Complicated Creatures: Part One

by Alexi Lawless

  “Hope you haven’t been talking with my ex-girlfriends?” Simon replied as he leaned in, giving her an appropriately continental kiss on each cheek before pulling back, his eyes alight with good humor.

  “We were all just having a drink at the bar,” she quipped before turning to Carey, giving him a brief hug in greeting.

  “How was your meeting?” Carey asked as he pulled out her seat. He looked equally sharp, his all-American blonde looks offset by a gray suit and a crisp blue shirt.

  “Long,” Sam replied. “I apologize for being late to the party,” she said, looking at Simon.

  “No worries,” Simon responded. “Gave Carey and me plenty of time to get better acquainted.”

  “What are we drinking?” she asked as a waiter appeared at her side.

  “A 2005 Château Lafite Rothschild,” Simon replied.

  Sam’s brows raised in appreciation. “Excellent vintage. You have good taste, Mr. Michaelson.”

  “Simon, please. Mr. Michaelson makes me think of my da.”

  “Then you’ll have to call me Sam.”

  “I’ll call you anything you want,” he flirted, a handsome smile on his face.

  Good-looking, she thought. For a Visigoth.

  She asked the waiter to bring her a glass. “Have you ordered?” she asked the men.

  “We were waiting for you,” Carey told her, his blue eyes smiling. Things were going well, then.

  She and Carey choreographed her late arrival to give Carey more time to get to know Simon, considering he’d reached out to Carey directly. Though they had gotten helpful information from Marvin’s research and their London office contacts, there was nothing like a drink between veterans of two of the world’s most selective military fraternities to get to the heart of the matter.

  “So Simon,” she smiled. “How does a Newcastle boy like yourself get into the British SAS’s Mobility Unit?”

  He looked slightly taken aback. “You know your British accents.”

  “I can tell a Geordie when I hear one,” she replied slyly.

  “I never thought I’d get called to the rug by an American.” Simon grinned.

  “What’s a Geordie?” Carey asked.

  “Common name for the coal miners from the catchment area I grew up in,” Simon explained. “Most Yanks wouldn’t know that. This one’s good,” he laughed, gesturing toward Sam.

  “We’re no Yankees, sir,” Sam objected, allowing her Southern accent to thicken in mock outrage.

  “We’re Texans first and Southerners second,” Carey elaborated, chuckling as he took a sip of his wine.

  “My apologies,” Simon replied. “Well, the story of how I got into the Mobility Unit is probably going to offend you more than my calling you a Yank.”

  Sam’s brow quirked.

  “I used to twock cars as a lad,” Simon explained. “Had a natural talent for getting in and out of places I shouldn’t be from a young age.”

  “Twock? Now that’s a term I’m unfamiliar with,” Sam admitted, accepting her glass of wine from the waiter.

  “Taking without owner’s consent,” Simon clarified with a wink.

  She laughed, surprised and amused while Simon shrugged, unrepentant.

  “So you went from street urchin to the military.”

  “When I finally got snagged, it was that or the clink,” Simon explained. “Figured I’d be of more use to Her Majesty in the service than in one of her prisons.”

  “Fair enough. I’m not in the least offended by the way,” Sam told him. “I like a man with a colorful background.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Simon laughed.

  “Simon was telling me he served in Afghanistan,” Carey told her.

  “Really?” Sam asked, wondering if they’d had any overlap.

  Simon nodded, his head tilted as he regarded her. “I’d heard about you, in fact. The Poppy,” he murmured, watching her reaction.

  Sam felt her heart stutter, though her face remained pleasantly curious. “The Poppy? Where did that nickname come from?” she asked, taking a casual sip of wine.

  Simon’s sharp hazel eyes assessed her while he twirled the wine in his glass. “Rumor had it your interrogations were so effective, people would tell you anything,” Simon said, leaning forward as his voice dropped, as if he were sharing something in confidence. “Never had to touch them, I heard. Men bent on suicide, unafraid of death—they’d fall under your influence and break down, telling you anything.” His heavy brow lifted. “Impressive that.”

  The air thickened. They watched each other across the table, the noise and motion of the restaurant dimming. She was certain she’d never seen him before in the field—or as a civilian. Simon Michaelson wasn’t the type of man you forgot. So he was either looking for confirmation of a rumor or he had access to intel far above his pay-grade.

  “What years were you in Afghanistan?” she asked, running her finger over the rim of her wine glass, her demeanor relaxed.

  Carey’s eyes bounced between them as the conversation veered.

  “2008 to 2011. Iraq before that.”

  “I’m going to guess your locations and missions in those countries are as classified as my own,” she commented. “But your reputation as a top military operative precedes you. It’s just a pity we didn’t meet before.” Sam smiled, redirecting.

  Simon watched her for a moment before taking a sip of his wine. He’s a wise enough man to know an insurmountable barrier when he sees one, she thought.

  “Better late than never,” Simon responded finally, his voice casual.

  “I’ll toast to that,” she murmured, holding up her wine glass as the tension in her chest dissipated. They toasted, allowing a pause in conversation to listen to that evening’s specials and place their orders. Sam couldn’t help but wonder how much Simon really knew about her and her past work.

  Carey took over the conversation, prompting Simon to discuss what was going on at Leviathan to make him want to leave.

  “It’s been a right mess the past year,” Simon admitted, running a hand through his closely cropped hair. “I’ve done two extractions back-to-back where I thought I’d lose my fuckin’ ass. Beg pardon,” he said to Sam.

  “Chechnya? I heard,” Sam said, tutting. “That would never have happened with us.”

  “And the one before that?” Carey asked.

  “Somali raid on a Greek-owned oil tanker off of the Horn of Africa,” Simon muttered, shaking his head in distaste.

  “That was you? Shit, I heard about that,” Carey told him, leaning forward. “Didn’t some of crew get killed in the ransom exchange?”

  “Me and my mate, guy by the name of Henri, got sent in with a team as bloody bait,” Simon told them, anger making his accent thick. “It was supposed to be a clean exchange. Two million quid for the crew, but we barely got out. One of my team was killed and three of the crew. Found out after the fact that Leviathan was in league with the tanker’s top brass to try to trap the pirates. Apparently, that part of Africa’s become one of the most expensive production and transport areas in the world.”

  “Jesus,” Carey murmured, his brows sky high.

  “Yeah, it gets better,” Simon continued. “Leviathan had it rigged up that they’d get bonuses if the pirates were caught and brought in for questioning. Henri and I took down a couple of them down before the rest escaped, and we actually got a talking to for that, as if we should have just zip tied them after they killed my man and the crew. Greedy bastards,” Simon spat, disgusted. He downed his wine, giving Sam and Carey a level look. “I didn’t survive the bloody Middle East to get my arse hung to dry so some skive can make more money off my blood, sweat, and tears.”

  “Amen to that,” Carey murmured, nodding in agreement.

  “What I don’t understand,” Samantha wondered aloud, “is why a man with Lucien Lightner’s reputation for shrewdness would be willing to risk his best talent repeatedly?”

  Marvin had pulled their fina
ncials. Leviathan remained solvent. In fact, despite losing share to Lennox, they’d continued to post year-over-year growth, particularly due to their strength in Central and Eastern Africa, the Middle East, and the Baltic States—regions she wanted to take a bite out of. Badly.

  “How long have you and Henri worked together?” Carey asked as dinner was served.

  “We’ve done a few retrievals together over the past couple years. Met him in Libya.”

  “I heard he’s from the Congo.”

  “He is. He was in Libya with the French Foreign Legion,” he replied, digging into his succulent bone-in sirloin.

  “We’d like to meet with him if he’s interested,” Carey told him, slicing his rib-eye.

  Sam enjoyed Brixham crab and whole sea bream with chili and rosemary while she listened to their conversation with one ear, the rest of her attention focused on calculating all the possible permutations for how Simon could have known about her field work in the Navy. The only publicly available information on her military background would have been her years served, the countries and years for her tours of duty, and her rank and file. She sat back, watching Simon as he enjoyed his dinner.

  He was clever. Of course he would have done his homework on her. But he didn’t push too hard, knowing she wouldn’t relent. It’s not information he wants, she realized. He’s testing his boundaries…and showing me what he can do. He wanted to impress her and throw her off balance at the same time. Put himself in a position of strength despite the fact that he’d reached out to them.

  “Simon, why did you approach us now?” she asked suddenly, interrupting them. “After Carey’s been trying to recruit you for two years. Africa was months ago. That would have been enough to make anyone quit. Why did you do the Chechen gig? Knowing it would likely be more of the same.”

  Simon put his cutlery down, hazel eyes focused on her. He said nothing as he regarded her.

  “I can think of three reasons,” Samantha continued, steepling her fingers in front of her as she sat back. “How about a little game of process of elimination?”

  Carey watched her, his face a question mark.

  “The obvious one would be that you’re bitter and you want to stick it to Leviathan.”

  Simon remained unfazed, his face granite as he watched her.

  “No?” Sam’s brow quirked. “How about you were put up to meeting the ‘infamous’ Samantha Wyatt and her cohort by the very company who supposedly strung you out and to accomplish what? A little corporate espionage?” she asked instead. She reached for her wine glass, toying with the stem.

  A little smirk ghosted over Simon’s mouth.

  “You British boys and your James Bond ambitions,” Sam smiled, picking up her glass.

  “Sam—” Carey began, unsure of where she was headed.

  She held up a finger. “Or you’re here tonight because something is seriously wrong at Leviathan. Something no one knows. You were going to leave, and justifiably so,” she acknowledged. “But your timetable became suddenly urgent.” Sam sipped her wine, watching him over the rim.

  The skin around Simon’s hazel eyes tightened, almost imperceptibly.

  “Oh?” She smiled, leaning forward. “I like number three too. Now I just need to know why.”

  “Your lady’s downright scary, mate,” Simon muttered to Carey.

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know,” Carey answered, chewing his steak.

  “How did you figure it out?” Simon asked after a moment.

  Sam cocked her head. “You’re a savvy guy. You know how to take care of yourself in sticky situations. You started nicking cars as a youth, after all. Had plenty of practice covering yourself,” she pointed out. “So the only reason you stayed at Leviathan so long was that there was something worth your while. And that’s changed. Plus, you aren’t the bitter type. You’re level-headed. Methodical.”

  “And you know that how?” Simon asked, his brows raised.

  “You work with vehicles and engines. You enjoy mechanics. Everything has its place. And everything has a process. That’s what made you a good car thief and got you to major with the SAS at a relatively young age. You don’t do emotional responses. That also makes you a proper Brit, doesn’t it?” she smiled. “Stiff upper lip and all that.”

  He regarded her, his eyes admiring. “And how do you know I haven’t been sent to spy on you?”

  “No offense, Simon, but they wouldn’t send you.” She grinned. “So what is it? What’s going on at Leviathan that’s brought you to our door?”

  Simon sat back, resting his hands on the table. He looked from Sam to Carey and then back to Sam. “Is this an offer?”

  “Bring Henri with you, and I’ll double your current salary,” she answered. She felt Carey tense with excitement.

  Simon’s head cocked. “Why do you want Henri?”

  “He’s an expert in jungle warfare, and he has connections we would find useful,” Carey answered.

  “He’s also a right crazy bastard,” Simon said, smiling.

  “You’d have to be to join the French Foreign Legion,” Carey replied.

  “I want my own team,” Simon added.

  “We run dual leader teams,” Carey answered. “Our model is different from what you’re used to. One leader runs the client-facing interactions and direct protection, the other runs security and preventative action behind the scenes. That’s why we want you to bring Henri,” he explained.

  “Based in London?”

  “If you like.” Sam inclined her head.

  Simon sat back. “I want a contract waiting for us by Friday.”

  “Consider it done,” Carey responded.

  Sam sipped her wine, waiting.

  “You’re as good as reputation makes you out to be,” Simon commented, his eyes full of admiration.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” Sam replied.

  Simon rested his elbows on the table, his demeanor completely serious. “Understand I got into this business because I’m good at what I do and because I wanted to stay in the action. The money was worth it after a military pension. Protecting or extracting high-value individuals, businessmen, officials, whatever. They’re not all good men. I don’t have the luxury of choosing, and I’m usually not bothered by that, but now…” Simon shifted forward. “I won’t risk my life for it, and I sure as hell won’t get on the watch list of every major government for it.”

  “You don’t seem the type to rattle easily,” Sam commented.

  “I’m not. But this? Not havin’ it.” Simon knocked back his wine before leveling her a pointed look. “Leviathan’s protecting Ibrahim Nazar.”

  Carey’s eyes widened. “Shit.”

  Sam leaned forward. “You mean to tell me Leviathan’s in league with one of the biggest opium suppliers and known terrorists in the world?” she asked in a low voice.

  Simon nodded. “I was asked to ship out to Afghanistan this week.”

  “You know where he is?”

  Simon shook his head. “Closely guarded since the American-Russian joint raid on one of his production facilities in Farah. But my initial meeting point was meant to be Kandahar. Last I heard, he was in Pakistan, but the majority of his production is still in Afghanistan.”

  Carey thought about it. “Makes sense. Easy to get to Helmand, Uruzgan, or Zabal from there—the most likely places he’d be to keep an eye on the rest of his opium if he’s not hiding out in Pakistan anymore.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, mate.” Simon nodded. “Whatever the case, there isn’t enough money in the world to get me involved in that bollocks. If Leviathan’s doing business with the likes of him—no telling who else Lightner’s in bed with these days.”

  “How many people know about this?”

  “I’m not certain.” Simon shook his head. “But the team they’ve got on him is understandably secret. I only know a couple others who’ve been assigned. They’re top-in-class. Don’t know if they’ve agreed to it, tho
ugh.”

  Carey looked at Sam.

  “Anybody besides you and Henri looking to jump ship?” he asked Simon.

  Simon nodded. “I can get back to you.”

  “Looks like it’s Christmas morning after all,” Carey smiled.

  More like war, she thought. And where there is war, there is always the residual burn for retribution. They all had scalps on their belts, but Carey didn’t know how she’d gotten her nickname. Or how it haunted her. The Poppy. A name given to her by the man she’d killed. Heir to the largest opium source in the world.

  And Ibrahim Nazar’s eldest son.

  Chapter 7

  September—Friday night

  The Whitney, Chicago

  J A C K

  Jack hadn’t seen her in week, not since they’d gone out on the boat.

  Her Corvette remained parked in her bay, the lights in the penthouse dark as if she’d never been there. Jack found himself vacillating between irritated and relieved, his attitude increasingly brusque the farther he went into the week with little to no sleep.

  He could feel the tension behind his eyes building, the hyperactive firing of his synapses in overdrive as he became more and more wired from the insomnia. Mitch recognized the signs, leaving him alone at work as the week progressed, knowing Jack would hit a state of exhaustion and fall into a deep sleep that would likely take him out for a couple days. Jaime called to check on him, asking if he and Maddie should swing by and stay over. Jack begged off, knowing he’d be fine.

  As he watched the hours tick past to midnight, Jack contemplated his options. Self-medicating was obviously out. He hated getting drunk to sleep, and besides that, it rarely worked. He’d simply wake up within a couple hours, groggy and dehydrated. He’d exercised enough this week to drain his muscles, leaving him aching. Sex would just wire him for sound.

  Besides, he was avoiding a confrontation with Rebecca, knowing she wanted to have the “Where are we going?” talk since the benefit. He liked her. Obviously. But the idea of a long-distance relationship was both unappealing and potentially maddening for the both of them. Besides which, it would only delay the inevitability of their end, tacking on a tedious and drawn-out drama where one wasn’t necessary.