Imperial Stout

by Layla Reyne

  The more he talked, the more Nic noticed his thicker accent. The vowels longer, the Rs dropped. Pure Southie.

  Jamie rose from his chair and circled the table, tablet in hand. “Electronic locks.”

  “You have to hack it too?” Nic asked, gaze bouncing between the two.

  “Some component of the museum security system, yes.”

  Thank God Cam had the best tutor. Nic wouldn’t even begrudge Jamie the last coffee. He tossed the empty cardboard tray on the table, as his gaze followed the three men out of the room, eyes straying to Cam’s ass in those worn jeans. This Cam was dangerous, in more ways than one.

  Aidan cleared his throat, and Nic righted himself on a curse, from the ache and from the fact he didn’t have a coffee cup to hide behind. Words would have to do. “A replica or Danny bought a vault?” he asked.

  “To-may-to, to-mah-to,” Aidan answered.

  Nic hoped Mel could put it to good use after. He rounded the table to the conference room coffee machine and started a cup brewing. Not great, but better than nothing. “Tell me about Brady Campbell,” he said, leaning back against the built-in credenza.

  “High school dropout from South Boston,” Aidan began. “Started working in his brother’s chop shop as a teen. Boosting cars led to boosting more valuable items.” As Aidan rattled off the details, Nic recognized the pattern, the familiarity. Easier for Cam to keep his cover story straight the closer it stayed to the truth.

  “I know where this is going,” he interrupted. “How are we getting him in?”

  “Whiskey found a connection.” Aidan nodded toward the laptops, meaning Gray Hat Jamie had taken a walk on the Black Hat side. “Someone that can make an introduction.”

  The coffeemaker beeped and Nic slid his cup out. Taking a sip, he grimaced at the bitter taste. “Will he be wired?” There were more advanced devices—ones Mel, if not the FBI, could get their hands on—that were almost undetectable.

  Aidan shook his head. “Too risky.”

  More bitterness. “Sending him in completely cut-off isn’t?”

  “What’s this really about?” Aidan asked, brown eyes narrowed.

  Head down, Lauren struck her computer keys harder and faster, counting off the seconds of their stare-down. No way was he getting into this with Aidan, because no way would it not get back to Jamie, and that was Cam’s call to make, his friendship on the line.

  For only two kisses. So far.

  Lauren’s click-clacking reminded him of something else he needed to know, not that he really wanted to get into that matter either. “What’d your trace on the car plates turn up?”

  Her chipped nails halted their assault on the keys. “Nada. Stolen. Not a match to the car.”

  “What do you think they’ll show?” Aidan asked, far too perceptive.

  Nic’s phone, for once, rang at just the right time. He drew it out of his pocket, checking the screen. Another Unknown caller.

  “Excuse me.” He tossed his cup of piss poor coffee into the trash and ducked out of the room. “Hello, this is Nic Price.”

  Dead air, same as last time. Though standing in the FBI’s offices, he doubted any of Vaughn’s goons were around to rush him. But was there someone else here on Vaughn’s payroll? Or in his office downstairs? Someone who’d known where he was during both the prior ops? What other explanation could there be?

  His eyes roamed the bullpen desks, looking for who might be on the phone, on the other end of the line. “Who is this?”

  More nothing.

  “You gonna keep calling and not talking?” he growled low. “Who do you work for? My father? Vaughn?”

  Still nothing.

  “You won’t be able to hide for long,” he bit out, before his thumb jabbed at the screen, ending the call.

  As soon as the screen went blank, he cursed. Not long enough for a trace, he didn’t think. But couldn’t hurt to ask. He opened the secure call app and scrolled to Mel’s number. Before he dialed, though, Aidan’s office door swung open and Danny, Jamie, and Cam filed out.

  His frustration at the call must have shown. Cam trailed behind the others, pausing at his side. “Another hang up?” He was a damn good agent, didn’t miss a thing. “Talk to Jamie,” he said.

  Nic dropped the phone back in his pocket, then looked up, first over Cam’s shoulder, at the open safe in the office behind them, then, when Cam cleared his throat, into those deep, dark eyes. Cam was who they should be concerned about right now, he reminded himself. The investigation into the shooter, the driver, and whoever was calling him could wait.

  “Jamie’s got more important things to worry about.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Cam said. “I’ll keep an eye on Abby and find out who’s pulling the strings. Make Bowers happy.” He brushed his hand against the back of Nic’s. “I’ll catch them.”

  Nic smiled weakly. “And I’ll prosecute them.”

  Cam gave his hand a firmer knock, then started toward the conference room. Before Nic could second-guess himself, he grabbed Cam by the arm, turning him back around. “Hold just a second.” He fished his keyring out of his pocket and flipped through the various pieces of metal until he got to the one with the red bumper. Using a nail, he forced the ring apart and began sliding the key off.

  Cam’s choked “Dominic” made him look up, and his nail slipped, the key snapping back into place on the ring. Cursing, and ignoring the question in Cam’s one word, Nic tried again and wiggled the key all the way off this time. Grabbing Cam’s wrist, Nic lifted his hand and pressed the key into his palm. “Eddie’s place,” he said.

  Cam blinked, once, twice, then the confusion seemed to clear, his eyes sharpening. “The beach house in Half Moon Bay? He’s not home?”

  Nic shook his head. “Out with his Guard team, at least another week. Use it as a safe house, if you need to.” It wasn’t on either of their offices’ records as an official safe house. It wouldn’t be compromised. “Or...” he started again, then paused, contemplating how to say this without second-guessing Cam or doubting his abilities. “Or if you just need a place to pull back.”

  Cam curled his fingers around the key. “Thank you.”

  “And I’ll catch you, if you need me to.”

  “I’m counting on it.” Those dark eyes lit, swirling with emotion and with the confidence Nic needed to see to let him walk out the door.

  * * *

  Cam was back in SoMa, at a night club in the formerly industrial, recently revitalized tech-arts area. Streets of warehouses had been converted to start-up incubators and art studios, and mixed in with them, plenty of restaurants, bars, and clubs to entertain the future billionaires. Cam had never felt more out of place, and it had nothing to do with his rag-tag disguise. There were people around him dressed in suits, people dressed like he was, people barely dressed at all—a head-spinning mash-up. Like Nic said, you could never tell here, and for once, maybe that worked in his favor.

  He snagged a stool at the bar, thankful it was as far away from the onstage DJ as possible. Back to the bar, he scanned the cavernous space, locating each of the exits and stairs, including to the mezzanine level. Layout committed to memory, he spun and flagged down the bartender.

  “Stout,” he ordered, only to be disappointed when he took his first swallow. The dark beer hit his tongue without the blast of bubbles and flavor he’d come to expect. Nowhere near as good as Gravity’s, but to say he was biased was an understatement. That taste, especially when mixed with Nic’s, would forever be burned on Cam’s tongue.

  Like the feeling of the unfamiliar key pressed into his palm earlier today. For a second he’d thought it was to Nic’s place, or maybe to the brewery, and the prospect of either had stolen his words. As shocking and momentous as those prospects would have been, the key was something even more important. A safe haven. From their enemies, and from Cam’s own c
over, if things got too intense. A place where he could be and find himself again, if he got too close to stepping over his line. That escape valve, that tie to the Cameron Byrne of the here and now, would be critical, especially with how closely Brady Campbell mirrored the Cameron Byrne of old. At the end of this assignment, he wanted to climb out of the past and back into the present, where he’d advanced to FBI ASAC and kissed the smoking hot AUSA. He didn’t want to lose that. Like the old Cameron Byrne had lost—

  “You Brady?” a familiar voice asked behind him.

  A slender arm snaked over the low back of his barstool, heat burning through the thin T-shirt, his coat and hoodie checked at the door. The better to know exactly where Abby stood. Cam hitched an arm back first, sliding a hand over her forearm, preparing to hold her in place, before he twisted his torso to face her.

  “That’s me, sweetheart.” He shifted them so Abby’s back was to the club and he was between her and the bartender, cutting off all lines of sight to her shocked expression. Holding her gaze, Cam gave a slight shake of his head, and Abby, catching on, reined in her reaction.

  She listening? Cam mouthed.

  Abby returned the slight head shake.

  “She watching?” he asked low.

  “VIP section, mezzanine.”

  “Then make like you’re still getting cozy.” He coasted his hand up her forearm, over her elbow, and around to her back, bringing them side by side. “What’ll it be?” he asked, as he flagged down the bartender.

  “Jameson, on the rocks.”

  “Woman after my own heart.” Smiling, he pulled her closer, selling the show to a watchful Becca on the second level.

  He thanked the bartender, who came right back with Abby’s drink, then watched in admitted admiration as Abby downed half of it in one swallow. Unfortunately, the whiskey did little to relax her. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, incredulous. “You’re a fucking fed.”

  Cam swiped her drink, draining the rest of it. “Do I look like a fed to you?”

  She gave him a slow once-over, from boots to blue tips. “Not in the slightest.”

  He wasn’t quite sure he liked the interested gleam in her eye. “Becca’s never seen me, so I’m the best shot you got at getting out of this mess. Unless you’re with her now?” The question had to be asked, given the way she’d greeted him. Looking for Brady, for Becca.

  Abby looked away, toward the other end of the bar, and swallowed hard. “I’m with my baby sister,” she said, voice rough.

  Not a straight answer, but one Cam could understand. Abby, he hoped to God, was trying to make the right decision, the one that he and Bobby hadn’t made. Cam just needed to convince her she could trust him and Nic; they were a better option than Becca. “I’ll do what I can to get you both clear,” he said. “But to make that happen, we have to find out who Becca’s working for.”

  Incredulous returned with a vengeance. “She’s the boss.”

  “Our evidence indicates otherwise.”

  “What evidence?”

  He grinned—better than a grimace—for any prying eyes. “I can’t tell you.”

  Stymied, Abby moved to yank free her hand and Cam gave it a squeeze, hoping to calm her. Hoping all this looked like a negotiation to Becca. “How do we play this?” he asked. He needed Abby on his side, and giving her some control over the situation would go a long way.

  “I’m supposed to take you up to her, if you check out.”

  He lifted her hand, kissing the back of it. “Think she’s buying this?”

  Finally, one corner of Abby’s mouth twitched, fighting a smile. “You’re smooth, I’ll give you that.”

  “Let’s go then.” He lifted his hip, drew out his wallet, and tossed a twenty on the bar. Sliding off the stool, he tugged Abby closer, whispering in her ear, “I won’t let anything happen to you.” Because that’s what Nic would want, and because Cam didn’t like the bruises on her face one bit either. “Or your sister.” Because that’s what the old Cam had failed to do, the reminder burning a hole in his wallet. He knew he shouldn’t have brought the library card with him, the only truly identifying piece of information on him, but he hadn’t been without it in twenty years. He wouldn’t start now, when he needed it most.

  She nodded, then stepped out from between the stools, hand in his, leading him across the floor and up the stairs to the mezzanine level.

  In the VIP section, Becca sat in the middle of a long couch, her position providing a prime view of the bar where he and Abby had been. Cam hoped like hell they’d been convincing. Legs crossed, Becca bounced her knee-high leather boot their direction as they approached. Two bruisers closed in, separating Cam from Abby. Becca lifted her chin, ordering her girlfriend over, while her muscle searched him, including with a handheld transmission scanner. Aidan had been right not to send him in wired.

  Once clear, he crossed to the couch and Becca gave him a blatantly hungry once-over, a Cheshire cat grin stretching across her face. “When Ax told me he’d found a new B&E guy for me, he didn’t mention you were fucking stunning.”

  Ah, well, he hadn’t factored this in, but he could make it work to his advantage. Use it to get closer to Becca. Smiling, Cam took a step forward, and Becca waved off her guards. “Let Hot Stuff through.”

  She stretched the arm not around Abby across the top of the couch, and Cam slid into the spot next to her, letting his own eyes linger on the cleavage her bustier accentuated. She’d appreciate the appreciation.

  “I’m fucking stunning all around, boss lady. And so are you.” He held out a hand, together with his best grin, the one that had once been spread wide until he’d begun reserving it for a certain prosecutor. “Brady Campbell, at your service.”

  “Someone’s a charmer.” She placed her hand in his and laughed as he lifted her knuckles to his lips, same as he’d done Abby’s at the bar.

  “Irish,” he said with a wink. “I come by it honest.”

  “And from Boston, judging by that accent.”

  “You got a problem with some Southie blue collar on your crew?”

  “None at all.” She crooked a finger into the cuff around his wrist and dragged his hand to her leather-clad thigh. “You come highly recommended.”

  He ran his hand a little higher, eliciting a rumbling purr. “Like you said, stunning.”

  “Good.” Nail beneath his chin, she drew him closer. “I’m gonna need you to prove it. Tonight.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It was early morning when Nic pulled his truck into the parking garage, the shift in light from outside to underground negligible, the heavy spring fog blanketing everything in soupy gray. Between the cement pillars and slanted ramps, the mist that rolled down the ramp played in the nooks and crannies, making the shadows come to life. Born and raised in the Bay Area, Nic was old friends with the fog, had greatly missed it during his tours in the dessert, but it had its creeptastic moments.

  Palming his phone, he stared at the dark screen. Other than work emails, it’d been silent since last night. No more unknown calls, and no word from Cam either. Nic didn’t expect it. Cam was deep undercover. They had to assume all communication would be monitored. His phone, a burner, had likely been taken and bugged. But not even knowing if the meet had happened, much less whether Becca had accepted Cam into the crew—or God forbid, taken him hostage—had kept Nic up until the wee hours. Sleep eluding him, he’d eventually dragged his ass into the brewery to do paperwork, which finally knocked him out.

  A couple hours’ shut-eye and more pain in his sore body to show for it. If he was going to be halfway functional in court later this morning, he needed coffee, STAT, but even those shops weren’t open for another half hour. And he’d be damned if he’d get stuck with office sludge again today.

  He climbed out of his truck, dug his briefcase from behind his seat and slammed
the door shut. He’d taken two steps toward the elevator when something pinged his periphery.

  Motion, in a dark corner, the other direction, diagonally behind him.

  Were Vaughn’s men stupid enough to follow him here? In a garage with a police car pool monitored by security cameras? Or maybe it was Vaughn’s inside guy? Because the more Nic thought about that last night in his wide-awake hours, he was sure of it. Someone, in either his or Aidan’s office, had to be tipping Vaughn off as to when and where they might be able to disguise an attempt or threat on his life. To pressure a father who couldn’t give two shits about him. Someone’s intel was wrong; he was not the leverage they needed. And if they did know that, then they were trying to pressure him, directly, to pay for his old man’s debts.

  Nic didn’t turn toward where he’d detected the motion. Using his side-view mirror instead, he kept an eye on the area behind him while lowering his briefcase and reaching for his sidearm. As fog curled out of the suspect corner, Nic cursed himself for falling prey to the mist’s tricks. Until he felt another pair of eyes on him, up the ramp to the next level. He nudged the side-view mirror, angling it for a better look. Was that someone skirting back from the ramp’s edge?

  He flipped the strap on his holster, fingers curling around the butt of his pistol. “Who’s there?” he called out, voice echoing around the cement pillars and empty spaces. There were so few cars on this level at this hour, only a handful left from overnight. Hearing no response, only the whistle of the wind down the ramp, Nic crept cautiously toward the back of the truck. From the tailgate, he could dodge either direction for cover, if needed. “Hello! Who’s there?” he called again.

  Nothing, at first, then feet shuffling over concrete. In a hurry. A clank, metal on metal, like something falling. A second later, a pipe came rolling over the edge of the ramp, and in its wake, a loud click.

  Like a pistol loading.

  Nic yanked out his own, loaded it, and darted behind the nearest pillar.

  In his mirror, he watched a shadow move down the ramp.