Chapter 14 #5
Beckett wished he’d be a little bit more secretive. At least then, he would have a solid foundation for his mistrust.
“You know—I have an older brother, Jackson—he’d be realllll keen on this whole—I’m-rich-so-let’s-go-into-business talk.
But since I was born a moron, I don’t give a shit,” Beckett said.
Even though his words were harsh, he did not regret what he’d said.
There was a part of Beckett—the same part of him that had done unspeakable things in distant lands—that just wanted to grab Hayes’ Glock and take aim.
It would be easy, too. Infinitely more so than trying to dig his brother out of this mess.
“I am not trying to impress you, Agent Thérault—May I call you Beckett?—Your brother warned me not to try. Like tempting a wolverine with sour candy, he said.” Matthew chuckled.
“Good,” Beckett said, sneering. “And no—you can call me Your Highness, Agent Thérault, and sir, yes, sir. Anything else and I’ll shoot your ass,” he replied, perfectly deadpan, ensuring that he got his message across.
Matthew merely snorted, unfazed by Beckett’s threats and tough guy act.
“You mentioned an opportunity to help,” Hayes said, cutting to the chase. “Maybe we ought to start there.”
Matthew nodded his assent as he pushed two cocktail glasses towards them. Beckett had watched him make the Manhattans, of course, and he didn’t doubt the contents of his concoction were top shelf all the way, but he examined it suspiciously just to be spiteful.
“My uncle needs to go. Killing him won’t work—he’s too well connected, and the FBI needs a fall guy, which means the only thing we can do is hand him over with enough proof to get him indicted and convicted.”
“Which is why they’re sending someone undercover,” Hayes said.
Matthew rolled his eyes. “And while I agreed to it, it’s an absolutely ridiculous suggestion.
This isn’t the 60’s anymore. Infiltrating an organisation takes years.
Earning your patches was all well and good when we didn’t leave electronic footprints.
Nowadays? Unless I can prove that you’re desperate, or from a similar background, then I’m keeping you miles from the action,” Matthew said, and Beckett respected his candor if nothing else.
“Alright, so why agree to work with the feds if you don’t believe in their methods?” Hayes asked.
“So they would agree to keep Franklin safe while I got to work on taking down Mario.”
“I assume you have a plan to catch your uncle?” Hayes asked, encouraging him to continue.
“I do—by being in the room with him to gather evidence,” Matthew said, with a shrug.
“You want to wear a wire?” Hayes asked, not at all sure Matthew could pull this off.
“A wire?” Matthew asked, as if he’d lost his mind.
“Yes, because I’ve always dreamed of getting impaled slowly and painfully,” he said mockingly, shaking his head and flailing a hand dramatically.
“No, Agent Monroe, nothing so ridiculous. You see, my testimony is worthless since I am well and truly implicated in my family’s legacy.
Your testimonies, however, would be perfectly respectable.
An ex-Navy SEAL and a former, highly-decorated Special Forces operative?
Both honorably discharged after serving in war zones?
The jury would eat up your testimonies.”
Hayes drew a shocked breath and had to cough to clear his throat.
“I’m sorry—are you proposing that we infiltrate your family’s organisation? Didn’t you just point out how ridiculous that idea was? That undercover agents never got very far with plans to infiltrate the family’s businesses in the past?”
“You’re quite right,” Matthew said with a nod. “But you wouldn’t be undercover agents. You would be my bodyguards.”
“And you expect your uncle to just—publicly 'fess up about human trafficking?” Hayes asked, openly skeptical of his plan.
Beckett was more grateful than ever for Hayes’ presence. His mind was still reeling from the discovery that his brother wasn’t dead and he hadn’t lost his mind yet. But his reasoning abilities weren’t back to full strength, as much as he might wish they were, so he needed Hayes to lead the charge.
“He’s brought up the subject before. And there was an incident a couple of months back—I’m hoping I can get him to open up about that deal again—so he might confess certain things while you’re in the room.”
“And you don’t think he’d find our sudden appearance in your life suspicious?” Beckett asked.
“Well—if anyone asks I can simply point out that you came highly recommended by Mr. Kent.” His expression brightened—like he was holding back a laugh.
That name—it tickled Beckett’s brain. He knew that name, but from where? And then it all came back to him. A masked ball. Tight suits. A sexagenarian sitting in his lap.
“No!” Beckett said, as shock ran through him like a bolt of lightning. “Fuck no! Absolutely not!” he screamed in abject horror.
Matthew did laugh then. It was an impressive belly laugh that clashed with his sophisticated manner and perfect face.
“But how does that differ from what the FBI is doing? Wouldn’t you choose bodyguards from within your own organisation?” Hayes asked, refusing to be distracted by the mention of Mr. Kent’s name.
“Not necessarily. I generally outsource them. People within the organisation are always looking for ways to climb the ranks, and since bodyguards are privy to just about everything in my life—opportunities for blackmail arise constantly,” he explained casually.
“Nice mob mentality—really selling the whole loyalty thing,” Beckett mocked.
“In my experience, Agent Thérault, men are loyal to only one thing—money.” He downed his drink and saluted them with his empty glass.
“But I should be glad you’re involved with my brother, right?” Beckett asked sardonically, twirling the crystal tumbler around and around in his hand but never drinking from it. He wasn’t worried that Matthew had slipped any drugs into it; he was just being contrary.
“Perhaps you’re right—let me amend that—reasonable men are loyal only to one thing—money, but love makes fools of us all,” he corrected with a self-conscious smile.
Beckett wasn’t convinced Matthew was totally trustworthy or that his plan would work.
“So—just for clarification, you want us to pose as your bodyguards so that we could observe illegal activities and testify against your uncle,” Hayes summarized.
He lifted his drink to take a quick sip and looked at the glass with a pleased expression, because using top shelf liquor does make a difference.
“Indeed, Agent Monroe,” Matthew replied with a nod. He leaned against the counter behind him and crossed his arms over his chest.
Beckett frowned thoughtfully as he contemplated Matthew’s plan.
“Call me Hayes,” his backstabbing, good-for-nothing boyfriend suggested with a friendly smile. “Why didn’t you offer the FBI the same deal?”
“I refuse to have a federal agent tailing me day in and day out for weeks—besides, even though you two are just pretend hires, I do expect you to watch my back and perform the duties of actual bodyguards.”
“And you don’t trust the FBI to do that?” Hayes asked with raised brows.
“No,” Matthew said, point blank. “While they might be willing to take a chance on this—association—a dead Rosario is a good thing in their book. Why would anyone risk their life for mine?”
“But you trust us to do so?” Beckett scoffed.
“Yes.” The strength of his conviction and lack of hesitation were startling.
“Why?” Beckett asked, smiling faintly, as if he’d already figured it out but couldn’t pass up the opportunity of forcing Matthew to lay his cards on the table.
“Because I love your brother, and your brother loves me back—and I don’t think you’d let him face that kind of grief if you could help it.”
Matthew’s inherent confidence rubbed Beckett the wrong way.
Not because it was unsettling or unwarranted, but because Beckett was left with the distinct impression that he was being manipulated.
Always. Constantly. Like Matthew’s words were working their way under his skin.
Even his openness about the situation didn’t do anything to lessen his suspicions.
He didn’t like being a pawn in someone else’s game.
And this game stunk to the high heavens.
When Beckett failed to show any outward reaction to his confession, Matthew grinned smugly.
Matthew 1, Beckett 0. Annoyed with the situation, Beckett forced himself to remain calm—using the same strategy he’d used in middle school whenever he popped an inconvenient boner in class—by visualizing his grandma’s dentures.
“Wouldn’t it be a little suspicious? Your bodyguard also being the brother of your therapist who just committed suicide?” Beckett asked, because he had serious doubts that this was a smart plan. He couldn’t shake the notion that it was flat out stupid and incredibly dangerous for all of them.
“It would be, except you already have false identities as bodyguards. Mr. Kent is an old friend of the family. He’s recommended various personnel to me over the years.
If anyone looks you up, you’re Donovan Collins.
You were born in Maine and briefly attended school in Montreal before you joined the Marines.
” Matthew spoke confidently, as if he’d already covered all the angles and was ready to wrap up the plan nice and neat with a pretty bow.
“Are you telling me Mr. Kent is Mafia?” Beckett asked, because he couldn’t quite picture eccentric billionaire Jonathan Kent being part of such an organisation. One of the top-ranking fashion police maybe, but an active member of the Mafia? Bitch, please!
“Of course not—but we operate in similar circles, nonetheless.”