by Layla Reyne
She shrugged a shoulder, insolent teenager in full effect.
“Let me guess,” Chris said. “This has to do with the guy.”
“Ethan,” she supplied. “And no. Aunt Ang was supposed to teach me the mistletoe cannoli recipe this week.”
“Fuck, Mia,” Chris said, genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry to make you miss that.”
“Language,” Celia said as she crossed the family room toward them. She dropped Marco’s duffel next to Mia’s, then kissed the crown of her daughter’s head. “And I’ll teach it to you this week at the cabin.”
Gasping, Mia swiveled in her chair. “You’ve known this entire time?”
Celia shrugged, and Chris laughed at the similarities between mother and daughter. His smile lingered at seeing the spark back in Celia’s eyes. He hated asking his sister to drop everything at the shop, and likewise interrupting Gloria’s, Mia’s, and Marco’s lives, but he needed them safe, which meant far away from the shit going down here. At least Celia had a solid garage staff to cover for her, and the kids would get a nice midsummer vacation on the lake. Chris wished, more than a little, that he could join them. Maybe also bring—
“Chris, grab the cannoli ingredients and add them to the cooler,” Celia said, snapping him out of his daydream.
Mia whirled back around, glaring at him. “You too, Baelish? Traitors, the whole fucking lot of you.”
“Language!” Celia chided again, but the accompanying laughter belied her scolding. “I’m going back up to herd the others.”
She disappeared up the stairs while Chris made several trips to the fridge and pantry, gathering cannoli ingredients and adding them to the cooler. “We’re all taught the recipe, right around your age. But there’s usually only one in a generation with the patience to make them.”
“I can’t wait to learn,” Mia said, eager in a way she wasn’t about most things at her age. “I’ve got the muffins down and the cookies too. Cannoli would be an awesome way to end the summer.”
Chris figured he knew who’d be second in command at AB’s before long. More immediately, though, there was another piece of family history he needed Mia to protect. From his saddlebag, he retrieved the weathered Sendak book which had been his daughter’s, Rochelle’s, favorite.
“Why do you have that with you?” Mia asked.
He lowered himself into the chair next to her. “I need you to keep it safe for me.”
Worry overtook her expressive features—dark brows drawn, the darker eyes beneath them wide, her upper teeth worrying her bottom lip. “Why’s it not safe at your place?”
He opened the book to the picture of Ro tucked between two pages. “I’m probably being overly cautious.” His condo was between two other units in a three-story Mission Dolores Edwardian. A property-destroying attack was unlikely, but he couldn’t be sure with the way things were escalating. And he had to be sure with this. “I can’t let anything happen to this piece of her.” He closed the book, picture tucked safely back inside, and held it out to Mia, who’d been Ro’s biggest fan and best friend. “Can you do that for me?”
Eyes glassy, Mia took the book and tucked it into her bag.
“Thank you,” he said, extending his good arm for a hug.
She tipped sideways into him. “Thank you for trusting me with it.”
Trust went hand in hand with family, or it should have. Chris couldn’t help but think of Hawes and the betrayals of trust he’d suffered lately. His grandmother, Amelia, his lieutenants, Chris.
Chris hoped he’d done enough last night to convince Hawes he could be trusted, but Hawes would still be within his rights not to trust him. And vice versa. But at least they were moving toward the same goal. Hawes and Rose weren’t, which Chris feared would undermine any trust the one was pretending to have in the other. Which would in turn lead to God only knew what kind of chaos in the coming days.
A series of thunks on the stairs drew Chris out of his thoughts and up from the table, hurrying over to help Celia with the suitcases. “We’re about ready,” she said. “Lake Tahoe, here we come.”
“How did you magically make a cabin in Tahoe appear?” Mia asked.
Chris tossed his badge onto the table with a grin.
“Didn’t your mom teach you not to lie, Mr. Hair?”
Chris glanced over his shoulder to find Helena, dressed in riding leathers, strutting across the parlor, arm in arm with his mother.
“Of course I did,” Gloria said. “Can I get you a coffee, dear?”
“That’d be lovely, thank you.”
Chris waited until Gloria was out of earshot before murmuring, “Way to invade my family.”
Helena shoved her helmet at him and shook out her hair. “You invaded mine first.”
Celia snorted. “Nice to see someone throwing it back at him for a change.”
“Hey!” Chris protested, but neither woman seemed to notice him.
“You have something to do with this impromptu trip to Tahoe?” Celia asked Helena.
“My brother, but I’m gonna make sure you get out of town safely.”
Celia’s blush knocked five years off her thirty, until the flirtatious grin fell from her face and she turned fretful eyes to Chris. “Are you—”
“I’ll be fine, Cee.”
Gloria rejoined them and handed a steaming mug to Helena. Her words, however, were for Chris. “We just got you back.”
“And I’m not going away again that easily,” he told the three Perri women staring at him with the same skeptical eyes.
“Mom!”
Saved by the screaming preteen upstairs.
“Duty calls,” Celia said, then to Helena, “Hold him to that.”
“Count on it.”
Celia nudged Mia up from the table, beckoning her to help Gloria take the first load of luggage down to Celia’s SUV in the garage.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Chris said, once it was just him and Helena in the room.
“No one saw me.”
He set her helmet on the table. “You don’t think anyone will see you escorting them out of town?”
“If anyone sees anything, it’ll look like I’m tailing them.” She sipped from the mug, then judging it worthy, gulped less cautiously. “Do you trust anyone else to do it?”
Of course he didn’t. “Thank you.”
“You need to focus.” She finished her coffee and moved to the kitchen to wash out the mug. “And they need to be safe for that.”
He leaned a hip against the counter next to her. “Well, this does save me the hassle of hauling you and Holt into the station.”
“Why were we coming to the station?”
“It was supposed to look like we’re cutting ties.”
“As a front for what?”
“Planning Amelia’s jailbreak. Hawes met with Rose last night. She demanded a show of loyalty and her right hand back in play.”
“Fuck.” Her confident nonchalance disappeared, and she braced both hands on the counter, shoulders hiked and head hung between them. Loose blonde strands hid her expression, but Chris could guess at it well enough. He covered her hand closest to his, as he’d done before at the hospital, giving her quiet support as she gathered herself. She kept things buttoned up, same as Hawes, but where his control manifested as chilly and untouchable to outsiders, Helena played the family spitfire, strategically aiming all that fire in the courtroom or in dark alleys. Or in a well-timed caustic barb. Which made these quiet moments even more stunning, same as the woman.
She inhaled deeply, relaxed her shoulders, and lifted her head. “How is he?”
“Better.” Chris tossed her a goodwill match. “After I spent the night with him.”
She scoffed and rolled her eyes, and when they righted, he was glad for the mischief and gratitude sparking in them again. “Thank you for being there for him.”
“He needs all of us now.”
“How does he want us to play this?”
“How do you wa
nt to play this?” Chris knew Hawes’s plan, but it wasn’t a bad idea to solicit a tactical perspective from the deadliest of the Madigan assassins and the person who spent her days testing the limits of judge and jury. She was a master tactician in her own right. Chris also wanted to see if the siblings were on the same page.
“We need to look like we’re falling in line. Like Rose’s takeover succeeded. At the same time, we work behind the scenes on a takeover of our own. Turn this whole shitshow back around on her.”
Confirmation of Hawes’s strategy and of the sibling synergy Chris admired, at least with respect to Hawes and Helena. But as to Holt… “Your other brother feel that way?”
“Let’s find out.” Helena withdrew a phone from her pocket and laid it on the counter.
A call was connected to a number Chris didn’t recognize. The voice, however, he did. “I’m onboard,” Holt said. “Helena can rally the captains.”
Chris shifted his gaze between the phone and Helena. “He’s been listening the entire time?”
“Yes,” Holt said, “and Helena will give you the encrypted burner I sent with her as long as you shut up about your night with Hawes.”
“Seconded.” Helena dug another phone out of her other pocket and handed it to Chris. “You’re both assuming I can rally the captains.”
“Listen,” Chris said, clasping her shoulder. “While it was your brother I fell for—”
“Oho,” Helena said, brow cocked. “You’re saying it now?”
Frustration and amusement warred. “Can I please finish paying you a compliment?”
Her manicured brow lowered, and the opposite corner of her mouth hitched up. “Proceed.”
“You are damn impressive, Helena Madigan.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “That’s why Rose wanted to recruit you. The rest of the shit Reeves said—”
“Is true.” Her gaze flitted to the garage stairs.
“Hena,” Holt said gently. “What Reeves said has nothing to do with why the captains haven’t broken ranks. You’ve kept them in line because you inspire loyalty. They’ll continue to stand behind you.”
She smiled softly. “Thanks, Little H.” Then she tightened her jaw as she returned her attention to Chris. “Is that what Big H wants too?”
Didn’t matter. “Is that what you want?” Chris asked instead.
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “The rules Hawes put in place have made us better. We need to keep going in that direction.”
He was relieved she recognized that. Now she just needed to recognize in herself what everyone else did. “Then use your power to make sure they, and all of us, survive.”
Chris checked the rearview mirror for the umpteenth time in forty minutes. He didn’t spot any tails other than the motorcycle several car lengths back. While Chris knew the bike was there, the casual observer wouldn’t think anything of it. Just another vehicle on the road. The rider did a good job blending in. Not as good as Chris would have done if he were on his bike, but good enough to make Chris jealous. With one arm still in a sling, he wasn’t about to risk the Hog, so he’d borrowed his mom’s CR-V for this quick errand out of the city.
Another mile south and his exit appeared. Chris signaled to exit the freeway, without his tail. The motorcycle would continue on ahead, down 280 to the next exit, as they’d arranged. Following the map Hawes had drawn, Chris wound along Skyline for a few miles, crossed the intersection with Highway 92, then veered onto Cañada Road. As the Crystal Springs Reservoir glimmered to his right, he rolled down the windows and let the warm afternoon air inside, thawing him out from the city fog he’d left behind. He rounded a bend between two marshes, and then, as cypress trees rose on either side of the road, he came upon two weathered driveway posts. Chris turned onto the gravel drive, which sloped down toward the water. At the bottom of the hill, on the shore of the man-made lake, he came upon a collection of Cape Cod style buildings—cedar shake siding, pitched gabled roofs, and huge picture windows—all in various states of renovation. He parked in front of the largest of the three structures and was unloading tote bags from the trunk when the front door opened.
Chris almost dropped the bags. “I didn’t think you owned any denim.”
“Not mine,” a dressed-down Scotty Wheeler replied. “There was a stack of clothing and first-aid supplies waiting for me when I arrived.” He plucked at the untucked hem of the Gravity Craft Brewery tee he wore with a pair of Levi’s. And no shoes. “Fits well enough.”
“Casual looks good on you,” Chris said, even if the rest of Wheeler looked rough. Wheeler was a pale guy to begin with, but the near-translucent pallor of his skin was worrisome. As were the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. Chris reached the top of the porch steps, next to where Wheeler stood leaning against a post. “How you doing, Scotty, for real? Hiding out and playing dead isn’t worth it if you actually end up dead.” Collateral damage was collateral damage, and Chris wouldn’t let Wheeler fall into that category with Izzy.
“Thanks, I think,” Wheeler said with a half smile. “And I’ll manage. It’s more lack of sleep than anything. It’s too quiet here at night. No bugs making a racket, and way the fuck out here, no city noise either. I was up all night, jumping any time the windows or floors creaked, and—” He cut himself off and ran a hand down his weary face. “And now I’m rambling because tired and too much coffee. Sorry.”
Chris grinned, concern banked in favor of amusement. “You know your Southern accent gets thicker when you’re tired and rambly?”
“I’m aware.” He sounded as annoyed at himself as he was at Chris for mentioning it. Chris chuckled, and Wheeler gave up being perturbed. Smiling, he nodded at the sling. “How about you?”
“It’s more of a hindrance than anything.” Like not being able to ride his bike and not having two hands to juggle the tote bags, which he lifted again one-handed. “Let’s get these inside. Groceries.”
“You didn’t need to do that,” Wheeler said, holding the front door open. “The clothes fairy stocked the fridge and pantry too, though there was a shocking amount of Dunkin’ Donuts. If they weren’t so damn good, I’d be offended on behalf of LEOs everywhere.”
Before Chris could inform him that it was likely the local FBI ASAC who’d delivered the clothes and food, they were interrupted by the crunch of gravel and rumble of an engine. The motorcycle that had been tailing Chris pulled into the drive behind the CR-V.
“What’s this?” Scotty asked.
“Something else you need,” Chris said with a wink. The driver dismounted, removed their helmet, and ran a hand through their platinum Mohawk, fluffing it back to life. “You remember Jax?”
“Agent Wheeler,” the IT specialist greeted. “Glad to see you’re not dead.”
“Scotty, please,” Wheeler said. “And thank you.”
“You mind some company?” they asked. “Agent Perri said you might need some help.”
“With the investigation,” Chris added, before Wheeler could object, correctly, to Chris’s ulterior motive, namely not wanting Wheeler recovering out here alone. “No such thing as too many hackers.”
Jax waited at the bottom of the steps, two saddlebags in hand. “And I make good coffee.”
Wheeler narrowed his eyes at Chris, onto the truth, but his smile for Jax was grateful and polite. “I’d be happy for the help and the coffee. But fair warning, this place is spooky as fuck.”
Wheeler wasn’t lying. Once they got everything inside and unpacked, and Jax was setting up their computer workstation at the half-finished kitchen bar, Chris surveyed the large open floor plan. With most of the sparse furnishings covered in sheets, the new mantle above the stone fireplace bare and unstained, and no blinds on the still-stickered plate-glass windows, he got the spooky-as-fuck vibe all right, even in the middle of the afternoon. It was eerily quiet, eerily desolate, and eerily half-finished.
Chris swept his gaze from the sunken living room to the raised dining area, and to the long, wood
en table covered in files and papers. “You’ve been working?” he said to Wheeler.
“Like I said, it’s fucking spooky here. Can’t sleep.”
From what Chris had seen last week, the man didn’t sleep much to start with. “What have you got?” Chris asked as he circled the table.
“Based on my conversations with you and Hawes, I’m focusing my efforts in two places.” Standing across from Chris at the middle of the table, Wheeler stretched an arm out to the right. “Connecting Rose to current events, namely the explosives and the related incidents over the past couple of weeks.” Then to the left. “And connecting her to past events, including the night Agent Constantine was killed.”
Not died; killed. Chris nodded at Wheeler for that acknowledgment, then moved toward the collection of evidence on present events. He spied a receipt for a private air charter, from San Francisco to Monterey, the closest airport to the remote coastal inn where the lieutenants who had betrayed Hawes had met and plotted the coup. “The dates line up?” Chris asked.
Wheeler nodded and handed him a copy of a page from the mayor of Monterey’s official calendar. “She was on the mayor’s agenda that day to discuss a fundraiser for Alzheimer’s research. I called to verify the meeting. Rose cancelled at the last minute.”
“Because she never intended to go. She was only using it as cover.” He noticed a highlighted phone record next and slid it closer. “Rose’s call log?”
“Yes. As I mentioned, she’s been in contact with ex-Madigan clients. Those are the top three. Reeves, the Neo-Nazi who died in the sting last week, and Elliot Brewster.”
Jax gasped. “The Madigans worked with that asshole?”
“He was the first person Hawes cut off when he assumed control.”
“And one of the first people to reach out to Rose.” Chris tapped at the earliest highlighted entry, only a few weeks after Cal stepped down and Hawes took over.
Chris wasn’t surprised that Hawes had cut Brewster off, or that Brewster had tried to use Rose to get back in the Madigans’ good graces. He was a dealmaker, legit and otherwise. He fronted as a commodities trader, but in reality, weapons were his most profitable items of trade. He’d been on the ATF’s radar for years. He also had a bad habit of treating women like objects to be traded too. He was presently on wife number four and had twice been accused of domestic violence. No charges either time, of course. It was almost as if he used the news generated from those incidents to cover his other illegal dealings. He hadn’t been mentioned in any of Izzy’s files, but that just meant he was more careful than Reeves. Or that Callum and Rose shielded contact with him particularly well.