“What?” she asked, and something slight and warm landed on his shoulder – her hand, he thought. “Hold on, and I’ll–”
“No,” he finally managed to say. Wheezy, and pathetic, and slurred. “No…more…drugs.”
She lifted her brows. “Albie, you were in an explosion. You’ve got broken bones, and a concussion, and–”
“No drugs.”
His head was wrecked, a collection of jagged-edged pieces, sharp as glass, slick and hard to grasp. He remembered the building, the man in black, a tumble of pain, and panic, and falling.
A wave of exhaustion swept up like an unexpected tide, and threatened to drag him back under. Left him trembling and nauseated. “No drugs,” he repeated, a little firmer this time. “I’ve gotta get outta here.”
“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” she said with a snort.
“Oh. It is.”
“Sure.”
He wanted to ask her why she was here – why her, and not one of his brothers, or Raven. Wanted to ask if she still wanted to kiss him. Ask why she looked so scared. But all he could do was breathe, and fight back the dizziness, and hope the morphine wore off soon.
~*~
Eden stirred chemical-tasting cream from a plastic pouch into her bad hospital coffee and eyed the two cops guarding the door of this small waiting room. She picked up the two cups and went back to her chair beside Raven.
The other woman had her phone out, tapping at the screen. “Charlie texted,” she said, low enough the cops probably couldn’t hear. “King and Shane have just arrived. And they brought friends from America.”
“Good friends or bad friends?”
Raven slanted her a look as she tucked her phone away. “Friends with large muscles and loose morals.”
Eden took a sip of her coffee, and regretted it.
The cops at the door perked up, suddenly, stepping out into the hallway. Eden heard footfalls approaching, more than one set.
“Sir,” one of the cops started, and then froze.
“Don’t ‘sir’ me,” a familiar voice snapped, forceful as a drill sergeant. “What in the bloody hell is the meaning of this display? Uniforms crawling all over the intensive care wing? Preposterous!”
It was Morgan, she realized with a lurch. What in the…
The cops both shrank down into themselves. “Oh, um, sir, we’re only–”
“Only stepping all over my investigation, that’s what! Christ, you idiots, this is official MI5 business! And you’re about to blow my whole bloody case dragging my undercover in here like this with a goddamn armed guard!” He wasn’t a big man, but he could shout with the best of them.
The cops fell back before him, revealing a very furious and red-faced Morgan Harlowe–
And Simon Cavendish.
Eden popped up out of her seat and rushed to the doorway.
A nurse arrived at the same time, angrily shushing the lot of them. “…Very sick people in here!” In the shuffling that followed, Eden snagged hold of Simon’s sleeve and pulled him to the side.
“What’s going on?” she asked, and hoped it conveyed the dozen things she really wanted to ask.
Simon looked grim, but his expression turned to one of relief when his gaze landed on her. “Eden. There you are.”
“What’s going on?” she repeated.
He cast a cautious glance toward the cops, still backing away down the hall in the face of Morgan’s wrath. “I popped by Baskerville Hall to talk to the boys there – we’ll talk later. But. They’re putting something together. A counteroffensive. And I want to help if I can.”
“Why is Morgan here? This is too dangerous–”
“It was his idea. Flash his old credentials around, pull the MI5 card and get Cross out of here. Or would you rather leave him to get arrested?”
“Well…no.”
He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her back around, urged her forward.
Raven was already marching down the hall back toward Albie’s room, heels clipping along the floor.
Morgan waved his old ID at the cops in front of Albie’s door, and they stepped aside, though one reached for his radio.
A doctor rushed up. “What’s going on? This patient needs rest–”
“Can he be moved?” Morgan barked.
The doctor frowned. “It’s isn’t advisable–”
“But it’s possible?”
The frown became a scowl. “Technically. Yes.”
“Sorry, ma’am, but this is a matter of national security. I’m having him moved to a more secure facility.”
A half hour later, a still-loopy Albie was being wheeled for the exit.
~*~
Just a few short weeks ago, Axelle would have laughed in the face of anyone who’d suggested she’d be here fluffing pillows and fussing over the blankets for an injured Lean Dog. She’d given up on trying to justify it, it was just a simple fact at this point: whatever her feelings about the Dogs in general, she cared about this one, and the sight of him lying out cold in that hospital bed had hit her like a punch and left her breathless and close to tears. It had been so easy, before, to think of the Dogs as faceless villains, maniacal madmen twirling their mustaches and laughing at the misfortune of others.
But that wasn’t Albie. There wasn’t much about him that was legal, but there was a lot about him that was honorable. And kind. And gentle, in a way. Stepping into his ICU room had been a critical moment for her; a chance to either run away, or plant her feet and accept that she’d been wrong. About a lot of things.
She’d planted. New, tender roots pushed through the dark soil around her heart, and she didn’t care how ridiculous she looked, as she fetched a cup of water from the en suite and set it down on the bedside table.
Flash, who she’d realized was something of the club medic, sat on the side of the bed, probing at the bandages wrapped tight around Albie’s ribs. She couldn’t see much skin like this, only a sliver of toned, London-pale belly below the bandages, and a bit of his chest above; his nipples stood peaked in the cold, and the sight of them warmed her cheeks. She hoped she wasn’t blushing.
Albie flinched a little – he tried to check the motion, but it must have tweaked his ribs and he hissed a breath in through his teeth.
“Oh yeah, they’re gonna hurt,” Flash said, tugging Albie’s shirt back into place and looking at his face instead. “Feel better if you’d let me give you some of the hard stuff.”
“Just Tylenol,” Albie said tightly, jaw clenched from the pain.
“Do you have the hard stuff?” Axelle asked.
Flash shot her a look. “What do you think?”
“Right. Stupid question. Albie…” she tried.
His face was set in such stubborn lines she would have laughed at another time. “I have to stay clear-headed.”
“You have to rest.”
Flash took his chin gently in hand and turned his head side-to-side, watching the way his eye tracked. “You should listen to your girlfriend.”
Albie swatted him away; a clumsy gesture that Flash easily dodged by getting to his feet.
Axelle’s cheeks got a little warmer.
“Alright, stay hydrated,” Flash said as he moved toward the door. “Get some rest, but don’t let him sleep too much,” he said, turning to Axelle. “Make sure he’s responsive, and that his eyes – well, the one that isn’t swollen – keeps tracking and that the pupil is responsive. No trips to the loo alone in case you get dizzy and fall.”
“Christ, I’m not going to fall,” Albie muttered.
Flash gave Axelle a little facial shrug, brows jumping. “Good luck,” he said, and saw himself out.
Then it was just the two of them.
The room was the little cramped one that had been Albie’s place to spend nights as a boy, with its slanted roof and small window that looked out on the street: smeared like an oil painting now that rain had rolled in over the city. Nowhere to sit but the edge of the bed, like Flash, o
r the crudely fashioned chair that Albie had made himself.
Axelle dragged the chair a little closer and sat in it.
Albie looked…well, he looked terrible. The bruises deepened by the minute, going dark purple and blue. His open eye still had a glassiness to it, as he continued to fight off the effects of the morphine – and his pain, his concussion, the shock of injury. She was thankful that he was no longer about to be arrested – a slick trick the guys had pulled back at the hospital – but she wanted, for her own peace of mind, for him to take a couple of pills, pass out, and sleep everything off.
“I got you some water,” she said, gesturing to the cup.
“Thanks.” He didn’t reach for it.
Her next words came out quiet – quieter than she’d intended. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
He turned his head then, finally, and looked at her. Unnerving with one eye shut, the lid grossly swollen and red. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a boxing ring somewhere, while the other guy had his gloved hand lifted up in victory. He looked defeated. But also determined. And cagey in a way that set her own nerves humming.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why what?”
“Why are you glad I’m okay?”
She searched his face, incredulous, trying to find a glimpse of the man who’d leaned down to kiss her, surprisingly soft and sweet. “How hard did you hit your head?”
The corner of his mouth curled down. “Look, that was – whatever. You don’t have to play nursemaid. I’m fine, and you don’t have to – you don’t we me anything, alright?”
“Owe you…?” Something a lot like fear prickled down her arms, leaving goosebumps in its wake. She suppressed a shiver.
“We can pretend it never happened,” he pressed on, grim. “If you want. You probably want to.”
“If I want,” she repeated. It stung her pride. Stung bad. Of all the things she’d expected, this hadn’t been one of them. She swallowed down a surge of anger, some nasty, knee-jerk comment that would only damage things worse. “What do you want?”
He looked away, and a muscle in his jaw ticked.
“Albie, what do you want?” she repeated, more forceful this time.
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug that wasn’t just tired, but defeated. “To not be useless,” he said, and it hit her as something bigger than just now, his bruises, and bandages, and drug hangover.
“Hey,” she said, sitting forward, elbows on her knees. “Did you mean it?”
His gaze slid over, getting sharper by the second, laced with pain that he was keeping religiously locked down by sheer dint of will.
“When you kissed me,” she clarified. “Did you mean it?”
She could see him mulling it over. She wondered if he was afraid of the truth, or just trying to spare her from it. Finally, he said, “Yeah.” Voice a croak. “I did. I do.”
She took a big, shaky breath. “I meant it, too.”
His eyes widened a fraction, like that surprised him.
“I’m here,” she said, and reached for his hand where it rested on top of the blanket; laced their fingers together. “I don’t know what the hell’s going to happen. But I’m – I’m here, alright? And I want to be.”
His smile came slow, hesitant, edged with quiet disbelief. But it was true, and it warmed her.
~*~
For a moment, when he’d first spotted him, Fox hadn’t recognized Ian Byron. It had to have been the shock of the unexpected, because no one this carefully, intentionally theatric could be easily overlooked in one’s memory.
Someone had fetched him a brandy – served in a proper brandy snifter – and he held it in one elegant, long-fingered, pale hand and swirled it just beneath his nose, inhaling appreciatively. He had a cigar in the other hand; its mate was hooked in the corner of Phil’s mouth; a host gift, Ian had explained. They were Cubans – Fox could smell them.
“So,” the dealer said, looking the picture of ease with legs crossed, relaxed back in his chair with an elbow propped on the arm of it. His blue eyes were slitted and sparkling like a predator’s, though. He liked this, the thrill of it. Ghost rubbing off on him. “It seems as if you’re all well and truly fucked.”
“Pretty much,” Phillip said. He lifted a glance up over the dealer’s head to make eye contact with Mercy, who stood a few paces back, arms folded, shoulder braced against a tall armoire.
“Ian’s got lots of high-up connections with the moneyed crowd,” Mercy explained. “Ghost thought that might be useful.”
“My name opens doors, you might say,” Ian said. “And I assure.” A smile that was all teeth. “I’m here of my own volition, and Felix is not my handler.”
Phil nodded, accepted the dig for what it was: well-earned. “Yeah. Ghost says we have you to thank for the increase in club-wide profits over the last couple of years.”
Ian tipped his head, little smile tweaking the corners of his mouth, quietly delighted.
Phil said, “What do you suggest we do, then?”
“If I’ve heard the story correctly” – invitation with a lift of his brows – “then I do think, beg your pardon, that you’re all overcomplicating this a little bit.” When several moved to protest, he held up his snifter and said, “Yes, yes, there are secret government agents, and business conglomerates, and cover-ups, and assassins, and a whole lot of very real businesses making this more difficult. But. There’s only one reason anyone would go to this much trouble. Two reasons, actually, but the two are inextricable. Money, and power. And, as we all know, so often money is the means of attainting and keeping power. Someone is orchestrating this in order to be more powerful. But why? What is it that they want the power for?”
Silence for a beat.
Ian looked triumphant.
“Jesus,” Mercy said, “don’t gloat. You think they haven’t thought of that?”
Ian chuckled into his brandy. “I think they’re all thinking like outlaws, police officers, and tacticians. They’re not thinking like elites. Just offering a different viewpoint.”
Phil sought Fox’s gaze – his own deadpan, weary, like a long into-the-camera stare on The Office. Fox shrugged in response.
“No, hang on,” Morgan said. “That’s…right, okay.” His gaze was distant, drawn inward as he thought. He got up to pace the width of the office, absently waving through a cloud of cigar smoke. “From everything I found, the original Project was disbanded due to lack of funding, and a risk of exposure. They’re obviously better funded now, and the business provides a good cover. But why, thirty years later, was there a need to revive it?”
“I mean,” Mercy said, “does anybody ever stop wanting to be powerful just because it’s too difficult to get there?”
“This guy,” Devin said with all seriousness, pointing at Mercy, “is the smartest one here. They shaped us for assassinations. For quietly, efficiently killing the leaders of things. Leaders of other countries, of businesses, of our own government. The targets don’t make a difference at this point: the same group of assholes is still trying to kill people, and they need us out of the way so we don’t expose them or come after them.”
“Which is exactly what we have to do,” Phillip said. “That part of the plan hasn’t changed.”
“No,” Ian agreed, “but perhaps we could refine some of the vaguer details.”
Through all of this discussion, Reese had stood just in front of Mercy, hands linked behind his back in an eerily still parade rest that lacked any sort of tension. As young as he was, with his hair slipping out from behind his ears, he should have looked like an eager young cadet, vibrating with nerves. Instead, he was like some sort of machine that had been switched off. Except for the eyes – those tracked around the room, thorough, unhurried, emotionless.
“Mercy,” Fox said – Phil was talking, and cut off mid-sentence; oops – “why did you bring your little murder doll?”
Reese didn’t react to that; he didn’t even glance over like he knew
Fox was speaking about him.
Mercy grimaced delicately. “Reese…needed to get out from under the spotlight in Knoxville for a little bit. And I thought he could maybe help us here.”
Abe made a low, considering sound in his throat. “I like the look of him.”
Mercy chuckled. “Thought somma you crazy bastards over here might.”
“Alright,” Phil said, motioning with his cigar, drawing everyone’s attention again. “First things first. Obviously, our guest in the fallout shelter isn’t just a pawn, but an agent for these clowns. We need to find out what he knows.”
“That didn’t work the first time around,” Miles said.
Mercy’s grin was wide and terrible. “Oh, just wait, kiddo. I’ll find out what he knows.” He rotated his wrists, cracked his knuckles.
Walsh’s mouth twitched to the side, not quite a smile. “Yeah. Go ahead and get on that, monster.”
“Perfect,” Mercy said. “Anybody got a sledgehammer?”
~*~
They’d decided to turn the big dining/conference room across from Phil’s office into a command center of sorts. Raven was in charge of getting it all organized and set up.
She’d just settled the big coffee machine on the buffet table and plugged it in when she saw someone approach from the side. A blond someone, hands in the pockets of a dirty old denim jacket.
“You smell like a barn,” she told Walsh as he sidled up to her.
“Take that as a compliment,” he said easily. “Phil said there were biscuits.”
“There.” She pointed to one of several plates, right there in front of him, obvious.
“Hmm. Butter?”
“Lemon.”
“No chocolate?”
She turned to him, hands on her hips.
He looked back at her, blandly pleasant expression, those blue-white eyes, paler than the others’, scruff on his cheeks and thick, thick dark blond hair mussed from several run-throughs with his fingers.
She’d been doing a remarkable job – if she did say so – of keeping her emotions locked up tight. Weeping and cursing and trying to slap Albie wouldn’t help Cass. Or Albie, now. Or any of them. But Walsh’s presence brought a rush of hot tears to her eyes.
Prodigal Son (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 3) Page 26