by Layla Reyne
“Wait, rewind,” Holt interrupted. “How does Christopher translate to Dante? There are no references in the yearbook to him as Dante, even as a nickname. Was it just a cover?”
“No way,” Helena said. “He responded to it naturally, and it’s pressed on his card case.”
Chris patted his coat pocket, panicked for a second that the leather bifold had fallen out when Helena had thrown his coat out after him. He released his breath when he found it secure in the inner pocket where he always kept it. Izzy had given it to him as a graduation gift when he’d completed Special Agent Basic Training. She’d had Dante pressed into one side. After her murder, he’d had her time of death pressed into the other. A reminder of his mission.
“Not just a cover,” Hawes said, filling his siblings in on the same. “His work partner gave him the nickname.”
“Partner?” Helena said. “At the ATF? Who’s he work with?”
“Worked with, past tense. His partner was Special Agent Isabella Constantine.” As before, Hawes emphasized the last A of Izzy’s first name and every syllable of her surname. “Or as we knew her, Isabelle Costa.”
Holt and Helena inhaled sharply, and Lily wailed an angry punctuation.
“She called him Dante,” Hawes explained, “because his nose was always stuck in a book.”
While Helena muttered an impressive string of curses, Holt resumed his furious typing. With new search parameters, he’d find where Chris’s and Izzy’s paths had crossed in no time.
Unlike his siblings, Hawes was silent. No words, no pacing footsteps, no whisky bottles clinking against each other. Where was he? Leaning against the kitchen island or one of the condo’s wooden pillars? Or was he standing in front of the balcony windows, arms draped over the metal seismic strut? Like he had been that first night Chris had sweet-talked his way inside the condo. Chris had tried to sweet-talk Hawes into more than just an invitation to enter. He hadn’t set out to seduce the prince that night, but when the opportunity had presented itself, he’d considered it an inroad to the information he needed.
What Chris hadn’t needed were the sparks that had flown between him and Hawes, the heat that had drawn him like a missile to his mark. He’d nuzzled behind Hawes’s ear, inhaled the subtle scent of expensive aftershave mixed with dangerous man, and he’d been the one seduced. Add to that Hawes’s humor and honesty, the curious glimpses of vulnerability, and the barest hint of submission, and Chris had actually wanted to help him, which was the last thing he’d needed.
This was supposed to be his final mission, and not because he’d gotten fired for falling for the mark, at least not yet. He couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t let that be the way this all ended. Get vengeance for his partner, then get out. That was the plan. He was shit at the ATF political game—that had been Izzy’s thing, not his—and there was nowhere left for him to go in the agency that was as good a fit as undercover work. Except he was tired of being other people. After ten years of UC work, he needed to figure out who he was and where home was, for real. But, fuck if ‘Dante’ and Hawes’s condo hadn’t felt awfully close to real the past week, which only made the light at the end of his escape tunnel harder to see, diffuse and refracted like the fog Hawes loved so much.
“How’s Rose today?” Hawes’s question about his grandmother brought Chris out of his head and back to the present.
“Improving,” Holt answered. “She’ll be discharged tomorrow.”
“You’re not actually considering working with the fed, are you?” Helena persisted. “The risks if he finds out—”
“I know,” Hawes snapped. “He can’t.”
Can’t find out what?
Chris had no delusions about being fully read in. He’d known the Madigans were keeping secrets from him. They were too smart to tell him—a relative stranger—everything. He was outside their inner circle, even further now. And further still from whatever this thing was that affected him and the organization. It had to be about Isabella. Or the explosives. Or both. Chris was almost certain the two were tied together. What was it about that night that had pushed Hawes to make such radical changes in the organization? What exactly did Hawes know?
“We can’t trust him,” Helena said. “If that’s not clear after today…”
“No argument here,” Hawes replied. “But do we need him? I started the week getting close to a source, working him for information on who was moving against us. Can we still use him as such?”
Acid churned in Chris’s gut. While neither of them had hidden the fact that they were using the other, hearing point-blank he’d gotten played was a kick in the balls. Was that all Hawes had been doing? Playing him? Had it all been a lie on his end, no matter how real it had felt to Chris? He didn’t think so, given the betrayal in Hawes’s eyes this morning and the heat in them last night, but Chris couldn’t be sure, and he couldn’t hang his hat on the ‘started the week’ qualifier in Hawes’s statement. Not that Hawes’s intentions, then or now, fucking mattered.
All that mattered was the mission.
Hawes again seemed to get that better than Chris, asking, “Can we use him and his resources to find out who is behind the coup against us?” When met with silence, Hawes barked, “Holt!”
“Huh?” Holt said, likely lost in computer code. “Sorry.”
“I said, do we need Agent Perri’s resources?”
“Let me see what I can do first.”
“When’s the last time you slept?”
Or the hacker had dozed off before and he didn’t like being called out on it. “Broken record much?”
Hawes ignored the retort and shifted the conversation. “We need to find out where that flash drive backup is and get to it before Perri, if, in fact, he knows where it is.”
“You think he’s bluffing?” Helena asked.
“Yes.” Good call. Apparently, Chris had shown Hawes more than a few of his moves too. “Have you been back to see Amelia?”
“Not yet,” Helena said. “Holt?”
“I can’t. And now with this…” His pained voice, brought on by the mention of his wife, made Chris wince. “Did Brax know who he was? Who he worked for?”
“Dante—” Hawes paused, cleared his throat, then corrected. “Chris said he didn’t.”
“I don’t think Brax would betray us,” Helena said.
“I don’t either,” Hawes concurred, “but the only people we can completely trust now are in this room.”
They could trust Kane, and Chris needed the chief to trust him too. As tightly allied as he was with the Madigans, Kane was the best positioned to serve as an intermediary. And Chris needed one because Hawes was right. They could still use each other—Hawes to find out who was behind the coup, Chris to find out who killed Isabella. Each had information the other needed, and Kane could broker that exchange. But if Chris had a shot in hell of getting Kane on board, of securing the flow of information, he had to be the one to tell Kane the truth before anyone else did.
And time was tight. Chris’s boss had filled his voice mail overnight with warnings of her imminent arrival. He needed to beat her there. He pushed off the bench and hustled back to the Hog. Next stop, SFPD headquarters.
Chapter Two
Chris was halfway across the bullpen floor before he considered that Kane might not be here today after their long night that had bled into morning. Chris dismissed the absurd thought as quickly as it had formed. Kane was up to his eyeballs in this shit, same as him. Given all that had transpired, Chris would lay odds on Kane being in one of three places—here at the station, at the Madigan family fort in Pacific Heights, or at the waterfront headquarters of Madigan Cold Storage. Since Chris would likely get shot if he visited either of the latter two, he prayed Kane was here instead.
Half the staff was out for lunch, but the remaining officers, each a pair of trained eyes, tracked Chris as he wove through the rows of desks. Maybe he was just as likely to get shot here. Had news of his blown cover leaked already? Had
the Madigans alerted other allies on the force? Chris was sure Kane wasn’t the only SFPD officer in their pocket. Or had someone on the force—Kane, perhaps—pieced together why he’d been lurking the past week, asking questions about a three-year-old investigation?
Or none of the above.
He turned the corner and a familiar voice echoed from inside Kane’s office. “You should have called this in earlier, regardless of Agent Perri’s actions. Given the explosives involved and previous investigations, this matter is squarely within the ATF’s jurisdiction. It’s our case now. Officially.”
Fuck.
So much for telling Kane the truth first and salvaging some sort of working relationship. Vivienne Tran had beaten him here, and by the sound of it, she was approaching things in her usual incendiary manner. He sucked in a deep breath, readying to enter, then paused to do a quick pat down. Hair pulled back, shoulders squared, gun holst—
Fuck!
Tran would spot the empty holster, and when he’d have to confess it was in the hands of their target—an assassin—the dressing-down would be epic. Maybe epic enough to yank him from the case altogether, which he couldn’t let happen. He unclipped the holster and searched for a place to stash it, trying the conference room door across the hall.
Locked.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
“You need some help?”
Chris spun toward the voice and had to stop himself from laughing. The rubber-ducky-printed tie around the person’s neck was the first welcome bit of hilarity today. The humorous tie was in direct contrast to the pressed khakis and starched dress shirt but made a certain amount of sense with the platinum Mohawk and gumball ear gauges. The person’s dangling ID badge read: Jax Dillon, SFPD IT, and handwritten in marker in one corner: They/Them.
Chris hadn’t seen them around the station before, but the laptop they carried had an SFPD sticker and barcode on it. Part-time intern, perhaps, or an employee just back from vacation. In any event, they didn’t seem to know who he was. Good. Chris could use that.
“I do, actually.” He held out the empty holster. “Can you hold this for me?”
Jax glanced at the leather case, then back to him, brow cocked above a skeptical green eye. “Why?”
“’Cause I asked nicely.”
“I don’t even know who you are.”
Chris dug out his badge and flashed it open. “Special Agent Christopher Perri. ATF.”
They thrust out a hip and shrugged, unimpressed.
Chris failed to hold in his laughter this time. All right, bribery it was, then. “You know Angelica’s Bakery in North Beach?”
“Everyone knows AB’s.”
Local, if they knew to call it by the neighborhood shorthand. “You hold this for me”—he extended the holster again—“and I’ll get you a box of mistletoe cannoli.”
“But it’s July.”
And AB’s mistletoe cannoli were only available one week a year, between Christmas and New Year’s. Unless you were family. “Angelica’s my cousin. I’ll get—”
Jax snatched the holster out of his hand. “I’m in IT. Other side of the floor.” They tucked the holster between the computer and their chest, turned on their heel, and strode toward the stairwell.
Chris was still smiling as he rapped his knuckles on Kane’s door.
“Come in!” the chief shouted. Chris pushed open the door, and hard hazel eyes shot to his, killing Chris’s lingering grin. “Agent Perri, I understand.”
“Perri,” Tran said, and Chris swung his gaze to the woman seated in the guest chair. One suited leg crossed over the other, dark hair in a tight bun, face calm, and black eyes flat, she was the picture of serenity. No hint that she had been flexing her jurisdictional muscle and vocal cords a second ago. “Was there a reason you didn’t identify yourself to the chief of police in the jurisdiction where you were conducting an operation?”
Kane appeared equal parts furious and fearful. The former on behalf of those he considered family, the latter over whether that fact would be exposed. Brax knew exactly why Chris hadn’t identified himself to him.
Time to tap-dance and win back some of that trust he needed. “Given the irregularities of the prior investigations,” Chris said, “I thought it best to maintain full cover.”
“Chief Kane wasn’t involved in those prior investigations. He was only recently appointed chief.”
“Ma’am—”
“You didn’t think local law enforcement needed to know the ATF was pursuing an explosives trafficking lead in their backyard?”
“Explosives trafficking?” Still standing, Kane braced his hands on the desk, knuckles white where they curled around the edge. “I thought you were helping—” A sharp shake of Chris’s head, and Kane adjusted. “I thought you were helping out on a missing person’s case, as a private investigator.”
“The private investigator part was his cover,” Tran said to Kane before redirecting her attention to Chris. “The other part was not your assignment. Is that why you haven’t logged status reports in over a month?”
“Deep cover.”
“Oh, cut the crap, Perri.” She pushed to her feet. “You’ve gone rogue—again—after being repeatedly told to drop this.”
“Drop what?” Kane asked.
“The investigation into Special Agent Isabella Constantine’s death.”
Kane’s eyes widened, round as saucers. “As in Isabelle Costa?”
“Constantine,” Chris corrected.
“Isabelle was ATF?”
“Isabella was my partner. She was murdered, and she deserves justice.”
Blanching, Kane bowed his back and hung his head between his outstretched arms. Before Chris could say more, Tran stepped between them. At five foot nine, closer to six feet in heels, she commanded his attention. “Agent Constantine’s murderer was killed at the scene. That case was closed.”
Chris scoffed. “Without a thorough investigation.”
“Because doing so would have compromised the agency’s mission, her mission, which you are here to complete. That’s your assignment, Agent Perri. To get a lock on the explosives, secure them before they fall into even worse hands, and shut down the Madigans. Not go dark—off mission—like your partner also did.”
Silence hung heavy in the office until it was cut by the groan of abused chair springs as Kane lowered himself into the leather swivel behind his desk.
“Status report, Agent Perri,” Tran demanded.
“The person who last moved the explosives is behind bars.” He flicked a hand in the air. “In this building still, I think.”
“She is,” Kane confirmed.
Not good enough for Tran. “And where are the explosives?”
Silence blanketed them once more. Chris didn’t have an answer.
Tran glanced over her shoulder at Kane. He didn’t have one either. But she had one for them. “Agent Wheeler will be here on Monday.”
Chris bit back a groan, sure it would be louder than the chair springs if it escaped. Scotty Wheeler was a fucking by-the-book menace. Tran’s pet UC wrangler. No undercover agent wanted to hear his name near their case. It was as good as getting a case ripped away.
“Respectfully, ma’am, I don’t need a babysitter. And my cover—”
“Is shot to hell, judging by the events of the past twenty-four hours and by this bullshit exchange the past five minutes. You went rogue, it backfired, and now you’re scrambling.”
And that right there was how Vivienne Tran had climbed the ATF political ladder. She’d spot your weakness, what you were trying to hide, and use it to her advantage. A scorched-earth approach, and she was the last one standing with the blowtorch. Chris bet her favorite movie was Aliens.
“Your case is imploding, Agent Perri. The window for success is closing fast. You need help if the agency is going to secure the explosives and arrest the targets before they flee.”
Kane flinched. Because Tran had referred to the Madigans—plural—as targ
ets? Or at the notion they might flee? Chris wasn’t sure how to read Kane, but he was sure about the Madigans, at least in one respect. “They won’t flee,” he told Tran. “Not with their power threatened, and not with—”
“Holt Madigan’s wife, the mother of his child, in custody,” Kane said, completing Chris’s thought. “Holt won’t leave.”
“And Hawes and Helena won’t leave without him,” Chris added.
Tran stepped back and split her glare between them. “Good, but I’m still sending Wheeler in.” She’d never intended otherwise. She grabbed her bag off the floor and headed for the door. “Get the explosives, Agent Perri. Shut down the Madigans. Do your job while you still have one.”
The door slammed shut behind Tran, and Chris relaxed his shoulders, the tension draining from his posture. After a week of being Dante, he wasn’t used to standing at attention, as one did when facing the agency firing squad, but he’d survived. He’d have an obnoxious, Scotty Wheeler-sized Band-Aid to show for it come Monday, but at least Tran hadn’t pulled him off the investigation. Now he just had to survive the other firing squad. He turned to face Kane, who’d risen as Tran had left. Chris lifted both hands, placatingly. “Brax, listen—”
“Don’t.” Fear gone, the chief’s fury rumbled in his deep voice. Drawing himself up to his full height, Braxton Kane was an imposing figure. Granted, he was built more like a spindly pine than a redwood, but that flexible strength was probably what had helped him weather countless storms—army, Madigan, and otherwise. “You lied to all of us.”
Chris sank into the chair Tran had vacated. He needed to refocus this conversation. Get back to his original purpose for coming here—to bring Kane around to his side, or, at a minimum, around to working with him. “You’re law enforcement,” he said. “You know how undercover works.”
“I do.” Kane crossed his arms, fingers digging into the wiry muscles of his sleeved biceps. “You’re supposed to liaise with the local authorities.”