Imperial Stout

by Layla Reyne

  He shook his head. Beside the point right now. He needed to focus on the case, not distractions.

  “All right,” he said. “I want all our bases covered. Keep running down that account and dig for others with wonky aliases or activity.” Lauren smiled at his use of her word, the deflection working. “Dig deeper into Abby too. I’m going to bring her in for questioning. Would be great to have more to go on.”

  “You got it.” She breezed out the door, and Cam waited for her to turn the corner before drawing his own laptop back in front of him. He logged back in and the screen came to life.

  To the picture of Nic.

  The man who was hiding something from him.

  * * *

  Nic clutched his steering wheel, debating whether this was the right call. Last night, in the heat of the moment after Vaughn’s thugs had tried to jump him, consulting Mel had seemed like the best plan. He trusted Mel more than most, professionally and personally, and she had the connections, and discretion, to get him what he needed. Answers. But would her other connections—to the Talleys—require disclosure when Nic required secrecy? She wouldn’t put her family in danger, which was exactly what Nic was also trying to avoid, but would she see it that way?

  That said, he didn’t really see any other option. He couldn’t trace the handguns and call himself without triggering flags, and there’d be a dozen more of those if he took this to the feds. He’d be walled off, ethically, and Aidan and Cam would be so far up his ass that he wouldn’t get another moment’s peace, much less what he really wanted from the latter. Or worse, they wouldn’t want anything to do with him at all. He didn’t want to admit he’d become attached, but yeah, that list was fucking growing all right.

  He pulled Vaughn’s business card out of his pocket, turning it over in his hand. He’d have to play this careful. Try to feel Mel out with the handguns and call trace before he showed all his cards, this one in particular. He resigned himself to losing—up against someone so well-trained in interrogation and torture—but with his SEAL training, he could hold out longer than most.

  Maybe.

  Pocketing the card, he grabbed the briefcase off the passenger seat and climbed out of his truck. He approached the private marina’s guardhouse, badge in hand, ready to prove his identity to the rent-a-cop on duty, but the uniformed guard greeted him with a smile and waved him on through. He didn’t need to ask which of the dozen or so docked yachts was the one he wanted. The American and Irish flags flying from its stern were a dead giveaway. As was the striking and imposing woman waiting for him on deck, her brown skin glowing under the morning sun.

  “I’d heard you and Danny moved.” He tucked his briefcase under his arm and climbed aboard.

  “We did,” Mel replied, brushing back her windswept curls. “But ay dios, living and working with him, I needed a space of my own.”

  Nic laughed. “So you turned the floating bachelor pad into your office?”

  “Let me show you the improvements,” she said with a smirk.

  He followed her below deck, through the showcase-worthy living room, past the kitchen that looked rarely used, and into the main cabin area. Where the bedroom should have been was instead one of the most advanced private command centers—there really was no other word for it—Nic had ever seen.

  He turned a full three-sixty in the middle of the room, trying and failing not to gape. “Should I be seeing this?”

  “Probably not.” She claimed one of the ergonomic desk chairs and used her high heel to toe over a second. “Now, what did you need help with?”

  Right to the chase. He took the offered seat and lifted his briefcase onto the long metal table that ran the length of one wall. Mel rolled beside him, as he snapped open the locks, lifted the lid, and removed the false bottom, revealing the two handguns from last night, snug in foam.

  She pulled one free. “Not your weapon of choice.”

  “Not my weapons.”

  She flipped it over, running a French-tipped nail over the scratched-out serial number. “Other one like this too?”

  “The same.”

  “I might be able to salvage something, but no promises.” She laid the pistol on the table and sat back in her chair, nail tapping the armrest. “This for a case or personal?”

  “Personal.” He mirrored her faux-relaxed posture, the both of them taking the measure of each other. Friends, yes, but how much to say? Or better question, judging by her dark assessing eyes, how much did she know already? “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “The FBI has a very thick file on Mr. Vaughn.”

  Nic forced himself not to gape again. “I didn’t—”

  She nodded at the handguns. “His weapon of choice. Right down to the make and model and the half-assed scratched-off serial numbers. They came after you?”

  He could play dumb, but she was already halfway down the trail. And she gave no indication of stopping. “Last night. And possibly yesterday morning too.”

  “At the Kristić raid?”

  Apparently that police ban radio in the corner wasn’t just for nostalgia.

  Nodding, he lifted the other handgun out of the case, set it next to the first, and removed the foam. He withdrew the evidence bag containing the phone Lauren had hacked. “We took fire in the surveillance van. Thought it was connected to a third-party rip-off, but then this was found in a sniper’s nest.” He took it out of the bag, powered it on, and handed it over, photos open. “Only thing on it are pictures of me.”

  She swiped her thumb over the screen, a crease forming between her dark brows. “And you said they came at you again last night?”

  “At the brewery. Distracted me with a call from an unknown number, then tried to jump me.”

  “Idiots,” she muttered, handing the phone back. “Do you want me to trace the call?”

  “Please.” He sealed the phone back in the evidence bag and dropped it in his briefcase. “Came into my cell number, around ten thirty.”

  “Easy enough.” She spun to one of the keyboards, typing in commands that lit up the closest monitor, a call search running on-screen. “Does Byrne know about any of this?”

  He clicked shut the briefcase. “No.”

  She turned from the wall of computers, angling toward him. “Because you think this has to do with your father’s debts. To Vaughn.”

  He startled this time, no hiding it, at just how far down the trail she’d already sprinted. Mel, it seemed, knew just as much, if not more, about his father’s financial situation than he did.

  “Your father was also being monitored by the Bureau,” she added, shocking him further. “No surprise the sharks are circling. Those are some dangerous fish, Price.”

  Nic was still hung up on his father being under FBI investigation. He was surrounded by FBI agents these days, and not just in a professional context. None of them had said a thing. “Does Aidan know? About my father? About Vaughn?”

  Mel shook her head. “Walled off. Conflict of interest.”

  That statement was too absurd, too accurate, for comment. He did anyway. “Because that’s stopped Talley before.”

  “Different department, low level, relatively. Which was why the matter never got to him. Before I left, I turned everything over to Assistant Director Moore, with the recommendation to keep Aidan, and Cam, for that matter, walled off.”

  “Is the case still active?” he asked.

  “As part of a bigger one to nail Vaughn, yes,” she said with a tilt of her head toward the pistols. “But if Curtis’s situation gets worse, if he gets desperate, he might get back on the radar in his own right.”

  Nic debated whether to ask for something he had no right to. The FBI and the US Attorneys’ Office were both DOJ, and while they often worked together, they were separate agencies. Sometimes, logistical and ethical walls between them were necessary. This ha
d been one of those times. But if the FBI knew the full scope of his father’s financial dealings, and failings, he needed to get his hands on that information. To assess how it might blow back on him.

  Before he could ask, Mel carried the pistols across the room to a corner wall safe and tucked them inside. Nic prayed her lock-pick husband couldn’t crack that one or his secrets wouldn’t stay secret for long.

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” she said, turning back to him. “About the call and guns. Usual searches?”

  He nodded. “Acquisition, ownership, used in other crimes, etcetera.” The other ask still hovered on the tip of his tongue.

  She beat him to it, making the offer. “I’ll make some additional inquiries too. Discreetly, of course. See where the agencies are on Curtis.”

  “I have no right to ask.”

  “But you were going to. Friends and family benefit.” She folded her arms. “And I don’t want Bowers to get his hands on it and blindside you.”

  He pushed to his feet, hand extended. “Thank you.”

  She pulled him into a hug instead. “What’s your plan, once I get you this information? Believe it or not, certain people do care about you. No one wants to see you step into the line of fire.”

  The sentiment both warmed and chilled his heart. The last time someone had cared for him, had stepped into the line of fire, or rather fists, for him... He banished the memory and answered her question instead. “My father and Vaughn aren’t giving me much choice. So I’m trying to build a shield, for myself and for those who care for me.” He swallowed hard, forcing the truth out of his arid mouth. “Who I care for too.”

  “You’re building a case,” she correctly surmised.

  “I don’t want to have to bring it. I don’t want to air my family’s dirty laundry for everyone to see.”

  “For Cam to see.”

  He turned away, grabbing his briefcase and hiding the truth she was perilously close to. He headed out of the command center and across the living area, toward the stairs that’d take him above deck.

  “How much do you know about the ancient Spartans?” Mel asked behind him.

  The non sequitur halted him midstep. “Not much,” he said, turning back to face her. “Beyond what I’ve seen in movies.”

  She leaned a hip against the end of the nearest leather couch. “The Spartans were famous for their shield walls.”

  “Shield walls?”

  “When under attack, a Spartan phalanx would lock shields and advance together. As one. They were nearly impenetrable. Saved countless lives.”

  Not so non sequitur after all.

  “Before you dig into this further, Price, think long and hard whether your shield of one is enough. For both—for all—our sakes.”

  Chapter Five

  Nic didn’t wear suits on his day off, but it was a near thing.

  The prosecutor barreled out of the elevator bank in charcoal dress slacks and a navy V-neck sweater, the latter making his ice-blue eyes glow.

  Or maybe that was just the cold, hard anger burning there.

  Cam pushed back from the conference room table. “Control freak incoming,” he mumbled to Lauren on his way to the door.

  Nic ate up the bullpen floor with his long-legged stride, meeting Cam a mere two steps past the threshold. “Why the hell was Abby brought in here? I didn’t spend hours doing rotation paperwork last night, trying to keep her safe, for you to fuck it up. Are you trying to get her kidnapped?”

  The jab at his professional competency hurt, poking Cam’s sorest spot, especially after yesterday. But it angered him even more. Nic fucking knew him better than that, professionally and otherwise. And even if he didn’t, it was a fucking low blow. He didn’t go around accusing Nic of cratering his own cases. Seeing red, he stepped nose to nose with the attorney. “Don’t you ever say that to me again,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.

  “We need to question her,” Lauren added at their sides, having followed him out.

  Nic’s steely-eyed gaze stayed trained on Cam. “She’s my fucking witness.”

  “Okay, Bowers,” Lauren retorted, voice mocking.

  Fury flashed in Nic’s eyes, Lauren’s insubordination testing his clearly strained patience, ratcheting up his anger. It was enough to turn down the heat on Cam’s own boiling rage, for the moment.

  He shifted his gaze from Nic to Lauren. “A minute, please.”

  “I don’t get to watch the pissing contest?”

  “Agent Hall,” Cam said in his command voice, brooking no argument. “Don’t you have bank accounts to trace?”

  Her blue eyes bounced between them, seeing too much. “You’ll regret it if you hurt each other,” she said, before spinning away on her booted heel.

  Cam returned his attention to Nic, reining in his boss voice and speaking to the other man as an equal, even though the earlier dig still burned. “We’re on the same team here. Abby’s the Bureau’s witness too.”

  “You should have cleared it with me first,” Nic said, shoulders dipping slightly. “Before bringing her in.”

  “Maybe so, but you weren’t here this morning.”

  “I was at the brewery.”

  “You told Lauren you had a meeting.”

  “At the brewery.”

  Lie.

  Nic’s shoulders had ticked back up the tiny measure they’d relaxed, giving him away. Right now, though, they had bigger issues. “I didn’t want to disturb you, either way.” He raised his hands, palms out. “Look, every precaution was taken, and I’ll do the reset paperwork for the safe houses.”

  The way Nic held his stare, Cam wondered for a second if they would come to blows, but then Nic stepped back, sucking in a deep breath. When next he spoke, it was level and calm, the mask slipping back into place. “Why did you bring her here?”

  Cam held out an arm toward the conference room, and Nic entered ahead of him. “Give him the rundown,” Cam said to Lauren.

  “Glad you didn’t kill each other,” she mumbled, before launching into her recap of the latest developments.

  By the time she was done, Nic’s thumbs were drumming a steady rhythm against the table. “You’re right,” he said. “We need to question her again. Make sure she’s not planning an escape with Becca.”

  “Or another heist, from the inside,” Cam added.

  “Fucking hell,” Nic cursed again as he stood. “Where is she?”

  “Holding Room Two,” Lauren answered.

  That was the other reason Cam wanted to question Abby in the FBI’s offices. Holding Room Two was equipped with specialty audio and video instruments designed to read a suspect’s or witness’s biometrics during questioning. “Analytics running?” he asked Lauren as they rose.

  She nodded.

  “Double-check ’em,” he said. “We’re right behind you.”

  “You know, you could’ve just said you wanted another moment alone.” She swung the door closed before either of them could call her out on the repeated insubordination. Not that either of them would. She was too valuable to the team, and usually the lighter mood was appreciated.

  Turning to Nic, Cam opened his mouth to make sure they were okay, here in the office at least, but Nic spoke first. “I’m sorry I came in here...” he waved a hand between them, then let it drop to his side “...like that. And I’m sorry for what I said. I was way out of line.”

  “You were,” Cam acknowledged, but didn’t dwell, at least not on the words, digging for the reason instead. “Meeting this morning went south?”

  Nic wiped a hand down the length of his face, thumb snagging on his rough, angular jaw. The brownish-red scruff, flecked with gray, was already well past five o’clock. Cam wanted to run his fingers over it, desperately.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets instead. “That bad?”

>   “Productive, but everything I didn’t want to hear.”

  Concern blotted out the flare of lust. “Is it something I can help with?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “And?” Cam stepped closer. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  Nic’s eyes darted to his, darkening, and Cam’s lust crept back in, but then Nic cast his gaze aside and opened the door. “It’s fine.”

  Cam paused over the threshold, right in front of Nic, the tight squeeze forcing his gaze again and drawing out a sharp inhale. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  A door clicked open across the bullpen. “We’re ready,” Lauren called from the observation room.

  “Coming,” Cam replied, only to have his step falter when a light hand brushed over his lower back, Nic’s soft “Thank you” floating past his ear.

  He was thrown further off-kilter in the interrogation room by Lauren’s voice in his ear, and by Nic’s one-eighty in demeanor. He’d turned off the tired, worried man, leashed the legal bulldog, and was all charm and patience, greeting Abby warmly.

  “I’m sorry for having to bring you back in here.”

  She wound her earphone cord around her thumb. Nervous, put on alert by the change in schedule. “What’s happened?”

  “Something we hope you can help us understand,” Nic said.

  Was this how he manipulated suspects and witnesses on the stand? How he got them to do his bidding for him? How he got a jury to eat out of the palm of his hand and give him the conviction he wanted?

  Presently, though, his palm was literally held out to Cam, eyes on the folder of redacted bank account ledgers Lauren had passed him on the way in. Cam handed it over, and Nic opened it on the table, pushing the top sheet toward Abby. “This is from a bank account ledger we discovered this morning.”