Chapter 15 #2
“Please tell me you’re not rocking commando under that dress,” Beckett said, scowling in the mafioso’s direction.
“Relax, Donovan,” Matthew cautioned with a casual wave of his hand. He turned to his assistant, deliberately reminding Beckett they had an audience and he needed to lose the attitude since he was simply a bodyguard.
“I suppose you’ve both met Amanda?” he asked, smiling pleasantly. “She and I work closely together throughout the day. Don’t be alarmed if she comes waltzing in here early in the morning—or even in the middle of the night. She’s always welcome.”
Right. Never drop your cover. Got it.
“The car will be here in 40 minutes. I’ll head on over now—your uncle is—getting impatient,” she explained smoothly, even though her smile was a little forced.
Matthew sighed and grabbed an apple from the basket on the counter.
“Yes, well, what else is new?” he said with a touch of petulance. “We’ll be right behind you,” he said, offhandedly, waving her off.
Amanda frowned slightly and headed for the door, passing them both on the way, eyes narrowed as she scrutinized them.
“Gentlemen,” she said politely before walking out the door.
When the door closed behind her, Beckett and Hayes turned as one to look at Matthew inquiringly.
“Are we sure she’s safe?” Hayes asked before Beckett could.
Matthew shrugged. “If Amanda is a mole, then we’re all dead. That woman knows everything about me. Including everything about Franklin—and his—demise.”
Maybe it was Beckett’s imagination, but he thought Matthew’s voice cracked on that last word.
“The whole point of not staying at your place was to avoid any bugs or moles,” Beckett pointed out.
“This place is clean. I had it swept for bugs this afternoon while you were getting your things. As for Amanda—” he shrugged, “it couldn’t be helped. Keeping her out would be more suspicious than including her.”
“Very well,” Hayes said. He touched Beckett on the arm lightly as if saying, “I’m here.”
Beckett didn’t think he could ever come up with the right words to thank Hayes for his unfailing support.
“You’re meeting with your uncle?” Hayes asked.
Matthew nodded and grimaced, looking like he’d prefer not to go.
“The first week of every month we meet to review and discuss our finances. The whole family will be there, including my uncle, my brothers, and my sister.”
“Anything we should know? Like routine procedures, or about—”
“One of you will be allowed into the conference room with me. The other will have to remain outside. I don’t expect we’ll be discussing much beyond basic business matters and current figures.
Probably nothing that would add to your testimony, but you never know,” he said, with a shrug.
“My brothers are harmless—armed, but as dumb as a box of rocks. My sister is the one to watch out for. If anyone is going to sniff you out, it’s going to be her.
” But he didn’t actually look all that worried about it.
“Is she a potential threat?” Beckett asked.
“No—but I’d like to keep her in the dark until this case is done. Hopefully, when I step down, she’ll be able to take up the reins. It’ll be easier if her hands are clean.”
“Okay, got it.” Beckett nodded his assent.
“Perhaps you should be getting dressed then,” Hayes said, frowning in open disapproval at the satin robe. “I don’t expect your uncle would approve of your fashion choices.”
Matthew began to smile, as if the idea of showing up in the robe appealed to him.
“I’ll go change,” he agreed. He went to the armoire beside his desk and pulled two files from a drawer. Unceremoniously, he dropped them on the kitchen counter.
“These are your identities. I had Mr. Kent send them over so you could refresh your memory on the little details that might get you killed,” he said, casually.
Before Beckett could mention how dangerous it was to have those lying around, Matthew added, “We’ll shred them before we leave.” Turning gracefully, he walked towards his bedroom.
Wordlessly, Hayes went over to the counter and picked up his file. Beckett followed suit and they read up on their undercover roles as bodyguards.
They’d reviewed this information previously, of course, having memorized everything in the files when they’d worked for Mr. Kent.
But a year had passed since they’d pulled that job, and reviewing all the details again couldn’t hurt.
Besides, these identities had only served them for a single night during which very little of their personal lives had mattered.
In their current situation, they were probably going to be stuck for several weeks with these fictitious identities.
They needed to live and breathe them, not just memorize the contents of their files.
Donovan Carpenter was a 35-year-old retired Marine.
He was born in Boston, but moved to Montreal to attend school before enlisting.
Having completed most of the same special ops courses listed in Donovan’s file made it easier for Beckett to maintain his cover.
He was the only son of a single mother named Alice Carpenter.
His father wasn’t in the picture, but Donovan had gained Canadian citizenship because of his status.
He was single with no kids and owned a small condo in Maine where he was currently based.
After his honorable discharge from the Marines, he’d begun doing private security, taking on a variety of gigs, including one for Mr. Kent.
Hughes Holloway was a 37-year-old ex-military sniper.
He’d served three tours with the 75th Ranger Regiment in the Middle East before hanging up his rifle and walking away from Uncle Sam.
The details about his post-military life were vague, containing a few references to possible mercenary work.
He’d switched to private security after having been recruited by CLEVER, Inc.
, Ms. Goodman’s private security firm. He was the son of a British businessman, Oliver Holloway, and an American cardiologist, Melissa Holloway, both of whom had been killed in a car accident, along with his younger sister Hannah.
“So—I have daddy issues, and you’re still a weeping orphan,” Beckett summarised after comparing the files.
“Weeping orphan?” Hayes asked, more amused than annoyed, as he decided to play it up.
“We’ve all got baggage, Nancy, is all I’m saying,” Beckett commented and closed his file, confident that he had all the details down pat.
“When have I ever wept about being an orphan,” Hayes asked, struggling to keep a straight face.
“No use getting fussy about it—” Beckett said, dancing around the question.
Hayes scoffed. “I’m not! I’m—”
“Are you boys ready?” Matthew interrupted Hayes as he came strolling into the room dressed as the MC at the White House of Sluts.
His white dress shirt had been left open to expose his chest halfway to his waist. His three-piece, pin-striped, charcoal suit accentuated his olive complexion perfectly.
His hair was slicked back in a way that should have made him look like a cheap Lothario, but he’d cleverly allowed a few strands in the front to remain loose and curling against his forehead—making him look sophisticated rather than cheap. Beckett fucking hated the sight of him.
“Dolce & Gabbana?” Hayes knew all the high end designers and the latest fashions, and that was not a knock off suit.
Matthew shrugged carelessly. “I am Italian—” he declared with a smirk. “And a little eccentric,” he admitted, placing special emphasis on eccentric, as if it had been directed at him at some point as an insult rather than praise.
Silently, Matthew grabbed the files off the counter, walked over to the paper shredder next to his desk and shredded the files. He turned back to them with a broad smile.
“Ready to dance, gentlemen?”
“For the record—I see a shit show in our future,” Beckett said, before sighing and cracking his neck to one side and then the other.
“I’ll take the lead—you watch our six,” he told Hayes.
To get into character, Beckett pressed a finger to his ear, pretending to activate a communications device and said, “Figaro is on the move.” Leading the way out of the condo, he scanned thoroughly for potential threats.
“Who’s he talking to?” Matthew asked as he looked at Beckett like he was crazy.
“His demons,” Hayes replied with a chuckle. “He has so many—he actually employs them.”
And Beckett chuckled at that, because fuck yeah, no one got to live in his head rent free—you wanted room and board? You worked for it. As the hippies in the early 70s used to say, “Gas, grass or ass—nobody rides for free!”