King Slayer: A Fog City Novel

by Layla Reyne

  “You think I haven’t tried!”

  Lily’s wail ended the argument as quickly as it had escalated. Chris backed off while Holt fussed over his agitated daughter.

  “Madigans get eyes on,” Kane offered as a compromise, his hand lightly clasping Holt’s shoulder. “Jax, can you set up a closed channel?” They nodded, and then Kane said to Chris, “I’ll give my team the order to capture, not kill. Will your team agree to the same?”

  “I’ll make it happen.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” Holt said to Kane. “I have to talk to—”

  “Clear it with them.” Kane squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll get answers, but let us lock down the explosives first. It’ll buy us all some breathing room.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Holt said with a nod.

  Forward momentum. Chris wanted to cheer. At the same time, he worried his window for getting answers on Isabella’s death was closing. Tran and Wheeler didn’t care—their top priorities were the explosives and the Madigans, order debatable. While the night of Isabella’s death marked a turning point for the Madigan organization, Hawes and his siblings’ top priority now was holding on to control so they could keep the family and organization on the path they’d chosen. Chris was the only one putting Isabella first, and he couldn’t let her down.

  Chapter Eight

  “Start with Devon,” Chris told Wheeler, splitting his attention between his babysitter and the retreating backside of the FBI Special Agent in Charge who’d showed him to the interrogation rooms. Chris had heard stories—Irish accent, tailored three-piece suits, shiny cuff links, and a great ass—all true, except the SAC’s rumored blond hair was in reality a far more attractive shade of red.

  “He’s been awake longer. He’ll be more alert,” Wheeler countered as he gathered his files off the table in the observation room. “We might get more out of the woman.”

  “We won’t.” If Chris had learned anything about Hawes’s organization, it was that the women were the toughest. Given a choice between the three siblings at the top, Helena was the one he least wanted to meet in a dark alley.

  Chris tucked his two file folders under his arm and stepped fully into the observation room, viewing Devon through the one-way glass. Cuffed to the table, the ex-Madigan soldier was in better shape than his partner. Chris had broken Tamela’s fingers when he’d snatched her gun away, and Hawes had broken her forearm when he’d interceded. Each of them had left shoe-size bruises on her torso, not to mention the “interesting” bruising around her neck. Chris had slipped the medic a Benjamin to sell that bullshit vagueness to Wheeler. By contrast, Devon had a few scrapes and bruises. He probably also ached from Chris’s flip and Hawes’s kick, but Devon hid those tells, sitting at attention in his chair.

  “We don’t have them on anything but assault,” Chris said.

  “You were a federal officer doing your job. Class D felony.”

  Chris leaned a shoulder against the wall next to the glass. “I was on my way to work. Not in the middle of an active operation.”

  “You sure they didn’t have any weapons? Some of the witnesses—”

  “Are mistaken. They were panicked by the altercation.” He held one of his folders out to Wheeler. “Even if Devon did have a gun, he’s got a permit for it, and it’s clean. No criminal history on it.”

  Wheeler flipped through the papers, then snapped the file shut. His gaze flickered to the mirror and back. “He doesn’t know that.”

  Chris bet Devon did, but Wheeler was done arguing. He shoved the folder against Chris’s chest, grabbed his own off the table, then stepped past him. He held the interrogation room door open for Chris, and the two of them entered, claiming the chairs across the table from Devon.

  “Mr. Henderson,” Wheeler said.

  “Devon,” the soldier corrected.

  Wheeler pushed a piece of paper across the table. “This is your signed Miranda waiver. You can change—”

  “Unnecessary,” Devon said. “No attorney needed.” He was as calm and confidently resigned as Lucas had been on Hawes’s yacht. This was fucking useless.

  “You work for Madigan Cold Storage?” Wheeler said.

  “Worked. Recently quit.”

  As in this morning. Chris stifled his scoff.

  Wheeler thankfully didn’t notice. “Why was that?”

  “Didn’t like the direction the company was headed.”

  “What direction was that?”

  Devon’s gaze drifted to Chris, even as he answered Wheeler. “Management got more selective of their clientele. Didn’t seem like the best business decision for growing the company.”

  “What exactly did you do for Madigan Cold Storage?” Wheeler’s restraint impressed Chris. He was drilling down on Devon’s cover instead of going straight for reality.

  “Marketing,” Devon answered.

  “Why does a marketing professional need a forty-five and a concealed carry permit?”

  “Personal reasons.”

  “Like the fact that you’re an assassin for the Madigans.”

  “I closed deals for my former employer.” No widening eyes, no twitching lips, no reaction whatsoever.

  Chris didn’t expect any less. He did, however, expect Wheeler to follow the line of questioning about the history of the gun.

  The other agent swerved instead. “Why did you attack Agent Perri at the BART station this morning?”

  “My associate and I only wanted to have a conversation with him. He”—Devon tilted his head toward Chris—“escalated the situation.”

  Bullshit, but Chris couldn’t say that without disclosing the weapons he’d denied the presence of to Wheeler. Avoiding that possible question, Chris asked a different one. “What did you want to discuss with me?”

  “The weather.”

  No holding in that scoff.

  “Who took you down?” Wheeler asked. “At the station.”

  “Agent Perri.”

  “Alone?”

  “Not my finest moment.”

  Wheeler did not let up. “Was Hawes Madigan at the scene?”

  “I don’t know where Mr. Madigan was this morning. I’m no longer his employee.”

  Wheeler was missing the point, lost in details that didn’t matter. Chris focused on the forest instead. “Whose employee are you, Devon?” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You’re someone’s. I know that much, and it’s not Hawes Madigan’s. Nor is your boss Amelia Madigan. She hasn’t spoken to anyone but her counsel since her arrest.”

  The assassin clammed up. Not so chatty anymore.

  “What was the plan?” Chris pressed. “Kill me? Lure Hawes to the rescue so you could frame him?” Chris chose his next words carefully. “Clear the way for your boss to take over the company?”

  More silence.

  Chris opened his other file folder, took out the single sheet of paper inside it, and slid it across the table. He’d wheedled the printout from Kane, over Holt’s strenuous objections, and only after Jax had assured their mentor they’d isolated the printer and data from SFPD’s network. “Is your boss the one engineering this auction?”

  Devon’s eyes widened a fraction, and his breath stuttered once. An average observer wouldn’t notice the reaction, but Chris caught it. The flash of surprise that law enforcement was onto them. Seeing it too, Wheeler leaned forward to peer at the paper. Chris held his breath until Wheeler sat back in his chair, trap still thankfully shut.

  Chris continued with his line of questioning. “Why?” he asked, trusting Devon would understand the question.

  “Same answer, Agent Perri. I don’t agree with the current direction of the company. If MCS wants to stay at the top of the market, maybe it’s time for some new blood.”

  Threats and judgments wrapped in slick marketing lingo. Devon played his cover well, except for the clue he’d dropped.

  Chris reached for the printout and tucked it back into its folder. “I’m good here.” He st
ood. “Thank you, Mr. Henderson. We’ll be keeping you in custody until we have a chance to question your associate.”

  Devon smiled. “I’ll take that lawyer now.”

  Chris bet he would. Now the traitor was in a hurry, no doubt eager to avoid a night in jail and to relay to his boss that law enforcement was onto their plan.

  “We’ll get right on that,” Chris lied.

  Wheeler followed him back into the observation room. “What was that printout about? An auction?”

  Chris shoved the folder at him. “Read up. And make sure no one gets in there with him. I don’t want word to get back to his boss, whoever that is, that we know about this.”

  “We should question—”

  “She’ll tell you less, trust me.”

  Wheeler backed down, the second time in the last few minutes. Good. They needed to be on the same page in their approach to this case. And Chris could use Wheeler’s help. He needed the agent who could find the needle. “Briefing’s in an hour. We’ve got work to do.”

  Night had fallen and the fog had rolled back in by the time Chris emerged from the BART station and walked the several blocks west toward Mission Dolores. The city park and mix of residential and commercial buildings gave his neighborhood a bustling vibe, no matter the hour, but the cool summer night had driven some folks inside, the foot traffic on his street lighter than usual.

  The person sitting halfway up his porch steps, however, didn’t seem the least bit fazed by the cold. Bundled in a puffy teal vest, his niece sat with a pink pastry box on her knees and an e-reader in her hands, index finger swiping pages. Her nose was rarely out of a book, electronic or otherwise. She’d come by that honestly.

  Chris rounded the front of the cement stairs and propped a boot on the bottom step. Mia glanced up but only for a second before she went back to reading. “Got those mistletoe cannoli for you.”

  “You’ve also got keys to the place. Why didn’t you let yourself in?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “After that heatwave last week, I’m savoring the cold.”

  “It was one day.” Tuesday. When Hawes’s grandfather had died. There’d been a few hours of sun on Friday too, but it had disappeared as quickly as it had come, just like his cover had gone poof that day.

  “One too many,” Mia said, bringing him back to this week. She tucked her e-reader into her vest pocket and stood. “I had to take my breaks in the pastry freezer.”

  Chuckling, Chris climbed the rest of the way up the stairs and opened the front door. His niece breezed inside, flipping on lights as she strolled down the hallway toward the kitchen, more at home here than he was. When she’d turned thirteen, he’d started paying her twenty bucks a month to check on the place when he was gone. Other than annually upping her rate, she’d never once complained, happy to have her own private sanctuary. He blocked out the thoughts of what else his teenage niece might have used his place for. And the worry that she resented him for returning and taking away her refuge. He’d like to avoid a pissed-off teenager; they were scary, or at least he had been when he was a teen, before things had changed.

  Mia dropped the pastry box on the island. “So, who you bribing with these?”

  “A tech at SFPD. They did me a favor.” He peeked under the lid, mouth watering. “Thanks for bringing them over. You didn’t have to. I was gonna pick them up this weekend.”

  “Was in the neighborhood.”

  Chris lifted a brow. Mission Dolores wasn’t completely on the other side of town from North Beach, but it also wasn’t on Mia’s way home from AB’s, where she was working for the summer.

  “Ethan lives a couple blocks over,” she added.

  “The boyfriend?”

  She cocked a hip and put both hands on her waist. At the same time, her face took on a wistful expression. “He’s more than just a boyfriend.”

  Ah, young love. Chris would rather deal with the pissed-off-teenager version of his niece. “You being safe?” That ought to do it.

  Sure enough, Mia’s dreamy expression vanished with an annoyed eye roll and dramatic, put-upon sigh.

  Chris laughed. No sense getting angry back; that wouldn’t get him the answer he needed. He circled the island, opened the fridge, and pulled out two pints of Blue Bottle NOLA iced coffee. He bumped the door shut with his elbow and set the cartons on the island.

  “Ooh…” Mia’s dark eyes lit up. “One of those for me?”

  Chris kept a hand on both. “When you answer the question.”

  Another eye roll, but this time accompanied by a huff of laughter. “Yes, Davos, we’re being safe.”

  He scoffed, over-the-top and gasping for effect. “I’m not that old!” He slid a carton across the counter, then held up both his hands, wiggling his fingers. “And I have all of these.”

  Mia cut her eyes to the pastry box as she worked open the coffee. “And yet you’re smuggling out-of-season cannoli as bribes.”

  “Touché. In that case…” He flipped open the box lid and snagged a cannoli, setting it on a paper towel he’d ripped from the roll. “Smuggler’s tax.”

  Before he could take a bite, Mia shoved a hand under his nose, palm up. “Call me Salladhor, then.”

  Chris couldn’t help but smile. She was whip-smart, having outpaced him in reading their favorite series, and witty, having outpaced him in this conversation. Sassy, just like her mother…used to be.

  He handed her one of the white chocolate, pistachio, and cranberry confections, a cannoli version of the white chocolate-dipped pistachio and cranberry biscotti Grandma Perri used to make for Christmas. At first bite, they both hummed in delight, then enjoyed a few minutes of companionable silence as they ate.

  But Chris hadn’t forgotten where his thoughts had left off. “How’s your mom?”

  “Fine.” Too fast, too short. And too obvious in her effort to look anywhere but at him. She polished off her coffee and wandered over to the dining table, shuffling through the books there. She stopped when her hand landed on the hardback at the bottom of the stack, fingers tracing the faded gold seal on the cover. “This was her favorite. She used to read it to me whenever I came over here to play. Mom wouldn’t let me have it.”

  “You remember that? You were only five.”

  She smiled fondly, genuinely, a rare sight on her fifteen-year-old face, and lowered herself into the closest chair. “Of course I remember. She was my best friend. I worshipped her.”

  Chris tossed their empty cartons, then claimed the seat next to her. “She used to read it to me too, every night before bed. I lost count how many times we went through it. She’d read, I’d make the character noises. It never seemed to scare her.”

  “Scared the shit out of me, but it was worth it. Because she loved it so much.” Mia turned glassy eyes toward him, her tears held hostage by sheer will. Not so much in her voice, though, as she croaked out, “I miss her.”

  Chris threw an arm around his niece and hugged her close. “So do I. Every day.” He swallowed hard, fighting back his own tears. This was the hardest part of being back here. What he’d avoided for the past ten years. Picking up the pieces of a life lost and trying to put it back together. Unlike Hawes and the Madigans, he’d taken the easy route and run from his pain, from his demons, when he should have held close the family he had left. How much damage had he done—to all of them—by leaving things a scattered mess? Was it too late to fix this? Could he really come home again, like his mom had said?

  And what of Hawes? Was he part of the picture of home? Did he belong in the puzzle? And if he did, where did he fit when both of them kept bending the edges and changing the shape of the piece?

  As if reading the direction of his thoughts, Mia asked through her sniffles, “Are you back? Nonna said…”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  That got her attention. She drew back and looked up at him with a raised brow. “For real?” she asked, a bit of fire back in her voice.

  “For real.” He reached
behind him for the roll of paper towels, tore one off, and handed it to her. “But I didn’t want to get your hopes up until I was more sure.”

  She blew her nose, graceless and uninhibited, and Chris’s heart swelled, loving her all the more for it. But then his heart broke at her next words. “We need some hope, Uncle Chris.” She sounded like her mother, far too weary, more so than any fifteen-year-old kid should ever be.

  The investigator reared his head, but he gentled his voice. This was his family. He needed to be Uncle Chris here, not Agent Perri. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Adults don’t think kids notice.” She punched her nails through the paper towel, ripping it apart. “They think we don’t know what’s going on.”

  But certain lessons from his professional life were applicable here. “You know,” he said, “if I’m at a crime scene and there’s a kid among the bystanders, or God forbid directly involved, they’re the first person I go to. They see more than anyone.” He reached out and closed a hand over Mia’s. “Tell me what you see, Mia.”

  “Mom’s so unhappy, and Dad…”

  She stiffened, a slight shiver she covered with a shake of her dark hair, and both the investigator and the uncle saw red. Only his ten years of undercover work kept Chris calm—because that’s what Mia needed—but his anger was barely contained. “Has he hurt you?”

  She shook her head again. “No, but I worry about Mom and about Marco. The example he’s setting. It’s toxic.”

  “Marco’s a good kid.”

  “He’s twelve and impressionable. Just last week he decided yellow was his favorite color because the cute camp counselor likes yellow. In the spring it was purple because that was the favorite color of the kid he liked in class.” The ramble and accompanying eye roll were enough to temper Chris’s fury. “You’d make a better impression,” she said. “We need you.” Her plea shifted him fully back into uncle mode.

  He circled her shoulders again and squeezed. “I’m always here for you, Mia.”

  “Here”—she jostled against his side—“and on the phone aren’t the same thing.”