Chapter 12 #3
The kitchen was stocked with snacks. Cooked fresh food meals were in the refrigerator.
Roy heated up a chicken cacciatore in the microwave and cut up a fresh apple to eat on the side.
There was banana pudding or a chocolate cake for dessert.
He chose the pudding, and though it had a base of Vanilla wafers, a box of them in clear view on the counter allowed him to use more as dippers.
Roy bumped the house staff rating up to five double plus stars.
He thought about taking the pudding and cookies back to the house and getting DJ to share it with him.
Only a few days ago, it would have enchanted DJ to discover his stalwart bodyguard indulging such a childhood pleasure.
And Roy would have done his best to hide it from him, rather than considering it as a way to bring some small light to the dark place DJ was in.
After eating, Roy opened his laptop to handle the unpleasant task of wading through his email.
News and social media outlets had hyped the crash enough that those who’d never listened to a single Survival song were now on the tragedy band wagon. He didn’t blame DJ for not replacing his phone. Or watching anything but old movie channels and a nature webcam.
Moss had sent Roy some emails in case DJ asked for a status on his end of things.
Still nothing from the FBI or NTSB, except the usual “ongoing investigation” crap.
However, G had pried some stingy information out of an NTSB contact.
Roy clicked open that message, and then swore, his fist hitting the table.
One of the theories they’re looking at is the device was planted on the plane before take-off, and detonated to look like a fatal landing malfunction or error.
He hadn’t had the plane scanned for an explosive device. It hadn’t been a conceivable notion, and airport security was deemed sufficient.
Well, obviously he’d been fucking wrong about that, if this asshole had avoided surveillance and planted the device.
Boss, I know what you’re thinking, but nothing in our modeling suggested a plane target. There were far easier ways to attempt to kill the band members.
No. Not with them doing their job as well as they’d been doing it. But it hadn’t been good enough.
He sent a read receipt to let her know he’d gotten it, but no other response. It felt like every brick on the house had collapsed upon him.
Rubbing his tired face, he moved into the bedroom and sat down on the mattress.
Serving in the military, he knew how many contingencies couldn’t be anticipated.
How many things had to be discarded from risk assessment because they had to put their resources toward the most likely scenario. Most of the time, they were right.
But it was never enough to make the times they were wrong feel forgivable.
He changed into shorts and put his firearm under his pillow before stretching out.
But when he lay down, he knew why he’d held off on this moment.
Until now, he’d locked it all away, focused on getting DJ from there to here, but everything he was feeling was hammering at the door, saying it was time to be let in.
“Fuck.” Might as well get it over with. He took a deep breath and let the ache grab his gut and chest, shorten his breath, and sting his eyes with tears.
He hadn’t known the band long, but grieving someone didn’t require that. He’d liked all of them. Even Tal.
And sweet Lonnie… She’d been collateral damage. Her parents were unable to comprehend the pain, because it ran too deep to make sense.
He couldn’t be everywhere, do everything. What a convenient excuse, his mind snarled at him.
Self-flagellation was pointless. Action wasn’t.
Wiping his eyes, he sat up and turned things over in his mind until he had a plan. It was a workable one, serving several purposes. But before he started putting it into action, he was going to do what he rarely did.
Get more help.
He retrieved his phone and dialed the number he had in mind.
“Where do you need me, and who do we have to kill? Please God, tell me there’s someone I have to kill.”
The greeting gave him a startled smile, a welcome balm to his roiling gut. Roy cleared his husky throat. “You can’t already be bored with that psychotic Mistress of yours.”
“No. But I have figured out what Hell is. It’s a backyard full of weeds.
Where do all the little fuckers come from?
” He heard a grunt, and a sound like a spade stabbing into the earth to excise an offender.
“Cyn didn’t appreciate my suggestion that we cover it all in concrete and put in a pool.
She eviscerated me for pulling up yellow flowers she said weren’t weeds.
Even though the yellow flowers she had me pull yesterday were.
Dandelions versus mums. A yellow flower is a yellow flower, am I right? Fuck me.”
Even though Mick was grousing, what Roy heard in his voice was the closest thing to contentment he’d heard from him in years. His and Cyn’s bond had helped him manage his darkness, spawned by the world he’d inhabited for way too long as an undercover agent to stop human trafficking.
Mick had explained it to Roy in a weird but memorable way. “Cyn says worms can regenerate their tails and some of their internal organs, depending on where the cut happens. So her opinion is the soul can be re-grown the same way.”
Roy might use the comparison to convince DJ of it.
Mick was a protective alpha sub masochist who needed pain as much as he needed to care for the woman who provided it.
Cyn was a Dominant sadist who loved Mick so fiercely she’d decapitate anyone who gave him a hangnail.
All while she claimed the exclusive right to dish out the high levels of pain he needed. They were meant for one another.
“Sorry to interrupt your twisted version of domestic bliss,” Roy said. “But I need help.”
He could almost see the transformation the portentous words brought to his friend.
When Mick stood up and walked away from the weeds, his demeanor would change, his eyes becoming cold and body gripped by that tensile energy that said he was ready.
If Cyn was nearby, she would notice and be on alert.
“You never ask me for help, Roy.”
“Yeah. DJ James is my current client.”
“Fuck. The plane.” Mick didn’t say anything else. He wouldn’t tell Roy stupid shit, like it wasn’t his fault, or how sorry he was. Those things didn’t mean anything, to either of them.
“The plane was the work of a stalker,” Roy said. “The current working theory is an explosive device detonated upon landing to make it look like an accident.”
“That’s sophisticated shit. Are you sure?”
“The bastard called DJ afterward to take credit, but they won’t rule in his favor until they’ve verified. G’s source only gave us the high-level theory, but I’d bet my right nut it’s correct.”
Mick was silent for a beat. “Okay, tell me more.”
“He’s not your garden variety obsessive stalker. He has above average intelligence and a lot of patience. I’ll send you everything I’ve handed over to the FBI, but I don’t have access to their investigation or the NTSB’s, and I really want the details.”
“I can get that. What’s your end game here? Help the FBI catch him, or cut him up? New Orleans has a lot of hungry gators, if you recall.”
“More tempting than I can describe, but if he isn’t killed during capture, I’ll settle for him never seeing the outside of a prison.
As soon as I can make it happen, we’re going to drop off the radar.
Cash only, random road trip, low profile.
If he can’t find DJ, he might lose his shit and tip his hand.
His end game is making this kid his personal toy. ”
“And then killing him, when he doesn’t live up to his expectations. Which is going to be Cyn’s justified homicide defense when I deadhead the wrong plant. Is the client cooperating, or is he a diva?”
“As much as he can cooperate while grieving this hard. No, he’s not a diva. But even when he’s not seeking attention, attention finds him, because that’s how he is. He gets noticed.”
A pause. “Are you noticing him?”
Roy managed a humorless half chuckle. No surprise Mick picked up on it. “I am. He matters, Mick.”
“You said never with a client.” There was no criticism in Mick’s tone.
“Yeah, well… You know how Murphy is.”
“One of us really needs to find that prick and deal with him. But sometimes he gives us what we want, even if at a really inconvenient time.” Mick paused. “Okay, shoot me whatever info will help me dig. Cyn wants to talk to you.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Cyn’s sultry voice was like heated massage oil, poured over a man’s privates. It made him willing to endure anything to keep hearing it, even if she spiked it with acid to remind him he served her needs, not his.
“G and Warren are watching my back while I handle what DJ needs from me.”
“Good. We’re fond of you. Even if you refuse to try being a submissive for a day.”
“I will if you will.”
She scoffed. “Watch out. One day I may call that bluff.”
“I won’t hold my breath. You came out of the womb issuing demands.”
“Same goes, Roy Bloodwell. I suspect that will help you. So DJ James is a submissive? Talk about fantasy material.”
“Keep your claws to yourself. I’d hate to break those beautiful hands.”
“Anytime you want to spar, give it your best shot.”
“Stop flirting over the submissive that belongs to Roy. Only Roy.” Mick took the phone back, though Roy heard Cyn’s cock-stroking laugh in the background.
Roy didn’t disagree with the “only” part. He wanted to march to the house and spend the night wrapped around DJ, even if he lay there like a mannequin. One asshole’s actions were tearing apart the soul of a man who was at fault for none of it. Leaving him alone had Roy’s gut aching.
“You said you’re going to go off grid and keep this dickhead guessing?” Mick had returned to the point at hand.
“Yeah.”