His Sword

by Holly Hart

  But I can’t.

  Because the man I’m threatening to within an inch of pissing his pants is, unfortunately for me, completely innocent. I can tell by his face. He truly has no idea what I’m talking about.

  So who the hell is responsible?

  “Then,” I mutter, straining to regain control over my breathing. “You’d better come with me. I’ve got something I need you to see…”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Skye

  A second before Harlan strides back through our bedroom door, I realize he’s not alone. I dive for my mask, pressing it to my face just in time, although part of me wonders why I bother. Hell, my bare naked ass is probably blasted all over the Internet already!

  “Harlan,” I pant. “What’s going–”

  Then I see who he’s brought with him – the auctioneer. My forehead wrinkles.

  Why bring that guy? And could you have given me some warning?

  “There!” Harlan barks, pointing at the pile of destroyed electronics near the foot of our bed. The bed in which he finally gave me the gift I’ve been waiting for all these years.

  I realize I’m still in a slight state of shock. Kinda numb, even.

  None of this seems real yet. I know I should be feeling a crushing sense of fear, but I’m not. It’s as though I can see a hurricane on the horizon, thundering towards me, winds gusting at hundreds of miles an hour, and yet I’ve decided the light breeze on my face is as bad as it will get.

  “I promise,” the auctioneer quivers, his prior self-assurance melting away. “The club’s reputation is entirely built on discretion. We would never spy on our guests. This goes against everything we – I – stand for…”

  He tails off, clearly realizing he’s convincing no one.

  “Then why don’t you explain to me,” Harlan says, his voice a low, dangerous growl, “Exactly how that,” his tone is filled with contempt as he points at the camera again, “made it in here.”

  The auctioneer wrings his hands.

  “I couldn’t possibly say,” he says. “Like I said, we don’t have cameras–”

  My ears prick up. “What about the ones on the outside of the building,” I say, interrupting, “I’m sure I saw some.”

  Harlan glances at me, forehead furrowed with interest. He nods supportively, and then turns back to the auctioneer.

  “I think you’re going to want to stop talking,” he says, lowering his voice to a threatening, knife edged growl, “and show me the tapes. Because if you don’t…”

  He spreads his palms wide, leaving the threat to the man’s imagination. It has the desired effect. The auctioneer’s face blanches, draining of blood. I have to hide a smile – even with the seriousness of this situation – as I look at him.

  He’s petrified.

  Then again, I would be too. Naked – with that enormous cock swinging between his legs, and brutal scars that mar his body, Harlan’s one hell of a scary-looking guy.

  And he’s mine.

  “Okay,” the man squeaks. “I’ll show you. Only, I’m not sure what use–”

  “Leave that to me,” Harlan mutters murderously, cutting the man off. “So, maybe you should start walking.”

  The auctioneer glances at Harlan’s naked body. “Don’t you…”

  Harlan shakes his head. “No.”

  The man blinks, as if struggling to process this turn of events. I don’t blame him. I guess it’s not every day a naked man walks through your place of business, threatening to wring your throat if he doesn’t get what he wants…

  Then again, I think. He did make me parade in my underwear…

  Harlan turns to me. “You can stay–”

  “Oh, hell no,” I reply. “That’s never going to happen. I’m waist deep in this mess, too, Harlan. So if you think you’re keeping me out of that room, then you’ve got another “think” coming.”

  Harlan nods quickly, hopefully placating me, “Of course.”

  He looks back at the waiting auctioneer, and smiles warmly, as though this strange affair is just any other business meeting. He claps his hands together.

  “Well then – shall we?”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Harlan

  I stride back out into the lushly carpeted hallway, just half a pace behind the auctioneer. Skye follows another pace behind, mask still pressed anxiously to her face, wrapped in an enormous white bed sheet.

  “It’s just in here,” the man croaks awkwardly, ushering me and Skye into a small security office. A few flickering screens light the otherwise darkened room. I flick a light switch on.

  “You weren’t lying, then,” Skye says, almost with a hint of disappointment in her voice as she surveys the screens.

  I immediately pick up on what she’s talking about. There are no interior camera angles on the screens in front of us. My heart sinks. If all we’ve got to go on are a couple of cameras pointing into the street, then we might as well give up now.

  “They are motion operated,” the auctioneer says, half quivering, half standing up proud as he explains how the system works. “It saves us from storing dozens of hours of footage.That’s hundreds of gigabytes a week…”

  I stare blankly at him. I couldn’t care less about the man’s video storage budget. He quickly quiets down.

  I sit down on an office chair, my cock flapping awkwardly between my bare legs. I swear that once or twice I catch him staring at my package.

  “Show me,” I growl. “Where can I find these logs?”

  I mentally switch back to a mindset I haven’t occupied for almost a decade. Most people think that being in the military – especially on a team as elite as the SEALs – is all about pulling triggers and throwing grenades, but they couldn’t be more wrong.

  Half the time, it’s about “hurry up and wait.” To be the best, you’ve got to be patient, hard-working, and have incredible attention for detail.

  It’s not quite as sexy, but it’s ten times more important than just being able to pull a trigger.

  “What’s your name, anyway,” I grumble, as the auctioneer guides me through the security system’s complex file structure.

  “It’s To – Tony,” he squeaks.

  I tip my head back and groan. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter. “I came to a sex club emceed by a man called Tony…”

  Wisely, Tony chooses not to reply.

  I start scrolling through image thumbnails. It only takes a couple of seconds before my eyebrows hike up with interest. I have to admit it. I’m impressed. Apparently the club’s 5% fee isn’t all wasted. This is one hell of a security system.

  “They’re all–” I murmur, half out loud.

  “Faces,” Tony smiles anxiously, as if terrified by the room’s silence. “The system does it automatically.”

  I start scrolling through a long list of images, all faces of people. Instead of forcing the operator to watch through hour after hour of footage, the system categorizes each chunk of video according to the face – or faces – caught on film.

  “And this,” he says, leaning forward and tapping an icon on the screen, “indicates when the main door was operated.”

  I whistle out loud, not bothering to hide my approval. “Shit, I’m going to need to get one of these…”

  “So what does that mean?” Skye asks, nonplussed. “How does it help us?”

  “Well,” I say, sticking my tongue out as I concentrate. “It means we can narrow this footage down to anyone who entered the building.”

  I tap a button and hold my breath. The system hangs for a second, as if thinking, then a ping echoes out of the computer’s speakers.

  It’s done.

  “Now let’s see what we’ve got.”

  I scroll through a much-reduced list of images. Mostly it’s Tony – now sans mask – and a couple of assistants. I wish I could trace their movements inside the club itself in order to rule them out as suspects, but that’s not possible.

  “Who’s
that guy?” I growl, tapping an image on-screen. The man in the picture is wearing a baseball cap with a UPS logo on it.

  “Oh,” Tony says dismissively, “that guy? No way. He’s been coming here for years.”

  “Another one bites the dust then,” I mutter.

  I almost scroll past it. Sandwiched between the images of Tony and his staff leaving the building last night and returning this morning, one man enters.

  “Who the hell is that?” Tony breathes. He taps the screen excitedly. “This guy – I’ve got no idea who he is. It has to be him. But how did he get inside? This building’s got the best locks money can buy.”

  If the security system I’m currently operating is anything to go by, then Tony’s telling the truth – the club spared no expense keeping its members safe, and most of all, private. But as I move the mouse towards the icon, I have a funny feeling that no matter how good the locks were, they wouldn’t have worked.

  Because I recognize the man in the image. I double-click on the thumbnail. Just to be sure.

  And when my suspicions are confirmed, my stomach drops like a rollercoaster with broken brakes. Because this is all my fault.

  I should have returned that phone call.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Harlan

  “I’m coming with you,” Skye says. She’s sitting next to me in the back of my limousine, and we’re driving – being driven, anyway – through a glittering New York nighttime cityscape.

  Her face is ashen white, and she’s trembling. For all her bravery, she’s not used to operating in this world, not like I am…

  …or was, anyway. It’s been a long time since I last went to war. Because that’s exactly what it seems is about to happen.

  “No way,” I mutter. “I’ll finish this, Skye. I promise you, Tonight. But I can’t involve you. It’s too dangerous. I wouldn’t ever be able to forgive myself if something happened to you.”

  “Tell me who he is again?” Skye says, turning her glorious blue eyes on me. Instead of the excitement – and nervousness – I saw on this journey earlier this evening, now I see fear.

  For me? For us? I cannot tell.

  “Garibaldi,” I spit. “Sounds like an opera singer’s name, doesn’t it? But believe me, there’s nothing sweet about this guy. He’s a killer, no kidding. I didn’t find out ‘til it was too late.”

  “So he invested in Wolfe Capital,” Skye says, squinting at me. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “He’s no investor,” I growl, making air quotes with my fingers. “He’s just a front for the New York mob – a clean face for dirty money. Hell, the first time he walked through my doors when I was just setting up shop, I thought he was a gift from heaven. He put the capital in to allow me to take the firm to the next level. I made the prick hundreds of millions.”

  “So why’s he coming after you?” Skye asks apprehensively. “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened,” I mutter. Then I grimace. If this thing between Skye and I is going to last, then I need to tell her the truth, the whole truth … and nothing but.

  “Okay, I’ll come clean,” I say, ignoring the habit of a lifetime of keeping my mouth shut about topics like this.

  “When I found out where his money was coming from, I kicked Garibaldi to the curb. Gave him his dirty cash back, and told him we were done.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, I thought. By that time, I figured Wolfe Capital was too big for him to fuck with.”

  “So what changed?”

  “A week ago, Wolfe Capital had the best quarter any hedge fund on Wall Street has had since the recession, profits up 115% quarter to quarter. That’s – ”

  “– Crazy,” Skye finishes for me as she smiles, even if just wanly. “Even I know that.”

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “I doubled the fund’s value in little more than three months. It’s unheard of. Well,” I smile, a hint of embarrassment touching my cheeks, “I guess you had a little something to do with that, too. My traders have been on fire since you started digging around in their heads.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Skye says. “What’s Garibaldi’s part in all of this?”

  “He wants in, I guess,” I shrug. “Back into my fund, and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get there.”

  “But that’s –”

  “– Crazy,” I grin, switching our roles from a moment before. “I know. But that’s how it is in this city. Some people will do anything for money – kill, fight, screw over anyone for a buck. It’s like a seedy, greedy version of Game of Thrones…”

  “So … what’s the plan, then?” Skye asks, grimacing with determination. “How do we beat this guy?”

  I grin, and feel the limousine slow beneath me as we pull up outside my apartment. A member of my personal security detail opens each passenger door the very second the car slows to a halt.

  “The plan,” I say, as Skye steps out, obviously waiting for me to follow. Instead I lean toward her, over the middle seat, “is for you to stay in my apartment. You’ll be safe there.”

  “Wait!” Skye yells.

  “I’m going to finish this, Skye,” I yell as my security guard holds her back. “You have my word.”

  Skye’s door thuds shut. A second later, so does mine, but not before I accept a heavy duffle bag. It’s old, frayed … and smells faintly of saltwater.

  I turn it over in my hands as the limousine’s engine powers back up beneath me. I run my fingers across the rough canvas. There, embroidered on my bag, like it was a decade before, I see a label that brings back an ocean of memories.

  Sergeant Harlan A. Wolfe, Team Six.

  I press my phone to my ear, watching idly as New York zips by outside the limousine’s window. I know Skye’s gonna hate me for the stunt I just pulled. I don’t blame her.

  “You’re sure,” I mutter.

  “Yes, boss,” the voice on the other end of the line squeaks. He’s a pale kid called Ridley, if my memory serves. He’s from Wolfe Capital’s security division – computer security, specifically.

  The way today is turning out – I’m going to have to give him a pay raise.

  After all, I just woke him up and asked him to hack into a computer owned by a man who’s affiliated with the New York mob. It’s not every day you piss off both the government and the Mafia before breakfast…

  Pay raise it is.

  “Yes. It’s him, the man you’re looking for. The, ah –” his voice breaks anxiously, “evidence you’re looking for – it’s right here.”

  I rub my eyes, realizing that right at this moment, Ridley is most likely looking at photos of my butt naked … butt.

  “Can you delete it?” I ask, collecting myself.

  “The second you tell me to, boss,” he squeaks. “But–”

  I breathe out heavily. “But he might have backups.”

  Ridley sounds surprised. “Exactly.”

  “Delete it anyway,” I order. “Do whatever you have to do, just make sure you don’t leave a trace – either of the photos, or of you hacking into his system. Capisci?”

  “You got it, boss. There’s – there’s one more thing.”

  I can’t help but be intrigued by the hesitancy to Ridley’s tone. “What?”

  “I’m not sure if it matters, but it looks like this guy’s in debt.”

  “Debt?” Now that makes no sense – or – does it?

  “Yeah. I can access his financial statements, and he’s deep into the red.”

  “How much are we talking?”

  “Looks …” Ridley pauses, and I hear a mouse clicking on the other end of the line, “… looks like a divorce settlement, boss. Alimony going out, like clockwork. It started about … about three months ago.”

  “Good work.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  “And Ridley?”

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Stay quiet about what you saw tonight, unders
tand? This isn’t office gossip.”

  “Yes – yes, boss.”

  Click.

  I hang up the phone, deep in thought. Thankfully, the call lasted long enough that we’ve already arrived in my target area. I blink, surprised – and a little disturbed – at how easily I’ve slipped back into my old ways of thinking.

  It’s not a target area, it’s just Brooklyn…

  I push a button on the panel to my left, and the privacy screen separating me from the driver’s cabin rolls silently down.

  “Leave me here,” I mutter. My driver slows to a stop, doing as I ask without a word in response. He knows better than that.

  The screen rolls back up, and I make last-minute preparations. I trust my staff, but there are some things they simply do not need to see.

  I withdraw a loaded 9mm pistol from the duffel bag and stuff it down the back of my pants. In the old days, I’d go in fully loaded: semiautomatic rifle strapped to my chest, grenades pinned to my waist, and hundreds of rounds of ammunition stuffed in every pocket I could find.

  But not tonight.

  Not in the middle of one of the world’s biggest cities. Sure as heck not when I’ve got so much to live for. The last thing Poppy needs is to grow up with her father behind bars.

  No, a 9mm will do just fine. I hope not to have to use it at all, but I like the security of the familiar weapon. It fits into my palm as though it were molded perfectly for my hand.

  I step out of the vehicle, blending easily into the night. I look like any Uber passenger stepping out of his ride. I don’t attract a single undue eyeball.

  That’s just the way I like it.

  Garibaldi’s place is unmistakable. It’s the only one, on a row of old, red brick, Brooklyn townhouses, with gaudy gold fittings on its bright red door. I guess some people don’t change. Especially not men like him.