Chapter Two
“ H ow can St. Michael’s Solutions help you, Miss Foster?”
Ivy looked across the café table at the sexiest man she’d ever seen and managed to keep her sigh of appreciation internal. Barely.
Blue eyes with a faint Asian tilt assessed her from a face that looked carved from granite, all hard, chiseled lines that would have been better suited to a fashion runway than this off-Strip café three blocks from her home/studio.
She could see him in one of her paintings. Maybe in a Spartan warrior’s garb, ready for battle. But shirtless. Definitely shirtless.
Hair dark as a raven’s wing brushed against his forehead, but sat precisely where it should at his nape, right at regulation length. His mouth was the most sinful she’d ever seen and made her want things she really, really shouldn’t. Not right now, at least.
Because she wasn’t here for herself, she was here for Katie.
“Thank you for meeting me,” she said, spinning her mug in a nervous circle.
Outside, the Las Vegas heat was beginning to ramp up, promising another scorching July day, but inside the café it was cool and smelled of coffee and vanilla and whipped cream. Of comfort, of familiarity, which she desperately needed right now.
Calling the number on the card that had been passed to her by an old friend of her father’s had been a Hail Mary. She hadn’t expected much but had to try.
She’d done her due diligence, finding one or two oblique mentions of the mysterious organization that aided Air Force members in need in online forums, but nothing else. So she’d called, because she had nothing left to lose. Two days later she’d received a text requesting a meeting at her choice of location. And here they were.
“My friend Katie McAlister is missing. Has been for almost a month. The police won’t help because she’s an adult. They said she’s probably met a man and gone off with him.” She shrugged helplessly. “I can see where they’d think that. I checked her apartment, and she packed a bag, and there’s no sign of a struggle.” Now that she’d started talking the words came out in a torrent. “She’s never ghosted me before, and we’ve known each other since we were little kids. It’s not like her to disappear.”
“What’s her employer say?”
“She’s an independent contractor who works as an editor and assistant for writers. But none of her regular clients have heard from her lately.”
“What about family?”
Ivy shook her head. "Her parents passed a few years ago, that's when she moved out here from Charleston. She was an only child. I guess you could say I'm her family now."
“Social media?” The SMS operative’s words were short, clipped, and yet were exactly what the cops hadn’t asked.
“Completely silent, which also isn’t like her. I’ve DM’d her accounts in addition to texting and calling.” Katie’s silence to both Ivy and her audience was completely out of character. While her friend wasn’t an influencer, she did have quite a social media following and regularly interacted with authors and readers. The fact she’d stopped posting was ominous. “I also put a post on her pages, more of a general complaint about us not getting together enough. I can’t think of any other way to reach her.”
“When did you last hear from her?”
“Just over three weeks ago. We were supposed to meet for coffee here and she never showed up. She’d texted me that morning, reminding me to be here.” Guilt tugged at her. “Sometimes I get wrapped up in a project and lose track of time. She’s always giving me shit about it.”
“What do you do?”
She looked down at her hands, at the remnants of paint in the creases of her knuckles, the lack of polish on nails clipped short. “I’m an artist,” she replied, leaving it at that. The cops had blown her off after meeting her in her studio for their interview. Apparently, her eclectic style and work downtown looked more like tagging to them than art. Never mind that her paintings hung in several off-Strip, reputable casinos.
Rich owners liked to scoop up investment art, liked to show that they were supporting art as a whole. And if they were wrong and the artist never panned out? Well, that was a tax deduction.
Her mind leapt from subject to subject to subject as he let the silence draw out for what seemed like forever.
“What if she did find a man? When we locate her, what will that do to your friendship?”
After such curt, short questions, this was almost a soliloquy. And interesting because he’d thought to ask it. His voice was deep, as dark as his hair, and made her almost shiver in response. But she didn’t because she was here for business of a sort, and she couldn’t be her usual, eccentric self when it came to something this important. She had to be serious. Had to find out what had happened to Katie.
She tilted her head. “She’ll give me shit for getting in her business, then continue what she’s doing, and when she returns, we’ll go out for drinks, and she’ll tell me all about it.” Ivy’s propensity for getting into her friend’s business had been something they’d laughed about since childhood, but especially since Katie moved to Vegas two years ago.
He mulled over her words, giving her a moment to look her fill.
He’d arrived on a sexy-as-hell motorcycle that now leaned on its kickstand in front of the café. The leather jacket he’d worn when he pulled up was draped across the back of the chair in deference to the heat, and a wicked-looking matte-black helmet was tucked beneath his seat.
Long, long legs were encased in denim that looked so soft it had to be a crime, and a gray short-sleeved Henley showed off toned, tanned arms that reinforced the strong-but-not-bulky impression.
All in all, he was sex on a stick, a somewhat broody looking prime male specimen, and he made everything inside her get all tingly.
But it wasn’t just her girl parts that sat up to take notice.
It was his attitude, she decided, as she continued to force herself to analyze when usually she was all about gut feelings.
He acted like everyone in the café was only here because he allowed them to be, even though she’d been the one to select the location.
No, that was wrong, she thought, looking at him unflinchingly now. He owned the space around him, was supremely confident despite the tiny flowery teacup framed between his big, capable-looking hands.
He’d ordered Earl Grey tea from the barista and for a moment she’d had a Star Trek flashback of Picard… “Earl Grey. Hot.” She’d stuffed down the inappropriate laughter and seated herself instead. But all that intensity was unnerving to someone like her, who shot from the hip more often than not.
He finished his cup of tea and pushed to his feet. “We’ll find her. I’ll be in touch.”
Relief washed over her. “What more do you need from me?”
“Text me a picture of Katie and her phone number,” he said as he began to walk to the door, his stride even, sure. Until someone cut in front of him, and he had to jerk out of their way. The move made that seamless gait falter a bit, look awkward in a way he hadn’t until now. He glanced back over his shoulder, met her eyes. Repeated what he’d just said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Then he was gone, and Ivy realized she didn’t even know his name.
~
Clay strode away from the café toward his bike, his ankle throbbing. Even though it had been almost two years since the plane crash that had ended his career, sometimes when he moved unexpectedly, like he just had to avoid the idiot staring down at their phone instead of where they were going, the screws and plates holding everything together rubbed wrong and made his left foot and ankle throb like a sore tooth.
But he had much nicer things to think about than his foot or the crash that had claimed all but him and Jordan.
Ivy Foster was definitely a nicer thought, regardless of what she was asking them to do.
A mane of dark hair held back in a messy, haphazard tail, as if she couldn’t be bothered with doing more than brushing it. A tanned face that said she worked outside just as much as in. Laughing hazel eyes that invited you to share the punchline to a joke she hadn’t yet told.
Then she started talking about her friend and worry pulled that lush mouth better suited for smiling into a concerned frown.
To the outside world she’d likely appear happy, maybe even silly, like nothing could deter or intimidate her. It was in the way she dressed, the flowy, gauzy skirt and emerald-hued tank that exposed toned arms and touchable skin. The clunky earth shoes that showed blue-painted toenails adorned with planets.
He’d known she was an artist, of course. They did their homework before ever meeting with a potential client. What he hadn’t known was that he’d feel the need to hold her, protect her from the world. To chase away the shadows that so obviously didn’t belong in her eyes.
And while holding her and protecting her from the world wasn’t an option, he and the others in SMS could and would take care of the shadows.
It was what they did, what they’d all committed to that fateful day in Callahans. A memory of their toast to Benny echoed in his ears.
They helped people who’d run out of resources, out of time, out of options. Usually their clients were affiliated with the Air Force in some way, just like Ivy. He’d heard Warren describe it as a cross between the old TV shows the A-Team and Leverage and had to admit the explanation fit what they did to perfection.
SMS had been exactly what each of the team had needed, in one way, shape or form, to move forward. None of them had realized they’d been in a holding pattern, but there it was.
He slid onto his baby, a brand-spanking-new Indian Scout. He’d traded in his old bike a month ago, a crotch rocket more suited to a twenty-something, and this new, matte black beast felt like the perfect transition to a new life.
Because today’s meet with Ivy Foster was his first field assignment with SMS. Until today, he’d been a back-shop guy, making sure the logistics and planning for each job were taken care of. He’d always had a particular talent for seeing where and when things needed to be, even if the big picture hadn’t quite formed yet.
Since SMS had opened their doors almost six months ago they’d helped an Airman who was getting railroaded by his command, mostly by finding the right pro-bono lawyer to take on the kid’s case before fading back into the woodwork. And now that lawyer, Anthony Smith, worked for them as well, when needed. Paid, of course.
There’d been a runaway, the teenage daughter of one of the men Cali currently served with. They’d found her using less-than-legal hacking into the phone company. The kid had made it to Dallas and had no idea what to do but was sure she didn’t want to return to Vegas. They’d sent Warren down to charm her home, and it had worked.
A few other small-time jobs that’d been short and sweet and hadn’t taken much legwork.
None of them were big moneymakers, hell, they hadn’t even taken payment for any of them, but Dev had quashed any mention of compensation, telling the clients instead to send business their way, if someone they knew was at the end of their rope.
SMS was literally designed to lose money. To be a tax write-off for Dev, though Clay wasn’t sure how that worked.
All he knew was that Devin Beck had taken the concept of St. Michael being the patron saint of the Air Force very, very seriously.
Restricting his involvement to helping Dev with planning had been his choice over the first few months, as he helped lay the groundwork needed so that they could perform flawlessly, when push came to shove. His friend had finally pushed him out the door, stating in his blunt way that Clay needed to get his ass out into the world to earn his salary.
Dev had been right, as usual. The exhilaration he felt right now was something he hadn’t realized he’d missed after his medical retirement. He’d never feel it again from the back of an airplane; his fear of flying had ensured the end of his Air Force career, but this new track his life had taken was finally starting to make him feel like a true contributor to something bigger than simply earning a paycheck.
He wove through sparse traffic, heading for their HQ a dozen blocks away.
Located between the Strat and Fremont Street, the neighborhood wasn’t the best. Wasn’t the worst either, which ensured that people minded their own business and didn’t particularly care if you came and went. Or what car you drove. Or what company you kept.
It was perfect for St. Michael’s. As was the building, an abandoned church Devin had picked up for a song before real estate in Sin City went through the roof.
SMS didn’t need the secrecy but preferred it, if for no other reason than the strangeness of their business plan.
Clay hit the gate remote and rolled the Scout through the main entrance to the church, which was papered with “Do Not Trespass” signs and into what had been a courtyard, once upon a time. Some enterprising gang had installed a chain link gate barring access to the courtyard, and Tate had upgraded it into a rolling steel door on remote.
No one was getting into the compound unless invited.
All the security wasn’t really warranted; the neighborhood wasn’t that bad and the only thing worth stealing was Dev’s computer shit, but it fit in with the impression of people who were dangerous and wanted to be left the hell alone. Which they cultivated, within reason.
Warren had schmoozed the neighbors early on, explaining that no, they weren’t a gang, but they were very private and would be good, quiet neighbors. They’d kept their end of the bargain, and had become regarded as beneficial.
Bangers didn’t come anywhere near the ‘hood now after Tate had made an example of one of them when they were hassling an old lady three doors down. He’d followed up the takedown with a visit to the gang leader. Whatever he’d said had impressed the man enough to leave them the hell alone.
Tate could be that way. Intense and forbidding. He could also be an asshat joker to those who knew him well. Who he was willing to let see beyond the surface.
He leaned the bike over on its kickstand, noticing everyone was here already.
Devin’s blend-into-the-scenery tan Escalade, Tate's in-rehab Mustang that looked almost diseased with the mottled paint and body putty and Warren’s old-man champagne-colored Caddy. Their cars fit their personalities, just like his bike fit him.
Off to the side were their business cars, a trio of identical white SUVs, completely decked out, just one step short of being armored.
Sometimes Jordan and Cali helped out, as their schedules allowed, but they weren't in residence tonight. Having the two women in integral positions on the inside of LVMPD and the Air Force had been immensely helpful already, so even if they weren't fully on-staff, they were definitely part of the team.
He swiped his key fob over the reader in the vestibule, pushing through the heavy wooden doors when he heard the locks disengage, and entered the nave.
The main body of the church had been stripped long before they’d arrived, and Devin had sunk a wad of money into making it comfortable and high tech. They all had their own places to live off-site, of course, but the choir area had been converted into an apartment, and they all took turns being on-shift.
Offices lined the sides of the space, converted from confessionals and storage, leaving the main area of the church open, with a long conference table in the middle, a seating area with big-screen TV further down and a kitchen at one end.
Devin had created a Batcave, as they liked to call it, where all of his tech stuff was housed in one of the larger rooms near the back.
The altar itself had been walled off. No one was willing to set up camp there, not even the bangers who’d squatted before SMS bought the building.
He walked to the seating area and fist bumped Tate, then sprawled out on the couch and waited for Dev to finish working on his laptop. Warren emerged from the kitchen, sandwich in one hand and plopped down near Clay.
Dev hit a few more keystrokes, then swiveled in his chair at the head of the big conference table and looked expectantly at Clay. Behind him the huge monitor came to life, filled with the background of SMS's logo of St. Michael holding his sword.
What had once been Dev’s brainchild had morphed into something none of them could have foreseen six months ago in that quiet room above the rowdy bar. Each of them had bloomed into roles they never would have imagined the day they stepped foot into the therapy room.
“Ivy Foster,” Clay began, “is looking for her friend Katie McAlister.” He’d already forwarded the info Ivy had sent him to Dev, giving their computer guru time to search for background on McAlister.
“McAlister went off the radar a little over three weeks ago. According to Foster, she packed a bag and hasn’t been heard from since. Local PD is writing it off as McAlister dipping out with a man.” He shrugged. “They might be right, but Foster is convinced something else is going down. No signs of struggle in her apartment according to Foster. McAlister is twenty-nine, blonde and blue. Works as an online personal assistant, mostly for independent authors.”
He nodded at Devin, who pulled up the picture Ivy had forwarded to him right after he left the cafe.
“Pretty thing,” Warren murmured as he studied the screen. He turned to Clay. “You thinking human trafficking or something a bit more ordinary?”
He shrugged. “Too early to tell. I believe Foster, though. She’s worried. Worried enough to do the work to find us.”
Devin looked up from his tablet. “Foster’s background is pristine. Father retired here as an aircraft mechanic from Nellis, so she’s got the background to have the SMS contact number passed along. He died fifteen years ago from an aggressive cancer that was linked to burn pits. Her mom is still here in Vegas, does a lot of charitable work. Very comfortable financially after her husband’s death, no red flags on her or her daughter. Ivy’s an artist specializing in street-centric murals but has several works hanging in high-end casinos that’s a bit more mundane. Has almost completed her master’s in art conservation. We’ve probably seen some of her work over on Fremont, she’s part of the public art program. She’s known McAlister her whole life, and I would say has a pretty good read on her character. As a client, she’s legit. Dossier on her is in your inboxes.
“As for our find, from what I was able to root out in the last fifteen minutes, Katherine McAlister moved to Vegas two years ago from Charleston, after her parents were killed in a fire. McAlister and Foster’s families were stationed together off and on throughout their formative years. She started up her business when she arrived in Vegas and has been off the radar for everything else. Her socials are all under her business name. McAlister has an apartment in Henderson rented in Foster’s name. Additionally, her phone is listed under her parent’s name in South Carolina, but my initial search confirms they are deceased. Unclear why that hasn’t been updated,” he looked at Clay, “so those are first on your list of things to find out.”
Clay nodded and wondered why Ivy hadn’t said anything at their meeting about the apartment. Then again, he’d been so disconcerted by his reaction to her that he hadn’t exactly been a stunning conversationalist.
“She’s not in jail here in Vegas, or anywhere else I can find, and I’m working hospital admissions, but those take a bit longer. There are no Jane Does matching her description at the morgue and nothing has popped in NCIC,” he said, referring the National Crime Information Center, which connected police agencies across the nation, helping them identify crime patterns ranging across multiple jurisdictions. Especially those involving unsolved homicides. It was a sobering thought, that McAlister might be dead, but it was definitely an angle they needed to pursue.
“I’m diving into police records,” he continued, “but so far, nothing here in Vegas. Next up locally is traffic cams and CCTV. I wanted to make sure we were a go before I started poking around in police records further out.”
The jobs they took were very specific and the majority of the crew had to agree to take on the client.
Dev had made it clear from the start that while he might be bankrolling this operation, SMS was a team sport. They might be Robin Hoods of a sort, but they had to agree on what jobs--and what risks--they were willing to take.
Clay wondered, not for the first time, how much of what Dev had done for The Agency had been downplayed. Because the man clearly didn’t think hacking into police records or the NCIC was a risk.
“Usual payment schedule?” Tate asked. Even though he’d been a munitions expert, he had a head for business that couldn’t be beaten, so had officially taken on the role as their numbers runner. He also ensured their equipment was top of the line and ready to go. He was basically invisible and indispensable.
Clay nodded at his question, which meant payment hadn’t even been discussed. When someone was truly scared, with nowhere else to turn, as Ivy had been, payment was the last thing on their minds.
They all waited a beat, each weighing the pros and cons.
“We don’t have anything lined up right now,” Tate said. “I vote yes. If she’s been snagged, we need to find her.”
Warren and Dev nodded in agreement, then each of them looked to Clay as the lead for this mission.
“Then let’s do this,” he said, pushing up from the couch. “Let’s go find Katie and bring her home, if that’s what the situation warrants.
~
He was no one’s fool. And he wasn’t one for bitches to push around. Never had been, never would be. So for Katie fucking McAlister to put on airs and think she was better than him, well that wouldn’t stand. He was gonna enjoy every single second putting her in her place.