive and warm, like cherries and almonds and sweet vanilla, as she breezed by him?

No he did not.

Okay, so maybe he did. But he didn’t let it sink in. Because if he let it sink in, he’d have to concentrate on not thinking about her fragrance like he’d had to concentrate on not thinking about her.

Five minutes later, the two FBI agents had been shown to the conference table in the War Room. And all the current Black Knights, as well as Boss, Becky, and Ozzie, had gathered around.

In typical Eliza fashion, carafes of coffee had been provided along with a tray of fresh chocolate croissants, blueberry muffins, and bite-sized goat cheese quiches.

Fisher had been using Mardi Gras as a distraction. Eliza? She’d been baking like her life depended on it.

Not that Britt was complaining. He’d enjoyed three muffins with his coffee earlier.

Agent Douglas—who looked a little pale and drawn thanks to his recent stint in the hospital—had shaken his head when the tray passed his way. But Julia? She’d loaded her napkin with two croissants and three mini quiches.

She was busy chewing a quiche now as she turned to Eliza to say around a mouthful, “I’m sure your father will call soon to tell you we have our man. Or, rather we will have our man here in…” The little blond checked her watch and swallowed. “About fifteen minutes. Once our colleagues in Washington make the arrest. But I wanted to stop by and give you the news in person. Figured after everything you’ve been through, you deserve it.”

“So who was it?” Fisher demanded, ignoring the irritated look Eliza shot him when he didn’t wait for her to speak first.

“Chuck Reynolds,” O’Toole answered before popping another quiche into her mouth.

For such a little thing, she could really put away the food.

“Why does that name ring a bell?” Boss asked at the same time Becky slid him a root beer-flavored Dum Dum.

“He’s the minority senate leader,” O’Toole said around the goat cheese pastry.

“And he’s made headlines recently,” Douglas added. “He was accused of flying to a private island to sexually assault an underage boy.”

Britt blanched at the foul notion. All those around the table cursed in disgust or shifted uncomfortably. Agent O’Toole dropped her third quiche and pushed the napkin away like she’d suddenly lost her appetite.

“Is that why John McClean called together those folks on the committee?” Eliza was finally able to get a word in edgewise. “To talk about Senator Reynolds’s depravity?”

“That’s what we thought.” O’Toole nodded. “When we first suspected it might be Reynolds behind the plot. But come to find out—and I won’t bore you with the long, convoluted details on how we found this out—Senator McClean actually had proof Chuck Reynolds has been doing a little insider trading. And by a little,I mean a lot. The man has enriched himself to the tune of twenty million dollars through illegal investments over the last ten years. McClean found the proof, and it appeared he had every intention of sharing that proof with the committee at the cocktail party.”

“Why share it at a cocktail party?” This from Becky. She had her own Dum Dum shoved into her cheek. “Why not call a committee meeting the next time congress is in session and make it official?”

“From what we can gather, McClean caught wind that someone in his office was slipping information to someone working in Reynolds’s office. So he threw the cocktail party as a way to hold a committee meeting without, you know, actually holding a committee meeting. It was too late, though. Reynolds had already discovered what McClean had planned, and he decided to kill all the birds with one stone. Or…one gunman, as it turns out.”

“Yeah.” Britt frowned. “What the hell—excuse my French—did Reynolds have over on McClean’s chef that would make the guy commit mass murder?”

“It’s not what he had over on Peter Sullivan,” Douglas answered, shifting his slinged arm into a more comfortable position. “It’s what he promised him. Sullivan was dying of pancreatic cancer. He was leaving behind a wife and two small boys, and he needed the money. Not to mention, his recent psych eval showed some cognitive decline. His doctors suspected his cancer had metastasized to his brain. Which made him the perfect target for Reynolds. The poor man was desperate and not thinking straight.”

“How did you link the two?” Eliza asked. “Reynolds and Sullivan, I mean.”

“Couple of ways,” O’Toole said, pulling the napkin back toward her and tearing into a croissant. “The day after the shooter at the bagel shop tried to take out Miss Meadows, a scheduled post popped up on Peter Sullivan’s Facebook page. It was a long-winded, fanatical rant about the evils of our government. What you would expect from a guy who’d just killed a bunch of officials. But his wife assured us the post didn’t sound anything like her husband. I had our Cybersecurity and Technology Division take a look at it. They determined Peter Sullivan’s account had been hacked. They traced that hack back to the office of Chuck Reynolds.”

“And the other way?” Eliza prodded.

“Once we made that initial connection, we put Reynolds’s entire life under a microscope. The forensic accountants at the bureau noticed some recent activity in one of ol’ Chuck’s Swiss bank accounts.”

“Because all folks on the up and up bank with the Swiss,” Britt said sarcastically.

“Well, right.” O’Toole nodded. “Anyway, on the night of the cocktail party massacre, Reynolds transferred three million dollars out of his account.”

“Transferred it where?”

“We didn’t know for the longest time. In fact, it took our accountants these entire two weeks to trace all the dark web wire transfers that money went through. But come to find out, it landed in an account at a bank in the Cayman Islands.”

“Another place where all the folks on the financial up-and-up bank.” Britt shook his head.

“Guess whose name was on that account?” When everyone blinked at her expectantly, Agent O’Toole answered her own questions. “Debra Sullivan. The account was scheduled to begin paying her five thousand dollars a month at the start of next year. And the monthly donation”—she made air quotes—“was going to look like it’d come from an anonymous source, some angel philanthropist who was sympathetic to the plight of Debra and her boys.”

After that pronouncement, there was a moment of silence as everyone mentally assembled the puzzle pieces.

“So let me see if I have all this straight.” Eliza rubbed her temple. She was no longer sporting a goose egg or bruised to high heaven. She was back to looking sleek and cool with her raven hair pulled into a ponytail, her lips painted her signature dusty-rose hue, and her black eyes enhanced with kohl eyeliner. “John McClean got the dirt on Chuck Reynolds and planned to share that dirt with the members of the newly-formed committee investigating congressional malfeasance. But Chuck found out about it somehow and paid Peter Sullivan, who was dying and desperate for money, to off the entire committee in one fell swoop before they could bring John’s evidence to light.”

“That pretty much sums it up.” O’Toole nodded and then shoved a bite of chocolate croissant into her mouth.

Britt didn’t notice how her lovely throat worked when she swallowed it. Nor did he have a brief fantasy of what it might be like to kiss that lovely throat.

“But then there were survivors.” Becky spoke up. “And Reynolds feared Senator McClean might have already shared his evidence. So Reynolds…what? Hired some rando mercenary out of Asia to finish the job the chef started? How does one even go about finding someone like that?”

Britt had to bite the inside of his cheek. As if Becky didn’t know precisely how that was done. If the woman hadn’t gone into custom bike building, she’d have made an excellent actress.

“Oh, believe me, there are ways,” O’Toole muttered. “And no doubt a man in Reynolds’s position knows those ways. But to be honest, we haven’t determined how he found this particular man. And we don’t know if this man or any of his potential cohorts were the ones responsible for the hack on Senator Chastain’s pacemaker. Those are mysteries we may never solve. Unless, of course, Chuck Reynolds tries to use that information to cut himself a deal. Then we might know how it all went down.”

Britt could tell by her expression it rankled to leave a question unanswered.

“Which means you don’t know who the bagel shop shooter was,” Ozzie concluded. Their onsite tech wizard had made sure the various computer monitors showed nothing but highly detailed CAD drawings of fantastical motorcycles.

Britt hoped it was enough to convince the overly perceptive Agent O’Toole they kept all these computers for their work. Because the night two weeks ago when he and the others had taken her to the second floor to show her what little security footage they had of the shooter, she’d glanced around at the technology with an analytical eye.

She hadn’t questioned why a bunch of motorcycle designers would need so much high-quality equipment. But he’d seen the speculation in her eagle-eyed gaze.

“Nope.” O’Toole shook her head now, and it caused her messy bun to wiggle in the most delightful way.

Not that he noticed.

Okay, maybe he noticed a little.

“We know from the CCTV footage we pulled, the security camera video taken at Northwestern’s ICU, and the images you guys supplied us that it was the same man at both sites. But he was wearing a prosthetic nose and forehead and, obviously, his hair was dyed. Our facial recognition software failed to find a match on his identity.”

“Where did the plane land?” Fisher was the one to ask this question, and Britt couldn’t help but admire the easy way Agent O’Toole handled the inquiries being lobbed at her from all directions.

“China.” She grimaced. “Beijing to be precise.”

“Right. So then that’s a dead end.” Ozzie ran a hand through his out-of-control hair. The man avoided the barber like most guys avoided talking about their feelings.

“We had our ambassador to China make inquiries with his contacts in the NPC but, as you can imagine, everyone over there is claiming to know nothing about a mysterious private plane jetting an orange-haired passenger from Chicago to mainland China.” She shrugged resignedly. “If the assassin Reynolds hired is Chinese, or if the Chinese government was tied up with Reynolds in some way, you can bet your ass they’re not going to admit it.”

“So that leaves only one question.” Again, it was Boss who spoke up. He gestured with his sucker, which looked tiny and incongruous in his big, work-worn mitt. “Why did McClean include his son and Eliza on the guest list? They weren’t on the committee.”

O’Toole wrinkled her nose and glanced with sympathy toward Eliza. “If I had to guess, it was Miss Meadows whom Senator McClean really wanted present that night. As powerful as Chuck Reynolds is, he’s still not as powerful as the chief of staff. McClean probably hoped the information he planned to share would get passed along to the White House through unofficial channels.”

“Makes sense.” Boss nodded. “We are talking politics and politicians here, and the bastards are always working some angle.” His wife smacked him on the arm—which was the equivalent of a fly bumping into an elephant. Even still, Boss feigned a wince. “Ow. What was that for?”

Becky widened her eyes and hitched her chin toward Eliza.

“Oh.” Boss looked chagrined. Or…as chagrined as a middle-aged man with a buzzcut and facial scars could look. “Sorry, Eliza. No offense to your dad.”

“None taken.” She shrugged. “You’re right. He is always working an angle.”

“Yes, well…” O’Toole wrapped her last croissant in her napkin and slipped it into her pocket. “That’s the long and short of it. But I think it’s safe to say you all are free to start taking down your window dressings.” She checked her watch again. “I expect to be getting the call any minute now that Reynolds is in custody. And with him locked up, I seriously doubt there will be any more attempts on Miss Meadows’s life.”

“Hallelujah!” Eliza threw her hands in the air. “Sweet sunshine, here I come!”

The group disbursed. Ozzie and Becky went over to the computer bank and started playing around with the CAD drawings. Boss retired to his office. And the rest of the Knights headed down to the shop to work on the five spec bikes that were in various stages of completion.

We’re just your regular ol’ custom motorcycle mechanics, after all.

Britt and Eliza escorted the feds to the front door. And when Eliza pulled Agent Douglas aside to thank him for his service on the day of the shooting, Britt crossed his arms and smiled down at O’Toole.

“I reckon this is goodbye, then.” Was there a note of dissatisfaction in his voice? Nah. That was just his imagination.

“I suppose so.” She tilted her head. “Unless you plan to commit a felony anytime soon. And then you might find me knocking on your door.”

“Commit a crime? Me?” He lifted his hands. “I’m as pure as the driven snow.”

She chuckled. “Somehow I doubt that.” She was still grinning when she added, “You know, the first time I met you, I thought you were the world’s biggest dickhole. And I’m not usually wrong about people. But I’m glad to find out I was wrong about you.”

He grimaced. “I wasn’t my best self that night. I’d like to blame it on the circumstances. But the truth is, I’m usually shitty to law enforcement.”

She blinked. “Why is that?”

“Tough childhood. And the cops getting involved always tended to make a bad situation worse.”

“Well, I hope I’ve given you reason to rethink your stance on those of us who carry a badge.”

He hesitated, wondering if he should say what was on the tip of his tongue. Then he thought, screw it.“You’ve changed my mind about you, specifically. But law enforcement in general? Not so much. Still feel like too often y’all hurt more than you help.”

She grunted. “You don’t believe in bullshit for the sake of bullshit, do you, Sergeant Rollins?”

“Call me Britt. And actually, I can bullshit with the best of them. But when someone asks me an honest question I try to respond with an honest answer.”

“Hmm.” She nodded. “I like that. In fact, I think maybe, despite first impressions, I kinda like you.”

His breath strangled in his lungs. His heart thundered like it did every time he jumped out of a plane. And the lovely, familiar spurt of adrenaline he felt had him scrubbing a hand over the top of his head.

Adrenaline was his crack. He sought it with a single-mindedness that probably warranted a trip to a good psychiatrist.

Which meant Julia O’Toole was dangerous to him in ways that went beyond her nose for rooting out the truth which stood in direct opposition to his position there at Black Knights Inc. where he had to keep most things about himself a secret.

There was a bit of honesty he could give her though. “I like you too, Agent O’Toole.”

“Julia,” she corrected. And the smile she wore was so genuine he felt another little spurt of adrenaline. “You can call me Julia now that I’m no longer working a case that involves you. Or…involves one of your coworkers and you by proxy, rather.”

“Julia it is then.” He liked the sound of her name when he spoke it out loud.

She opened her mouth to respond, but the buzz of his phone had her closing it again.

Pulling the device from his pocket, he frowned when he saw it was his brother calling. Again. It was the third time this morning. He’d ignored the first two. He didn’t dare ignore the third.

“Sorry.” He winced. “I really should get this.” He was never sure what might come out of Knox’s mouth, so it was best if the call wasn’t overhead by a federal agent. “I’ll just take it in the kitchen.”

“Of course.” She nodded her acquiescence.

“Hey, brother,” he answered once he’d reached the hallway because his phone was about to switch over to voicemail. “What’s up?”

He didn’t hear what Knox said because, glancing over his shoulder, he saw Julia O’Toole slip through the front door. She took any further discussion about them liking each other with her.

It’s for the best,he told himself and blamed the hard punch of disappointment that landed in his gut on indigestion from eating one too many blueberry muffins.