His employees gave the appearance of toeing the line, but truth be told, he didn’t trust a soul in this building apart from his sister, Vanessa. Given her ambition and dedication, she should’ve been the CEO—they both agreed on that—but his pops remained entrenched in old-school misogyny, which meant men running the business. If Dan wanted to continue being a part of the family, he needed to don a suit and join the rest riding the elevator up the Aon Center every day. Forget the mechanical engineering grad studies he’d planned on returning to, or the whole career path he’d tailored in that direction.
He placed the stack of papers on the desk and paced over to the wide windows. This high up, Chicago sprawled out in all her industrial glory. In the distance, Lake Michigan dominated the horizon, glittering like a prized sapphire. This view wasn’t worth the price he paid—too busy to keep up with friends, and too high up the food chain to swap stories with coworkers. At the end of the day, he didn’t have enough energy to even swipe right on any dates for the indeterminable future.
“Nice to know our illustrious CEO has the time to admire the view.” Brennerman appeared in the doorway, his Brooks Brothers suit impeccable, and his gray hair combed to the side and slicked down. The deep grooves along his features might look more distinguished with a stronger mouth, but the man always made up for any hint of softness with the verbal vomit pouring from his lips.
Dan glanced to his trimmed nails, biting back the acerbic response on his tongue. “Jealous, Phil?”
When Dan was growing up, the man had always been Mr. Brennerman, or sir, and every time they interacted, he expected more of the same. Tough. The man’s pale blue eyes didn’t narrow, but he crossed the room with a heavier stride than necessary.
“We need to discuss last quarter,” Brennerman persisted. His eyebrows drew together, and his chiding tone burrowed right beneath Dan’s skin. “Your father wouldn’t want his business run into the ground, junior.”
“My father retired,” Dan said, his tone turning icy as he met Brennerman’s gaze. If he showed an ounce of weakness amongst these sociopaths, they’d shred him alive. “This is my business now, so you can either give me the rundown of last quarter’s reports without the condescension, or you can leave my office.”
He wanted to scream. He was trapped in this glass-and-cream room, dealing with a sea of old, arrogant bastards like this one and forced to maintain a politeness none of them deserved.
Brennerman strode past him to drop another manila packet onto his overfull hickory desk. More paperwork to look over; joy.
“We need more acquisitions,” Brennerman said. “I’ve set Mike and Len on the task to bring new leads in.”
Dan arched an eyebrow. Funny how the discrepancies he’d been mulling over had to do with acquisitions. They might be his employees, but Mike and Len were part of Brennerman’s over-sixty club, and their loyalty lay with him.
“If we need to meet with more leads, who better to do it than the new face of the company?” Dan countered. “Better to get our new connections used to my leadership style from the outset. Mike and Len are off the job. I’ll handle this personally.”
To Brennerman’s credit, he didn’t stomp his feet or shake his fists, but Dan didn’t miss the flash of acid in his gaze. Given their CFO’s sway with the rest of the senior members of Torres Industries, Dan treaded on rotten floorboards.
“There’s better use of your time than tasks to be handled by subordinates,” Brennerman began.
Dan flashed his best attempt at a charming smile as he interrupted. “Weren’t you mentioning all the free time I had? I might as well do something proactive for the company. Now, while I’m sure we have plenty more to discuss, I have a meeting in five I can’t reschedule. We can go over the acquisitions numbers after I’ve had a chance to rectify the situation.”
Brennerman opened his mouth, but Dan strode beside him with a lifted hand to guide the man over to the door. He might not have chosen this Patrick Bateman life, but he refused to be a doormat. Apart from when it came to family, of course, because he’d caved immediately to his father’s demands of step up or get cut out—no more family dinners, big shindigs full of relatives he loved. However, if he had to be shackled to Torres Industries for the rest of his days, he’d make damn well sure the upper management didn’t continue the illicit activities he suspected his father had been involved in for years.
“We’ll meet later in the week,” Brennerman insisted even as he headed toward the door. The man scrambled to sink his feet in any mud he could find.
“Sure,” Dan said with a tilt of his head. “I’ll have my secretary send you a reminder of the meeting time.”
Brennerman’s face turned granite as the double meaning sank in. Danilo Torres might not be the same loud, charismatic man as his dad, but he wouldn’t let his father’s regime walk all over him.
And if Philip Brennerman had involved this company in illegal practices, Dan wouldn’t stop following the trail until he tracked each and every problem down and eliminated the source.
Three
The tone of any day was set by three things: coffee, bacon, and a plan.
This morning, Grif started out with all three, so he was leagues ahead of last week when they botched the Sunset Ruby job. He leaned back in his seat at the head of the table, chewing on an extra-crunchy piece of bacon—Scarlet always toed the line of charred when he took his turn at breakfast.
Alanna hunched over their nickel-and-glossy black kitchen table in sweats and an exercise bra. Both her palms were wrapped around the mug of chai that spread the aroma of sweet spices throughout the room. “Are you sure you guys don’t need backup?”
She buzzed with the tension he understood so well—he always had a tough time sitting behind while the other players executed a job. Not to mention everyone in the Outlaws skated on edge since their failure. The bombed job didn’t sit well after the talk with Nevarra went less than aces. The funds they could extract from this Torres Industries job would cover their debt with the mafia, which he wanted resolved ASAP. Besides, taking out another greedy corporation made for an added perk.
“It’s a lunch meeting,” John said, plunking into the seat next to her with a full plate of eggs, no bacon, because the man was a heathen. “If you’re skulking around in the shadows, you’ll just be a distraction.” He’d been in prep mode, practicing tones and looks in the mirror, on top of his full agenda collating dossiers on each of the major players at Torres Industries.
“The whole point of stealth is not to be noticed or seen,” Alanna argued, picking up her fork to jab the tines in his direction. “Your argument’s faulty.”
“You’re too gorgeous to not be noticed,” John responded, the smooth talk easy for him. He passed her an exaggerated wink before he dove into his massive plate of scrambled eggs.
Alanna flipped him the middle finger, her gaze bleeding irritation. “That fails to be a valid argument.”
Grif took a sip of his pitch-dark coffee before responding. The smooth, hot liquid rolled down his throat, sparking him to life. “The argument isn’t necessary, because you’ve got a different task than tailing us today.”
Alanna rolled her eyes. “Building recon, I know, I know. Heaven forbid I do something else for once.” Today, Alanna and Tuck would be bringing the blueprints of the Aon Center they’d obtained to match up entrances and exits, as well as marking grip points for any necessary climbs.
He snorted. “You want a different task? Learn a different skill.”
Scarlet settled on the opposite side of the table, resting his tablet beside his plate as he scrolled through. The glow of the screen reflected against the thick-framed glasses he wore during down time.
“No stepping on my turf though,” he said without looking up. “I’ve got no interest in the acrobatics you and Tuck do.” Scarlet had been at hard work all week with Grif backing him up as they pulled together all of the threads necessary—website, a couple of years of earnings, full board of
members—for Neo-National, their mock company.
“Let’s get real, Ally dearest,” John drawled as he leaned back in his seat, his eggs decimated. “If we put you in charge of the fast talking, every door would close in our face.”
Alanna lifted her other middle finger, waving both at the whole table. “The lot of you, assholes. Remind me why I work with you again?”
“Because you’re a sucker for cold, hard cash,” Scarlet said, offering a bright, earnest grin. No one in the Outlaws could compete with his cheerfulness in the morning—or most times.
Tuck strode into the room on silent feet, his thick hair tousled from sleep. He yawned, covering his mouth with his forearm as he strode over to the stovetop where the remainder of the eggs and bacon waited to be snatched. The carafe of coffee grew perilously low. He loaded his plate in silence and then trundled over to join them at the table. Tuck managed to offer everyone a blink and a nod, but they didn’t expect much more until he got some sustenance in him.
Scarlet looked up from his tablet to cast them a glance. Even in his casualwear of a maroon button-down shirt and black fitted jeans, he was an elegant handsome that belonged in front of a camera, not buried behind a screen. “Are you guys rehearsed on your proposition?”
Grif gave him a longer than average look, and Scarlet smiled.
“Well now, we’re just Neo-National, a wind energy company looking to expand,” John responded, his voice shifting to what Grif dubbed his con man tone. “Torres Industry has such a strong reputation, so we needed to at least try to approach you.”
The best conmen adapted to any situation necessary, but he’d worked with enough to know each one developed an individual style. John saved his slick sarcasm for their home base. When he worked out in the field, he tended to project an honest front that wooed people far faster in this cynical age.
Alanna let out a gagging sound. “How anyone falls for your gee-golly tripe is beyond me.”
“As opposed to browbeating them with insults?” Tuck asked, pushing his empty plate forward. “Name one member of this squad you don’t pick arguments with.” Even as he poked at Alanna, Tuck’s chocolate eyes gleamed with warmth.
Grif sat back and sipped his coffee. Everyone kept different hours, and once the day began, they’d all be diving into their individual tasks, but he loved these breakfasts with his Outlaws. He still remembered the ones with his parents growing up—dinners and lunches might go by the wayside, but they’d always made time for breakfast. He’d continue the tradition they set, even though they couldn’t.
Alanna scowled, her dark eyes alight with her normal brimstone. “I don’t fight with Scarlet.”
Scarlet raised his hand as he continued to skim through his tablet. “Leave me out of this squabble.”
John snorted. “Point made. No one fights with Scar.” He rose from his seat and gathered the empty plates, bringing them over to the dishwasher. “But I’ll field your barbs all day long, sweetheart.”
“Ugh.” Alanna rolled her eyes. “Go flirt with a cactus, J. You’ll get a better response.”
“Can’t,” he said as he strolled in the direction of his bedroom. “I’ve got a business lunch to gussy up for.”
Grif tipped back his mug to drain the dregs of his coffee before he pushed from the table to follow suit. “Ally and Tuck, I’ll be waiting on your report when we return. Scarlet, get ready to field any calls or emails we acquire from the meeting.”
Scarlet whistled. “Now get yourself in a suit, bossman.”
Grif restrained his grin. He tossed a hand up as he sauntered out of the room. The plans had been laid—now he needed to set them in motion.
Skyscrapers towered on either side of the street, casting severe shadows across the landscape as the cab zoomed forward. Grif leaned back in the seat, his suitcase resting on his lap. His Valentino suit was custom-fit and meant to make an impression, a wool-blend, ink-black masterpiece he donned like a costume. He could play pretend with the best of the high rollers, even though he felt most at home in a hoodie and jogging pants.
When he’d crash landed into the underworld, all the Krav Maga lessons and heavy training made him the blunt force on operations. After enough blood stained his knuckles, he lost track of whether they’d ever been clean. At least, until he’d siphoned enough funds away to stop working for others and started the Outlaws.
“The meeting today is with Leonard James, one of the heads of acquisitions, right?” Grif murmured out loud, running through the mental Rolodex of facts they’d accumulated for the false front they’d be parading under, one Scarlet alone would be the verifying force on. Thank everything holy for their tech wizard. They’d be sunk without him.
John stretched his hands in front of him, cracking his knuckles. The man had made a transformation from the guy lounging around the kitchen in his sweats, scruff on his chin, and blue eyes lit with the wicked humor they knew him for.
He’d pulled himself together in his typical Dolce and Gabbana navy suit with silver cuff links and a matching tie tack. John had combed his dirty-blond locks to the side like he was headed off for his first day working at the Capitol. He’d shaved, the clean lines highlighting a strong chin, and his eyes brimmed with an honesty the man didn’t possess. No matter how many times Grif witnessed the transformation, he always found himself impressed.
“When we meet with the guy, I can take the lead on the chatter,” John said, casting him a glance. “Give you more space on the setup end.” His gaze flickered to the hidden earpiece Grif wore, their direct link to Scarlet.
Their resident hacker would be listening in and filtering them any information necessary to justify their front as representatives from Neo-National. Scarlet had formulated a dummy page throughout the week, while he and John compiled the fake docket they’d sent to Torres Industries when requesting this meeting. Any extraneous information that might be dug up on them had been integrated into a variety of doctored news articles, old statements, and false names and faces that all routed to Scarlet.
“You’re always better at charming our prospective clients, anyway,” Grif responded, tapping his fingers along the shiny surface of his suitcase.
John passed him a look. “Your naturally intimidating demeanor is solid backup—you make me seem even more pleasant and legitimate—but yeah, you’re not going to be winning over droves with your glower.”
Grif smirked. “I’ve had a fair amount of success with my glower.”
“Sure, maybe with shaking down cronies and the guys you bring to your bedroom, but we’re talking the delicate art of business negotiations. That requires a finesse you can’t slam your fists into.” A hint of rebellion flared in John’s gaze, the one bit of himself he let slip past the placid mask he wore.
The cabbie carved through the streets with a fluid ease of someone who’d done this drive in the dark during a helluva blizzard. Grif increased the tempo as he tapped out a beat on top of his briefcase—not from the nerves but the anticipation. In his past life, he could’ve never imagined the thrill of thieving or how well he’d fit into this life. However, in his past life, he could’ve never imagined his parents would get murdered as a part of a business maneuver.
Welcome to Chicago.
The cab slowed as they approached the intersection of Michigan and Chicago Ave. A stunning building with a bone-white granite façade appeared more like a museum than the entrance of Penn Luxe, the restaurant they were having their business lunch at. As the cabbie ground to a halt, John leaned up to pass him the fare. Grif stepped out and onto the asphalt. Showtime.
If they wanted a chance at getting inside Torres Industries at the Aon Center, this was step one. From there, the building would have a thousand and one advantages to exploit—they all did if you viewed them with the right eyes.
Penn Luxe was one of those places dripping muted elegance, which of course made this place a flytrap for all the bloated, too-loaded pests in the city. His nose twitched as they headed to the front do
or of the joint, all glass. Places like this with their thousands of mirrors and reflective surfaces were prime real estate for narcissists and thieves. Once they stepped through the double glass doors, the cream and black accents assaulted him.
“We’re here, Scar,” he murmured, alerting him of their arrival.
“Roger that, boss,” Scarlet said over the intercom in the semidistracted tone he always had while working. “I’m ready for you.”
Grif approached the host stand first. “We have a reservation under Greg Locksley.”
The thin waiter at the stand nodded, waving his arm in the direction of the dozens of circular tables spread out across the floor, most of them two or four seaters. “Your friend has already arrived. I’ll take you to him.”
Grif internally cursed. They hadn’t arrived late, or even on time by any measure. They’d arrived early, because the control freak in him always preferred to be the first one to arrive. Showing up after meant he needed to adjust to their established terrain.
“Prep our welcome packet,” he murmured, knowing Scarlet listened in. “If all goes well, send it off at the end of the meeting.”
“You’ve got it,” Scarlet responded loud and clear through his earpiece. “And Locksley? Have fun.”
Grif restrained his snort as he strode behind the waiter who led them toward the back of the room. He searched out the vantage points on instinct. John kept a step or two behind him, his slower pace coming across as less intimidating than Grif’s brisk walk.
The rich scent of quality steak lingered in the air, a pleasant orange blossom fragrance floating above it all. They passed the filled tables, but Grif hadn’t spotted the older guy they were supposed to be meeting with. He’d checked out the pictures of Leonard James, your average rich sleaze who golfed on the weekends, fucked prostitutes after hours, and then went to church with his family on Sundays.
Midnight Heist (Outlaws Book 1) Page 2