Chapter 22
COLE
Some men facing potential bankruptcy would fly commercial to New York. But I’m so deep in a financial hole that one more private flight is a rounding error. I own a fucking plane. We use it.
The flight up to Teterboro is uneventful. My pilot makes good time, touching down almost fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.
Jacobson orders Kate and me to wait in the cabin with Drew Cameron while he and the two other men secure our ground transportation.
Cameron maintains his watchful stance by the door. It only takes a few minutes for him to get his signal from Jacobson. “Let’s go,” he says. “Stay close. This place is busy.”
A Cadillac limo is parked about twenty yards from the stairs, flanked by two SUVs.
The Sawgrass men walk fast enough that Kate has to skip to keep up.
Jacobson spreads a hand over her head as he hurries her into the back seat, then he stands at attention until I’m safely beside her.
I nestle a wrapped gift on the floor by my feet, a presentation box of the MacAllan 84.
It’s an absurdly dramatic offering that I hope will build goodwill before Fournier and I begin our real negotiations.
Once Jacobson is in the front passenger seat, he introduces the man behind the wheel. “Larson’s from our New York office,” he says. “Same as the drivers for the lead and tail cars. Our DC team will ride with them.”
The Sawgrass operatives move with the careful choreography of a drill team. Larson follows the lead car so closely we could be chained together. Someone clearly scouted the entire route before we arrived.
Before it seems possible, we’re rolling through the type of Brooklyn neighborhood tourists never see.
Deserted warehouses huddle along the waterfront, twilight glinting off broken windows.
An entrance to the subway yawns beneath dirty streetlights.
Larson pulls up in front of a deeply recessed door.
“You two wait here,” Jacobson says over his shoulder. “Larson? You’re on watch. The rest of us will clear the premises.”
As Kate and I settle back on the leather seat, Larson undertakes a serious study of his mirrors. After a few minutes of uninterrupted silence, I say, “Sorry you drew the short stick.”
“It’s an honor to work for Sawgrass in any capacity, sir.”
I wonder if Best requires his men to memorize that phrase.
Another five minutes go by. “How long does it take to clear the premises?” I ask.
“That depends on the layout inside, sir. And whether they encounter any hostiles.”
Larson suddenly pulls to attention like a hunting dog, eyes affixed to his side-view mirror. His right hand slips beneath his jacket in the precise area of a shoulder holster. A man and a woman are making their way down the street.
He has his arm around her shoulders. She’s teetering on sky-high red leather stilettos, clutching a trench coat that’s knotted tight around her waist. As they step up to the club door, I’m willing to bet she isn’t wearing anything under the coat.
I glance at Kate, who raises her eyebrows. The couple passes inside, and Larson returns his right hand to the steering wheel.
We wait five more minutes. “This is ridiculous,” I say, reaching for the door handle.
“Please do not exit the car, sir,” Larson says.
“I’m supposed to meet a man in three minutes.”
“I understand, sir.”
Before I can argue, Jacobson steps out of the club. For the first time since I’ve met him, he looks ruffled. He walks to the car and opens Kate’s door. “Let’s go,” he says, his voice strained. Both of us hurry from the Cadillac, crossing the sidewalk as if it’s made of lava.
Stepping over the threshold, we find ourselves in a room that looks like the lobby of a superior boutique hotel. A woman sits behind a polished mahogany table, wearing a dark blue suit that would be appropriate for any boardroom. Pins on her lapel indicate she speaks French, Spanish, and Japanese.
Gage Rider stands beside her, a scowl on his face, his hands bunched into fists. His flawless tuxedo was clearly tailored for his height and his athlete’s shoulders. He looks like he could take a swing without splitting a seam.
Five Sawgrass operatives stand in a tight circle in the far corner of the room, varying levels of rebellion on their faces. They’re flanked by two massive men in tuxedoes who might as well have Bouncer tattooed across their bald heads.
Jacobson takes up a position between his team and our host for the evening. “Sir,” Jacobson says to me. “We have not been able to secure the premises in a satisfactory manner.”
I nod so he knows I’ve heard him and then I turn my finest disarming smile on Rider. “These are Sawyer Best’s men.” I say, invoking our joint membership in the Diamond Ring. “They’re just doing their job.”
“And I’m doing mine. Keeping my club safe for all my members.”
Jacobson says tightly, “Every person on my team is a trained professional.”
“I’m well aware of that.” Rider isn’t giving an inch. “That’s why you were allowed access to the greenrooms. Men’s and women’s.”
Now I understand why the driver of the lead car was a woman.
Jacobson says to me, “We have not been able to determine the safety of the rest of the club, sir. Including the room where you will conduct your meeting.”
“Gage,” I say, refreshing my smile. “Can’t we work this out?”
He barely shakes his head. “Every club member passes through metal detectors on their way out of the greenrooms. My security team patrols the floor. I cannot subject my members to armed guards from the outside.”
Jacobson is unhappy. His team clearly feels attacked. But Rider’s explanation makes perfect sense. If I were a Dom playing a scene with my sub inside, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Back to the cars,” I say to Jacobson.
“Sir—”
“That’s another thing,” Rider says. “Your team’s vehicles can’t block the club entrance. Move the cars to the next block. You can keep one man outside the front door. The rest of your team waits up the street.”
“We will not—” Jacobson starts through set teeth.
I’m late to my meeting, and I’ve had enough. “Move the vehicles.”
“Sir—”
“Your protest is noted.”
I’ll give Jacobson credit. Once he’s lost the battle, he organizes his retreat with perfect efficiency. “Collins, you take the door. Everyone else, move out.” Jacobson turns back to Rider with a bland stare. “Is there place I can make a private phone call? I need to update Mr. Best.”
Rider isn’t the least bit intimidated. “Flynn, take him to my office.”
The Sawgrass team moves toward the door. Collins—a rangy blond soldier with the body of a linebacker—takes the lead, clearly pleased to have been singled out.
Rider waits until the door is closed before he lets down his guard. “Sorry about that,” he says, coming forward to shake my hand. “Rules are rules.”
“I understand,” I say. Then: “This is my wife.” I’m still not used to saying the phrase out loud. “Kate Lynch.” They shake and mutter pleasantries before I ask, “Fournier’s here?”
“In one of the private rooms.” Rider presses on a panel behind the mahogany desk, which proves to be a door leading to a well-lit service hallway. “I’ll take you this way.”
As Kate and I follow, Rider says, “If you were here for regular club activities, Felicia would give you the whole welcome speech. Greenrooms for our guests, men to the right, women to the left. Undress as much as you want. Make yourselves at home. If you need anything ask someone with a Kynk pin.”
He touches his lapel, and I realize he’s referring to the brass oval Felicia wears with her flags. I glance back toward the lobby, only to find that the door has closed behind us. We take a few more steps before I realize I’ve left the MacAllan behind.
“Dammit!” I say. “I brought a gift for Fournier, but I left it in the car.”
Rider touches a communications device on his lapel. “I’ll have someone get it.”
I shake my head. “My men won’t be in the mood to hand over anything to a stranger. It’ll be faster for me to get it.”
“Go on,” Rider says, gesturing back toward the door.
I look at Kate, and she gives me a sharp nod. She hasn’t said a word since we stepped inside the club. I wonder if she’s second-guessing her decision to come to Kynk. There’s no way to ask her now.
The door whispers closed behind me as I return to the foyer. Felicia is busy at her desk, greeting a guest who looks suspiciously like the man who won last year’s Oscar for Best Actor. I ease past them, nod at the bouncers, and slip out of the club.
It’s dark on the sidewalk. I expect Collins to be standing just outside the door, so he can point me toward the cars. He’s nowhere in sight, though, so I start walking down the street.
I’m not afraid of warehouse districts. Shannon dragged me through enough of them when I was a kid. I know I can hold my own in any fist fight. Besides, I’m pretty sure the seediness on this block is a calculated gesture, that Rider wants his club to look more dangerous than it is.
Still, Jacobson would have a stroke if he knew I was out here on my own. Collins better have a good story. Maybe he went with the team when they moved the cars, and he’s walking back. Maybe he had to take a piss—he could be leaning against the wall in that alley, the one opening to my left.
Muscle memory never goes away. As I pass the entrance to the alley, I automatically move toward the street, stepping out of range for any mugger who happens to lurk in the shadows. I keep my eyes up, looking for danger.
Collins is in the alley, but he isn’t taking a leak. He’s standing in a pool of light next to a sleek black limo. He’s running his fingers through slips of paper, clearly counting out bills.
“Nyet!” says the man leaning out the driver’s side window and slapping at Collins’ hand. The single word is loud on the deserted waterfront.
That’s the sum of my Russian language skills—no—but I recognize the tattooed eight-pointed star stretched across the driver’s biceps. It marks a thief, a soldier in the bratva ranks.
Collins is taking money from the Russian mob.