by Mary Calmes
“I see you looking at me like you do.”
It was not a secret that I found him alluring, but I had my ridiculous heart to consider, where the fucking had to equal loving. And really, any way you sliced it, sleeping with a man who could kill me was far too deadly a proposition.
“It happens,” I granted.
“You’re not exactly plain yourself.”
I made a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and sigh.
“I’ve never met anyone with chartreuse-colored eyes in my life. I thought they were odd contacts you wore when I first met you.”
“I wear brown ones; you’ve seen me with them in.”
“I have, yes, and while your point is well made that in our melting pot of a world, you fit in even better than Bond, you really are far too handsome a man to be a secret agent. If you really think about it, they should be utterly plain and forgettable. Whyever would any agency want strikingly gorgeous agents that everyone notices? That’s the height of stupidity.”
I smiled. “Did you actually just come here to stroke my ego?”
“No,” he sighed, slouching in the comfortable wide-backed chair. They were nice, I knew; I’d picked them so I could sit in them for long periods of time. I planned to have a great many chats in my kitchen. “I wanted to tell you that, that guy Eastman upped the cost of the contract out on you.”
I nodded. “I figured.”
“But more importantly, may I ask a question?”
I was expecting it. “Go ahead.”
He leaned close, arms crossed on the table. “Why you?”
“Why not me?” I asked coolly.
“Oh, come on, Con.”
Of the contract killers I knew, only he used the shortened version of that name, and somehow, the informality struck me as almost friendly.
I shrugged.
“You won’t answer?”
“Do I have to?”
“It’s a staggering undertaking, and you’re so glib?”
“I’m qualified, am I not?”
“Yes, but the same could be said for many others, for me.”
“True.”
“Then?”
“Perhaps I’m more connected than you know.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied me. “I know everything there is to know about you.”
Doubtful.
“Why do you think they chose you? Why were you picked above everyone else to be the vault?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“No, really, tell me.”
Sitting there across from a man who’d tried to kill me on a number of occasions before we’d come to an understanding, I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Well?”
“I was chosen because I’m prettier than you.”
His eyes widened almost comically. “That’s madness!”
I laughed at him, at how irate he looked.
“So the contract that’s out on me, you’re not taking the job?” I teased, leaning forward on the table.
His scowl was dark.
“I figured, but I had to ask.” I shrugged. “I mean, how smart would it be to come here and then just pull your gun and shoot me.”
“As though you would allow that to happen,” he said, chuckling.
There was that.
“Is that new guy I met last time around here somewhere?”
“His name’s Mercer.”
“Yes, Mercer. Not pretty, lots of muscles, not much else.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said, defending the man I’d hired to watch my back. I was already becoming friends with him. If the men who trained me could see this new softer side of me, they would have gagged. A contract killer with friends was counterintuitive, though truly, that wasn’t me anymore.
“He’s not nearly as smooth as you, my friend,” Daoud said, reminding me that we were having a conversation.
“Not many men are,” I replied, my tone silvery, dipped in honey.
His lips parted, and I heard a small puff of air escape.
“And no, I don’t need watching in my new home.”
“Meaning that you’re not afraid of me?”
“If I was, I would have never told you where I lived in the first place.”
“Really?”
I crossed my arms. “Are we not friends?”
“Are we?”
“We are.”
“When did that happen?”
“I think a long time ago, back when I needed that gun planted in that rental car in Vegas a few years ago.”
It took him a second. “Are you kidding? That was nothing.”
“You were the only one close enough to help me, and I needed a piece. It was a big thing, make no mistake.”
He leveled a stare at me. “So, now that you’re the vault, what name are you going by?”
“Harris.”
“That makes sense; it’s what you used to build your dangerous reputation, might as well trade on it.”
“That was my thought, but alone, with friends, I’m using my real name, Darius Hawthorne.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s time to make a change and put my faith in people. I’ve been so suspicious for so long and of course,” I said, thinking of Efrem and how disappointed I was, “mostly for good reason. But it’s time to trust those who have proven themselves over and over again.”
His eyes didn’t leave me.
“So if you would be so kind as to call me by the name my mother christened me with, I would be grateful.”
“I would be honored,” he said hoarsely.
I dipped my head.
“And you, please, use Rahm, not my last name.”
“Agreed.”
We were quiet for long minutes, both of us letting the gravity of the situation sink in. We weren’t going to be icy to each other anymore. No more civility, only something real and important and final.
“You know, if you’re dead,” he began after taking another sip of his tea. “Then they can take out—what’s his name?”
“Trevan.”
“Yes, well, if you’re dead, then Trevan and his partner and the rest of his family are all on the chopping block.”
“Not his family, right? That’s not the way the mob generally does things.”
“Well, certainly that husband of his. The spouse always goes, too, just not the kids.”
I grunted.
“You’re not concerned?”
“No.”
“And why not?”
“Well, Mercer, as you said,” I reminded him. “Plus, I moved them here with me.”
“Who?”
“Trevan and his husband.”
“Here?”
“Not here, here,” I said irritably. “Here to Boston.”
“No kidding.”
I threw up my hands.
“You know I think it’s actually smart, you taking on being the vault, because you’re getting damn sentimental.”
“I am not!”
He shot me a look that said otherwise.
“I’m practical. You know that.”
“Normally.”
“Let it go,” I warned.
He scoffed. “So, who did Fortney?”
I met his dark gaze. “Mercer.”
“That was messy.”
“As was the point.”
He nodded.
Again we sat in a contented silence, the type you have with those who might not be your closest friends but who respect the hell out of you.
“I called Isaak,” he said suddenly like the thought had just hit him.
“To see if he was going to take the contract on me?”
“Yes. He would be the only other person they could ask besides Lee.”
“Lee works for me now.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “The vault has two specific positions. Mercer has one, him the other.”
He smiled. “I’m guessing these are not voluntary.”
&n
bsp; “Mercer’s is, not Lee’s.”
“That was kind of you not to think of me, thank you.”
“You’re too entrenched with the Mossad, and I know that’s your passion. I’d never ask you to give that up.”
His eyes warmed, and I saw it, the shift in him from predator to confidant.
“Lee could be moved on the chessboard.”
“Plus he’s young and pretty and likes to be seen.”
“He does.”
“How’s the pay?”
“Not what he was getting, but his work was sporadic, so I suspect it will even out, be more in the long run.”
“And the perks?”
“He has his own team, and, oh, a plane.”
“A plane is good.”
I grinned. “You said you called Isaak?”
“I did.”
“How? Did you hold a séance or something?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I thought Isaak was dead.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Why would you think that?”
“I heard the Russian was dead.”
“No, no, no, you always got that fucked up. Isaak isn’t the Russian, Evgeni was.”
I squinted at him. “Are you sure?”
He rolled his eyes at me.
“So wait, then Evgeni is actually dead?”
“Yes. It was that job in Florence.”
“Oh, so that’s how that went down.”
He nodded. “I crossed paths with Isaak in Berlin about a month ago, and I got the whole story from him.”
I was surprised. “He talked to you?”
Quick shrug. “He did. He’s back to verbal communication again.”
I had to think. “He took that vow of silence, what—two years ago?”
Nod.
“That whole thing was weird,” I mused.
His scoff made me smile. “At least you didn’t have to work with him. We went after that cartel head in Nuevo Leon, and the whole time we’re there, not one word.”
Imagining it, Isaak all serious, Rahm just wanting some kind of diversion, was hysterical. Stuck together like rats in a cage. “I couldn’t use my satellite phone. I was so bored. All I did was smoke pot and eat. And it was the worst kind of weed there, all of the munchies, none of the buzz.”
I couldn’t stifle my chuckle.
“Anyway, I didn’t get ahold of Isaak, so I’ll try again.”
“Thank you,” I sighed.
“You sound sad all of a sudden.”
“It’s just,” I began solemnly, thinking of the man I’d never see again. “I’ll miss Zhenya,” I murmured, using the familiar form of Evgeni’s name. We had been friends of a sort. There had been a mutual regard there, without question.
“Me too,” Rahm whispered, leaning back, lifting his cup to mine.
I touched my mug to his, and we drank a silent toast to our friend who had probably been left for dead wherever he fell. Such was the life of a contract killer; there was no one waiting at home to grieve you.
“So,” he husked. “I’ll talk to Isaak.”
“And tell me what he says. I need to know either way if he’s coming for me.”
He scoffed. “Come on, you know he won’t. Imagine what the price would have to be to make him take the job.”
“Maybe he’s mad at me for something.”
“He’s not that way, and you know it.”
I did, actually.
“Are you on speaking terms with Mancuso?” Rahm asked.
“Oh, don’t worry about that, Chris would never take a contract on—”
“No, not that, something else.”
“So what’s your question?”
“You’re friendly with him, right?”
“I am, yes,” I replied, not having to give it much thought. I’d known Christopher Mancuso a very long time, longer than I’d known Dante Cerreto, as he and I had been in the same Ranger unit together. “Why, you’re not?”
He winced. “We had a misunderstanding over a contract in Mexico City, and now he’s all pissy.”
“A K&R, or something else?”
“You know me, the last time I fucked around with a K&R situation was the one you and I were on when we pulled that kid out of Afghanistan two years ago.”
“Then what was it?”
“It was a thing, a tiny thing.”
I squinted at him. “Yes, but everyone knows Mancuso does all the cartel work in the southwest and Mexico. He has since his days with the company. Why would you step in that?”
He winced again.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Why do you just assume it was my fault?” His voice climbed several octaves at once, and I was immediately suspicious.
I glared at him. “Why would you ever get between Chris Mancuso and the cartel?”
“I was right there. I figured it would be quick and easy.”
“But? I hear a but.”
“He got seriously pissed that I took a contract there and apparently still is.”
I scoffed.
“Fuck you, Darius,” he said, trying out the new name. “He’s taking it so personally, and I have to be in Barcelona next week—”
“Which is where he lives.”
“Which is where he lives, yes,” he repeated irritably, “and I don’t feel like getting my head blown off just walking around because he’s still mad.”
“So you want me to call him.”
“If you would.”
“Why are you going to Barcelona?”
“There’s a contract out on a billionaire who lives there and I picked it up.”
“Who you hope is not one of his friends.”
He groaned. “You see? Things like that never crossed my mind before.”
“Do you attribute that to age?”
“I attribute that to my colleagues getting very possessive about certain parts of the world.”
“Colleagues is a gentle euphemism for people who will kill you.”
He grunted.
“But you’re talking about Mancuso in Latin America and Mexico and, oddly, Canada.”
“Yes.”
“And me when I was here and in the Russian Federation.”
“What do you mean, when you were here—you’re still here.”
“Yes, but I’m not going to take contracts anymore. I’m retired. Have been for the past six months.”
His brows furrowed.
“You have a question?”
“Yes. Why Russia? Why doesn’t Isaak work there, or why did Evgeni exclusively work Eastern Europe and Africa?”
I shrugged. “I think it’s wherever you were put by your military originally.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“You just think I shouldn’t be able to get in and out of Russia and Isaak in and out of Haiti and Nigeria.”
“Perhaps.”
“Because I’m black and he’s white, we should be what, reversed?”
“Or maybe since he’s Russian, he should, in fact, operate in Russia,” he snapped. “It’s not a ‘color of your skin’ thing, it’s a ‘he was born there and is fluent’ thing.”
“Again, I think it’s the people you get used to seeing and the ones who get used to talking to you.”
“I guess so,” he agreed, though I didn’t delude myself into thinking that I’d convinced him of anything.
“Anyway, I’ll talk to Mancuso; make sure he and the billionaire aren’t best friends.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t want to see him, right?”
“No. I just want him to ignore me.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine with that.”
“Just let me know.”
“Before you go?”
“Always such a wiseass,” he muttered under his breath. “Do you have anything harder than tea?”
“Yeah, but I don’t have any food,” I apprised him, sitting up after finding myself sinking into the chair. “You w
ant to go get something to eat?”
He appeared bemused.
“What?”
“You really are going soft. I love the fact that we’re eating together all of a sudden.”
“Just—don’t make a big deal.”
“Why not? It’s a very friendly thing to do.”
It was. “You want Italian? There’s a little mom-and-pop Italian place in Swampscott that’s amazing, called The Antique Table. You’d like it.”
“Whatever you want, I’m game.”
Always, even when I’d been contemplating his death, he was still good company. Now that I could let my guard down, putting him in my car was really nice. I could see us making it a habit to see each other and break bread. I had so few friends—a handful, no more—it was terrifying to be adding to the number. Every single time I added a new person, it was like stepping farther out onto a ledge. I used to have a handful of people I could count on. The fact I was now well over double digits in a little over six months was new and dangerous territory.
I let Rahm drive and called Mancuso from the car using the Bluetooth so he could hear.
“Buona Notte Industries,” Christopher Mancuso answered on the second ring.
“Chris,” I said softly.
“Hold on,” he said quickly, hitting a scrambler, I was sure. He always had the best tech. The one I used I’d gotten from him last year. “G’head.”
“Hello to you too,” I said sarcastically.
“Harris?”
He was being an ass, putting on like he had no idea it was me, when we’d worked together as contractors for years and before that, side by side in the same unit. “If this is how you want this to go, I can—”
“No, shit, sorry,” he said with a cough. “I’m in work mode. I’m up to my ears in shit since your buddy Daoud fucked around in my sandbox a few months back.”
I panned to Rahm.
“I told you he was mad,” he whispered.
“What happened?” I asked innocently.
“He fucked my mark’s wife, then when the guy comes up the stairs, he shot him in the head. It was a mess.”
I punched Rahm in the bicep.
“Owwww,” he whined under his breath.
“What was the fallout?” I asked him, shaking my head at Daoud.
“Well, the police there, we have an understanding, right? I pay them off to look the other way, and as long as it stays neat and tidy and nothing hits the news…we’re good.”
“But?”
“But this time there was all kinds of news and all kinds of noise and there was DNA in the mark’s wife as well as all over the bed and—”