A New Empire: A Fog City Novel

by Layla Reyne

  Life, work, companies had to evolve. They had to evolve. To keep up with technology, with the criminal landscape, and with the new and better tools law enforcement had to navigate their world. And he had to evolve. His conscience demanded it—demanded justice—ever since the night he shot a supposedly innocent woman.

  He didn’t say any of those things to his grandmother.

  “I was taking steps to insulate us from the law.”

  “And now they’re closer than ever.”

  She wasn’t wrong, though the attention from law enforcement had started long before his ascension. Hawes remembered his parents’ many absences, Cal and Rose’s too, the closest scrutiny coming when Noah and Charlotte had died. Lying low, hiding from enemies and the law after particularly high-profile jobs, one of which had killed his parents. They operated an organization of assassins; attention from the law would always follow them. But it didn’t have to be the kind they ran and hid from, and they didn’t have to engage in side businesses—like manufacturing and trafficking explosives—that attracted even more attention. He would not put his niece and any future niblings, or if he was lucky enough, his own children, in the situation he and his siblings had been in as teens. Of being alone when they needed their family most. And yes, law enforcement was closer than ever—with Chris and Kane inside their circle, and Mel and her connections a phone call away. They were inside, yes, but working with them. Making their city safer. Crusading, maybe. Surviving, definitely.

  He didn’t say any of that to his grandmother either.

  “I recognize my errors,” he said instead, twisting deeper those knives she’d thrown. “I acknowledge them, they’re mine, which is why I’m here. To clean up my mess, and I need your help to do that.”

  “I don’t trust you,” she said.

  “I don’t trust you either.” No sense beating around that bush. And no sense appealing to familial ties; that was clearly a nonstarter, given her inference of disrespect. Deference, then. “But I’ll answer your questions truthfully, here and now. And then maybe we can negotiate a way forward.” He gestured to the visitor’s chair. “May I?”

  The blue-on-blue stare-down lasted ten long seconds before Rose nodded. His ass had barely hit the seat when the inquisition began.

  “Where have you been the past twenty-four hours?”

  “There was the small matter of evidence to destroy.”

  “I saw the news,” she said. “No one mentioned any bodies being found on board the salvage vessel.”

  “Probably because they’re still trying to identify them.”

  “How many?”

  “Six.” Lie one. “Reeves, Gilbert, Zoe, two mercs, and the fed.”

  “Which one?”

  “ATF agent Scott Wheeler.”

  “The other fed lived?”

  Hawes kept his face blank as he pulled Chris’s service weapon from the holster nestled uncomfortably under his arm. He’d swung by his condo before coming here, for a shower and a change of clothes, and to dig the shoulder holster out of the bottom of his closet. After three years, carrying again felt unnatural, as had the several times he’d handled this particular weapon over the past two weeks. It was a relief to get it off him and lay it in the center of the desk. “I shot him, with his own gun, and he fell overboard into the Bay. That’s the last time I saw him.”

  Rose flicked her gaze to the gun, then back up to him. Granted, she could pick it up and shoot him at any second, but she would have done that already if she was going to. “He doesn’t seem to want to die,” she said. “He’s at SF General, recovering from surgery.”

  Hawes slid back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “I didn’t intend for him to live.” Lie two.

  “And if I asked you to take that gun and kill him? For good this time?” She said it casually, as if asking him to do a small favor for her. Not like she was asking him to snuff out the flame that had burned through him the past two weeks, hot and bright. To kill the promise of what that heat might spark where there had been so little warmth for years.

  “I would, if that’s what it takes to win back your trust.” Lie three. “Though I think that’s an unwise move. He’s too visible.”

  “He won’t stop until he learns what happened to Isabelle.”

  “What did happen to Isabella?”

  Finally, a flinch. Because he’d used the undercover agent’s real name that Chris had drilled into him? Or because there was more there? “It’s the past,” she said. “We need to move on.”

  Not so fast. “I thought you wanted me to respect the past?”

  “Yes, respect our decision on how that particular matter was handled.”

  There was that word: handled. Hawes wanted to rail. He didn’t do that either, because there was definitely more there, which made the lies and restraint worth it. “He no longer has jurisdiction,” Hawes said. “I saw the coverage too. The ATF seized the explosives and closed the case. His boss, SAC Tran, said so in the press conference. If Perri persists, we report him, and he’ll be out of our hair.”

  “That’s been taken care of already.”

  Hawes forced himself not to lurch forward in his chair. “Tran’s in your pocket?”

  No answer.

  Fuck, the last thing Chris needed was someone inside his own agency gunning for him too. How had Rose gotten to an ATF SAC? How long ago? “Have you known what the ATF was up to all along?”

  “No one was watching while I kept tabs. While I kept this family and its legacy as the number-one priority.” Fire burned in her eyes, and a small smile turned up the corners of her mouth. Too reminiscent of Helena’s when she had her target right where she wanted them.

  A full-body chill raised the hairs on Hawes’s arms. He waited for it to pass before speaking, not wanting his voice to waver. “You have to give us that information, if we’re to continue to carry on the legacy.”

  “I gave it to one of you. The one I trusted implicitly.”

  “Amelia.”

  “You want to prove your loyalty to me and to this family? Get Amelia back.”

  “We’ve gotten her the best attorney—”

  She reached out and pushed the gun back toward him, her eyes piercing and determined. “That will take too long.”

  Hawes eyed the gun warily as he struggled to wrap his brain around the gauntlet that had been laid in front of him. This sort of extraction was not in their usual job description. “You want me to break her out?”

  “I need her for the next phase.” With her manicured nails, Rose traced the edge of the framed photo of Lily that Hawes kept on his desk. “And Lily needs to visit with her mother.”

  Hawes didn’t disagree, though the implication that Holt wasn’t enough rankled. As did the implication that Holt would somehow deprive Amelia of contact with Lily, even while Amelia was in prison. What rankled most, though, was Hawes’s certainty that Rose’s motive for getting Amelia back had more to do with needing her to hack something—again, lack of confidence in Holt—than with Lily’s well-being.

  “How do I know she won’t kill me the instant I free her? That my death or my siblings’ isn’t a part of your next phase?”

  “She has her orders. And you’re going to have to trust me.” When her gaze cut to the gun again, Hawes read the silent order and retrieved the weapon, securing it back in his holster. “You are my grandson. My blood. I love you. I don’t want to kill you, or Holt, or Helena. But I will do what I have to to get this family and our businesses back on track. To see that Cal’s, Noah’s, and Charlotte’s contributions don’t go disrespected or wasted. We retain our power and protect it for future generations. That’s how the Madigans survive and prosper.”

  Power, by force and might. Same as Amelia had argued. And what did power respect? More power. She’d perceived him as weak, so she hadn’t respected his rule. He’d have to show power to earn back her respect and trust and to fool her into believing he’d returned to the fold. And then he’d give her a
goddamn coup.

  But there still had to be an escape route for the innocents. Her affection for Lily, he hoped, would make her amenable. “A show of trust, in return?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

  “No harm comes to Kane.”

  “I thought you recognized and acknowledged your errors.”

  “I’m not asking for myself or because Brax is a cop. I understand that was an ill-conceived alliance. I’m asking because we’ve kept one member of this family relatively clean, and if anything happens to the rest of us, he’s going to need his best friend to help him pick up the pieces. For Lily.”

  “That dependency—”

  “Is something none of us can understand. We didn’t live through what they did.” While Holt had never told them exactly what had happened in his last year of service, Hawes was certain his twin wouldn’t have survived at all if not for Braxton Kane.

  Rose folded her hands in her lap. “All right. And in any event, if he becomes a problem, I can have his badge with a phone call.”

  “Just don’t take his life.”

  “And you’ll free Amelia?”

  Hawes stood and buttoned his coat, as satisfied as he could be negotiating his life and those of his loved ones with his own grandmother. “I’ll make it happen.”

  Hawes held it together long enough to make it to his condo. Just barely. He closed the door, activated the security locks, and flipped on the hallway lights. Propped against the foyer pole, he toed off his shoes and tilted back his head, staring at the ceiling and counting—wires, track lighting, sprinkler heads. Anything to calm the rapid breaths that had started in the Lyft. Once they’d crossed King, on their way to his place in South Beach, some part of his brain had judged him far enough away from MCS and his grandmother to begin to unravel.

  And now the threads were slipping faster, while the pressure on his chest mounted, like a landslide of rocks burying him, making it hard for his lungs to expand and take in air. Pushing off the pole, he shed his coat and ripped out of the shoulder harness, tossing both at the loft stairs. He loosened his shirt buttons and staggered toward the open living area, toward more air.

  Iris greeted him at the dining table, winding around his ankles. The weight on his chest eased a measure as he knelt and ran his fingers through her silky black coat. She meowed pitifully. “I know, girl. I’m sorry I haven’t been around much. It’ll get better soon, I promise.”

  She blinked her big yellow eyes at him, then, as if judging him a liar, she turned tail and scaled furnishings and cabinets, disappearing over the half wall to his lofted bedroom. Someone else he’d let down. Someone else whose trust he had to win back. Add her to the list. A list that was about to get even longer.

  His windpipe constricted as more boulders piled on, stealing his breath and balance, forcing him to brace his hands on the table. He dug his nails into the weathered wood and willed steadiness and control back into his being. Didn’t work. Frustrated at the weakness in his limbs, at his lack of control over this whole goddamn situation, at the losses suffered and those likely still to come, he lashed out, sweeping an arm across the table. A stack of cookbooks, a paperback, a water glass, and a leftover coffee mug tumbled to the floor, the latter two shattering.

  He stole a breath. Finally.

  Desperate for another, Hawes spun and searched for his next target. Desk. He kicked the rolling chair out of the way, then cleared the desktop with two satisfying passes of his arm. Papers, pens, and other home office detritus clattered to the floor.

  Breathing came a little easier.

  He uncuffed his sleeves, rolled them up, then launched himself over the couch. He flipped over the coffee table, sending a vase and remotes flying, on his way to tearing apart the media unit. By the time he was done, vinyl records, more books, and two broken game controllers littered the floor.

  But he could breathe. Lungs finally full, almost to bursting, he ripped off his shirt and braced his hip against the panic room ladder, sucking in giant gulps of air and expelling them in choked huffs. Just this side of sobs. He closed his stinging eyes, saw his grandmother’s cold blue ones in his mind, and when his windpipe constricted again, he shifted to kick the ladder. And only managed to hurt his foot, the ladder locked into place on its short track. But the pain was good. It provided a point of focus other than the knives still lodged in his heart, twisting and tearing him apart every time he remembered Rose’s words. Her accusations. Her expectations.

  Fuck, he needed something stronger than the twinge of pain in his foot. He bypassed the liquor cabinet, wanting cold oblivion tonight rather than the burn of whiskey. On his way to the kitchen, he kicked the closest metal barstool at the island, and the line of them toppled over, the crash loud and satisfying, dampening her words that played on repeat. The cool, crisp Pilsner he grabbed from the fridge, and drained, muted them further.

  But it did nothing to mute the very real voice that came from overhead. “Feel better now?”

  The empty bottle slipped through Hawes’s fingers and would have shattered on the floor if he hadn’t slowed its momentum with his foot. Hawes bobbled the bottle with his toe, nudged it toward the recycling bin, then lifted his gaze, and lifted it more, to the man whose head and torso appeared over the loft wall above the kitchen. The very last person who should be here. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped at Special Agent Christopher Perri.

  Not that he wasn’t happy to see him. He was happy and so fucking relieved—Chris was here, alive and breathing, his brown eyes alert and his long hair tied up in a messy topknot—but the two of them spending time together, here at Hawes’s condo, was possibly the most dangerous thing either of them could do right now.

  “Thought you might need to let go,” Chris said. His gaze wandered past Hawes, to the open area behind him. “Did a fine job of that yourself.”

  Hawes looked over his shoulder at the mess he’d made… The mess… He shook away the nagging conversation with Rose and focused on the mess here. His eyes tracked to the far end of his unit, to the giant glass windows and balcony doors there. “If someone saw you or heard you…”

  “We’re clean for bugs.”

  Hawes opened his mouth to remind Chris of the clever bug he’d planted here a week ago, but the agent beat him to it.

  “I even checked Iris,” he said. “And no one saw me. I kept it dark, then came up here to stay out of sight.” He nodded toward the windows, and hair escaped his wobbly bun. “And because lying down is easier on this.” He cringed as he shrugged his bandaged shoulder, ignoring the sling that was clearly supposed to keep it stable and still.

  Breathing became difficult again. “Fuck, I’m so—”

  “I told you to shoot me. Did it work?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” Resting back against the island, Hawes curled his fingers over its edge. He closed his eyes and hung his head, reality heavy as fuck again. “My own—”

  “We’ll talk about that after.”

  Hawes blinked and lifted his head. “After?”

  “Get up here, Madigan.”

  His small inviting smile made Hawes’s stomach flip, in a good way. Made Hawes want to sprint down the hallway and up the stairs to the loft. He forced himself to do the opposite. To pick up the beer bottle, wash it out, and toss it into the recycling bin. To right the barstools. To grab his coat and gun holster off the stairs, to hang up the first and secure the latter in the closet safe, before finally taking the closet-side stairs one at a time up to the loft.

  Chris, in jeans and nothing else, was waiting in the center of the bed, stretched out with Iris on his bare belly, scratching her behind her ears. Maybe she hadn’t been abandoning him earlier but rather returning to her new favorite human. Hawes would be jealous if not for Chris’s heated gaze tracking his every step as he moved to the side of the bed.

  “I’m a little offended it took you so long to get up here.”

  Hawes reached out and pushed back a strand
of hair that had fallen across Chris’s face. “I was trying not to seem desperate.” He lingered there, tangling his fingers in the hair at Chris’s temple.

  Chris’s gaze raked down his body to the erection tenting Hawes’s slacks. So much for not seeming desperate. Smile wicked, Chris shooed Iris off his lap and off the bed. Sitting up, he swung his legs around to hang on either side of Hawes’s. His molten gaze burned back up Hawes’s body, as did his right hand, up the back of Hawes’s thigh and over his ass, kneading a cheek possessively. “You desperate, Madigan?”

  Stepping forward, Hawes wove both hands into Chris’s hair, loosening the hair tie so the strands fell loose through his fingers. He cupped the back of Chris’s head, tilted his face up, and stared into his dark eyes as relief pushed balance and steadiness back into him. So much relief. Chris was here, alive, and he was letting Hawes touch him like this, after everything. “More desperate than you know,” he said, voice rough with need. “But we should talk. So much has—”

  “We’ll talk, but I don’t think that’s what either of us needs right now.” Hand tightening on Hawes’s ass, Chris drew him closer and nuzzled his belly. “And I know about desperate.” He opened his mouth, and warm breath seared Hawes’s skin. “Fuck, baby, I know.”

  Hawes’s stomach more than flipped, and his right hand did a fine imitation of its somersaulting, flitting above Chris’s left shoulder. “But your injury.”

  Chris captured his hand and pressed it lightly against the bandages. “This,” he said, then using Hawes’s hand in his, pulled Hawes onto the bed with him, and once they were stretched out, dragged Hawes’s hand down to his crotch. “Has nothing to do with this.”

  Hawes curved his fingers over Chris’s dick, stroking it through the denim. Hard as Hawes’s, and from the groan that rumbled out of Chris, aching just as badly. “Are you—”

  Chris surged up, cutting him off with a kiss that silenced anything and everything but Hawes’s need to be with him. His need to taste every corner of Chris’s mouth, to bury his nose in the crook of his neck and inhale the scent of eucalyptus, to feel every inch of his body against—inside—his own.