Imperial Stout

by Layla Reyne

  “Your last name Price?” Goon One said.

  Nic gritted his teeth.

  “We’re just here to remind you.”

  “Take your reminders and shove them up your ass.”

  Goon Two smirked. “I hear you’re fond of shoving things in asses.”

  Nic snapped. He shot out a leg, sweeping the thug’s out from under him, dropping him to the ground, and shoving the pistol in his face, all the while keeping the other weapon trained on Goon One. “I don’t want to see either of you here again. If you set one foot on these premises or inside the brewery, or harass any of my staff, I’ve got weapons deadlier than these. And I know how to use them.”

  He stepped back, far enough for Goon Two to scramble to his feet. He could take these two into custody right now. Cuff them and call the cops or Cam to come get them. But in the past he’d seen Vaughn’s goons get off with barely a slap on the wrist. Nic would get more out of this encounter by letting them go, tracing the weapons, and fishing for more information, without letting on that he was going to cause trouble.

  “Give those back to us,” Goon Two said, jutting his chin at the pistols.

  “No way in hell.” Nic’s aim didn’t waver. He’d held weapons aloft for much longer than this before. “Now get the fuck out of here.”

  The dark-haired one moved, preparing to attack, but blondie had had enough. He put a hand out, holding him back. “Another time, Mr. Price.”

  Nic sure as fuck hoped not.

  They disappeared out the back lot, a car roaring to life and peeling away seconds later. Clicking on the pistols’ safeties, Nic shoved them in his back waistband and picked up the phone he’d dropped in the scuffle.

  The unknown caller had hung up. No way to call back either.

  “Shit!”

  Hurrying inside, he slammed the door closed behind him, the plate glass rattling, and forced his keyed-up self to wait for the lock to reengage. Once it glowed red, he headed for the tasting bar, laying the handguns and phone out on a bar towel, then poured himself another pint of Pils. He quenched his dry mouth and waited for his pulse to slow. For his mind to move past worry—for his brewery, his business, his future—and onto formulating a plan to save it.

  He needed information. And backup.

  The unofficial sort, if he wanted to keep whatever mess his father had gotten into from fucking up his own life. Or worse, threatening someone he cared about, the list of targets having grown alarmingly long over the past year. Before, it’d been a short list—his SEAL team, Eddie, Gravity, the handful of people who worked for them. He’d held everyone else back, had avoided relationships beyond the professional or very casual nonprofessional context. People got hurt in his orbit, even when he tried to do right, and after the pain he’d caused already, he didn’t deserve more than what he allowed. He didn’t want to cause anyone else that sort of pain again.

  But then he’d gotten tangled up with Aidan’s lot, including the ASAC Nic wanted, against his better judgment, to know in a decidedly more than professional or casual context, whether he deserved to or not.

  Taking another long swallow of beer, Nic picked up his phone and activated the secure call app. He scrolled to the most resourceful person among the six contacts listed there.

  “Price,” Melissa Cruz answered, instantly alert. “Talk to me.”

  They’d worked together often when Mel was the FBI SAC before Aidan, and their working relationship had continued despite her retirement from the Bureau. Chief of Security for the Talley’s shipping company by day, bounty-hunter—maybe also mercenary, Nic knew better than to ask—by night, she’d delivered more than one wanted criminal to him. Now he needed her assistance dealing with the criminal element threatening his own life.

  “I need your help.”

  “With?”

  “Couple things.”

  Headlamps blasted through the plate-glass windows, lighting up the interior entryway. Nic’s pulse hammered, two beats of worry that the goons had returned—perhaps with reinforcements, or worse, with tanks of gasoline and a lighter—before the rattle of a blown-out muffler reached his ears. He released the breath he’d been holding, shaking his head, as he wondered how Cam had made it cross-country in that junker.

  “I’ve got company,” he said to Mel.

  “Friendly or foe?” she asked, voice clipped.

  “Friendly.”

  “What you need, can it wait until morning?”

  A trace on the handguns and unknown call? He didn’t see how eight hours was going to make much difference on either. And he could do some searching of his own during that time. “It’ll hold.”

  “I’ll text you a time and place.” She clicked off, just as the noise outside died.

  Nic wrapped the pistols in the bar towel and hightailed it to his office. He swung aside the framed map of the world’s beer regions and opened the safe behind it, shoving the weapons inside.

  He was readjusting the picture when Cam banged on the main door.

  “Let yourself in,” Nic hollered. This time of night, Cam should be able hear him. And hopefully he remembered the key code Nic had given him a couple months back. Sure enough, by the time Nic reentered the tasting room, Cam was behind the bar, helping himself to a pint of the Imperial Stout.

  “Make yourself at home,” Nic greeted.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Cam set a full pint of stout on the bar top, then tipped another glass toward him. Nic nodded, and Cam filled the second glass with pilsner.

  “I was about to call you,” Nic said.

  “I’d rather debrief over a beer, if it’s all the same to you?”

  “No complaints here.”

  Approaching, Nic let his eyes rove over the agent, checking for any cuts or bruises he hadn’t noticed earlier. Cam’s dark hair was mussed and exhaustion weighed down his broad shoulders, but otherwise he looked as he had when they’d parted ways in the Federal Building elevator that afternoon. More important, nothing in Cam’s demeanor indicated Lauren had told him about this morning’s shooter. If she had, Cam would have stormed in here in high-gear-agent mode, demanding protection for Nic.

  “How’d you know I was here?” Nic asked, climbing onto a barstool.

  Cam set the pint of pilsner in front of Nic, next to the phone. “You weren’t in your office when I left.” Rounding the bar, he claimed the stool beside Nic. “Thought I’d swing by on my way home.”

  “You could have called.”

  “One, you’re on the way.”

  True. Cam’s house, which he rented from Aidan, was a ten-minute drive, at most, from the brewery, right off the highway exit Cam would take to get home.

  “And two, beer,” Cam added, before taking a long swallow of the stout, cheek dimpling on a satisfied smile. Lowering the glass, he licked the foamy head from his full upper lip, and Nic had to look away, remembering the heady taste of his beer on Cam’s lips the night they’d kissed. He silently cursed the charmer for not leaving a stool between them.

  “How long you been here?” Cam asked after another sip.

  “Fifteen minutes.” If he didn’t count the Goon Squad’s attack.

  “Went that well with Abby?”

  “Needed to give her time to calm down, then we talked, and then I had to fill out a reams-worth of paperwork to get her into rotating safe houses. I think she’s settled, for now.”

  Cam gave him a sideways glance, then a once-over he didn’t bother to hide. Nic turned the curses on himself, realizing he hadn’t bothered to straighten his hair or shirt since the altercation in the parking lot. But by the dark look spreading over Cam’s face, the other man’s brain had gone an entirely different direction. “What’d it take to get her settled?” he asked.

  “I don’t swing that way,” Nic replied, staring into his beer. “Also helped Eddie load some cases when I go
t here.”

  “You’re lying. Your tight-ass shoulders are up to your ears, you’re avoiding my eyes, and you’re drumming your fingers on your glass.”

  Fucking well-trained FBI agents. Nic stilled, forced his shoulders down, and tore his gaze from his phone where they’d drifted. “Don’t FBI me.”

  “Don’t attorney me.” Cam nodded at the phone. “What’s going on?”

  He could give him part of the truth; maybe it’d satisfy the hound. “Odd hang-up, right after I got here.”

  “Connected to the case?”

  “Don’t know.” It was possible, though Nic suspected it was more likely a diversion by the goons so they could sneak up on him. He needed Mel to run an off-book trace to confirm it.

  “Get Jamie to hack it.” The former Cyber agent, who now coached college basketball, still “consulted” on the side, for the FBI and Talley Enterprises.

  “Think he’s probably pretty busy at the moment.”

  The last thing Nic wanted to do was draw them near his father’s shit. Let them believe the sanitized version in the media, that his father was a Bay Area real estate tycoon who was winding down his business. Certainly safer than the unsanitized version Nic suspected and had further proof of tonight, that Curtis Price was a real estate failure up to his eyeballs in debt. Nic would get to the bottom of that mess with Mel, without putting the rest of them in the crosshairs.

  “What’d you get out of Scott and Mike?” Nic asked, diverting Cam to the promised debrief.

  “Not a damn thing. Flipping them is going to hinge on Abby.”

  “She’s convinced Becca will make another run at her, and at the artifacts.”

  Cam raised a brow. “At the museum?”

  Nic nodded.

  “They’re in a voice-activated vault there too, right? The prototype of the one in the Kristićs’ apartment?”

  Nic nodded again.

  “Then Abby’s right. Becca will need her.” Cam drained the rest of his beer. “She’ll have to make her move soon. The show opens next weekend, assuming Kristić doesn’t take the artifacts back home with his wife’s...” Cam’s words drifted off, as did his gaze. Twisting on the stool, back to Nic, he slid off and cleared his throat. “You in tomorrow?”

  “After I get some paperwork done here.”

  Or rather, after he met Mel.

  “We’ll go over security plans for the arraignment then. I want everyone safe.” Cam slapped the bar with the flat of his hand, a parting gesture.

  Wanting to offer some comfort, Nic shot out a hand, covering Cam’s on the bar. “Kristić’s lucky to be alive. He has you to thank for that.”

  “They both should be alive.” Cam brushed his thumb along the side of Nic’s, and Nic barely hid his shiver.

  Barely stopped himself from closing the distance between them.

  But he had to get his father’s shit sorted before he started anything with Cam. Probably not a smart play either, definitely more than he deserved, but he wanted that second kiss, badly.

  After he cleared the other hazards from the road.

  He withdrew his hand, wrapping his fingers around his glass and hiding his words behind the rim. “See you tomorrow, Boston.”

  Chapter Four

  Cam paused the playback of yesterday’s operation footage. On the monitor, Nic froze midstride, halfway between the surveillance van and buildings, standing in the middle of the street. Exposed, in the line of fire, with only Beta team overhead for cover. The image had plagued Cam all of yesterday, only waning in Nic’s presence at the brewery last night. It’d come creeping back in his dreams, haunting him straight through to morning. It should have been the memory of Anica Kristić, pale and bleeding out on the bed, that tormented him, but every time he’d closed his eyes, he imagined Nic bleeding out in the street instead.

  “Byrne!”

  Aidan’s sharp bark from the speakerphone snapped Cam out of his waking nightmare. He was so used to Aidan calling him by his first name now that the last name address was jarring. Rankled more than a bit too.

  Taking a measured breath, Cam leaned forward and braced his elbows on his desk. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Talley.”

  Aidan sighed heavily on the other end of the line, and Cam pictured him raking a hand through his red hair. “I know that, and I didn’t mean to imply it was, or that you couldn’t handle this. Just please tell me you’re not blowing smoke up my ass.”

  “I blow smoke up Bowers’s ass, not yours. Everything’s under control, partner.”

  There was a sharp knock on his door, and before he could answer, Lauren stuck her head inside. He flagged her in and gestured at the visitor chairs.

  “I want status updates every four hours,” Aidan said.

  Lauren dramatically rolled her eyes and Cam bit back a grin. “Roger that,” he managed. “Now get back to enjoying the whiskey. Both kinds.”

  Irish expat Aidan had taken his new husband, nicknamed “Whiskey,” to the motherland for their honeymoon. The jokes were too easy.

  Lauren’s hands flew to her mouth, trying and failing to stifle her laughter, as Cam hung up on Aidan’s Gaelic curses. She spoke behind her fingers, nails a shiny shade of purple this morning. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

  “At least someone found it funny.”

  “Aidan would too, if he weren’t a control freak not in control right now.”

  “No shit.” Cam wasn’t one of the FBI’s best K&R agents for nothing, but he could also understand that this was Aidan’s first big case as SAC and it’d gone sideways without him, not that any of them could have predicted Becca’s betrayal.

  “So’s that one,” Lauren said, pointing at the freeze-frame of Nic. “Do you think he wears a suit on his days off too?”

  Not always. Cam remembered that tasting at the brewery a few months back. Remembered Nic dressed down in beat-up jeans and a snug Gravity tee, his muscles outlined in black cotton, and dark ends of a tattoo peeking out from beneath his short sleeves and crew neck. Lord only knew what was hiding beneath his daily suits and business wear.

  “For what it’s worth,” Lauren said, “I’m a fan of the weekend dressed-down policy you’ve got going while the boss is gone.”

  Cam tried not to wince. It was a professional rule he hated breaking and would have never considered it in Boston. But dry cleaning here cost twice what it had back home, and he’d frankly run out of clean dress clothes. Seeing as designer jeans and a vanity tee counted as business casual in San Francisco, his washable Dockers and knitted polo certainly fit the bill, and lowered his dry cleaning costs.

  “Enjoy it while it lasts.” Cam snapped closed his laptop and gave Lauren his full attention. “What’d you find on Becca?”

  She ran a hand across the computer in her lap. Not standard issue, given its alien-head logo and plethora of stickers. “Don’t ask how,” she said.

  Cam held up his hands. “Not asking.” With a hacker for a best friend, he’d learned that lesson years ago.

  Opening the laptop, Lauren spoke as her fingers flew across the keyboard. “Before, we were focused on Scott’s accounts.”

  He peered at the account numbers on the case board in the conference room between his and Aidan’s offices. Nic had a bigger war room two floors down, but they had a robust setup here too. Including teetering stacks of financial records. “We checked each crew member.”

  “We did, but once we identified the job down payment in Scott’s, we paused our deep dive into wonky finances of the other crew members.”

  “Wonky?”

  She glared up at him, kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed. “Yes, wonky.” If Cam didn’t know better, he’d take her for a smart-mouthed teen. But the thirty-year-old analyst-turned-agent was wicked smart, too observant for her own good, and a frighteningly good marksman with a Colt 1911 in her tiny hands.
<
br />   Almost as good as she was with a computer, which was truly frightening.

  Chuckling, he relaxed back in his chair. “So there’s wonky stuff with Becca’s financials?”

  “Not exactly.” She slid her laptop onto his desk, turning it to face him. “This is an account statement for Rebecca Monroe.”

  It took less than a second for it to click. “Rebecca Wright and Abigail Monroe. A joint account?”

  “Yes and no.” Lauren rotated the laptop half around so he could see while she clicked through windows, reaching one with an Account Holder Agreement opened. “Becca’s listed as the account holder and signatory. Becca and Abby are both listed as beneficiaries.”

  “Did Abby know about this? Did she access it?”

  Lauren shook her head, long strands of brown hair escaping from her pencil bun. “Only one user has ever logged in, from a single mobile device we don’t have on record. I’d bet that’s Becca.”

  “On a burner.” He ran a hand over his jaw, prickly since he’d skipped his morning shave two days in a row. “They could have shared the log-in.” While Nic seemed convinced of Abby’s cooperation, Cam wasn’t sold. Even less so now that they’d found a bank account with her name on it.

  One with multiple sizable deposits. “Are those—”

  “The third-party payoffs,” Lauren said with a nod. “We were only looking at Scott’s account for the bankroll.”

  Cam glanced back at the board and the list of deposits. “He had them.”

  “The payouts to his crew too, but these—” she pointed at her screen “—don’t match up. They’re bigger than Scott’s fee.”

  “By a lot,” Cam said. “Have you traced the origin yet?”

  “Hitting private bank walls. I’ve got calls with Switzerland and the Caymans on my agenda tomorrow when they reopen.”

  “We need to update Nic.”

  “Already texted him that we had a development.” She closed her laptop, slid it off the desk, and stood. “He said he had a meeting this morning and would be in around noon.”

  As keen as she was at reading people, Cam hoped Lauren’s own movements had distracted her from noticing his. Nic had told him he was doing paperwork at the brewery this morning. Maybe he was meeting someone there. Or maybe the prosecutor was lying about something. The same something that had ruffled Nic last night, even if he hadn’t wanted Cam to see him off his cool, collected game. How was Cam supposed to help the man who’d grown to mean more to him than he should if Cam didn’t know what the fuck was going on?