Reese’s gaze cut over, cold blue and impossible to read. “In storage.”
Headed for the cattle property, then.
Ghost disconnected his call, and said, “Okay,” loudly enough that everyone perked up. “Ian’s gonna handle the meet-up: lure the asshole to some fancy lunch, and give us a chance to have a little heart-to-heart without any of us having to go down to the office. We gotta figure out how to play it, though. Strong-arming him will just make us look bad.”
“Ahem,” Fox said, deadpan, expression smug. “You’ve got two world-class actors here, faces unknown in the city. Make use of us, please.”
“God,” Albie muttered, and rolled his eyes. But said, “Yeah, that’s a good plan.”
“Okay,” Ghost said, nodding. “I want you both mic’d up. If we’re taking this asshole out, then we gotta have hard evidence.”
“Why don’t we just…?” Aidan drew a finger across his throat.
“Because I wanna know how deep this goes,” Ghost said, expression stern. “According to Peter’s, and the kids’ descriptions, Ricky is Luis Cantrell, and I wanna know how the fuck that creep got the mayor of Knoxville to go along with this sick little plan. We’re gonna call the number Peter gave us as soon as Ratchet gets the setup ready to tap the call.”
“We can do that now?” Tango asked, impressed.
“Ratchet can do anything,” Ghost said, absent, but genuine praise. “We also need a team to head to the house. If Luis has figured out that Peter’s missing, then he’s moved the girls. But we still need to search the place.”
“We’ll go,” Rottie said, motioning to Hound. “Fox, does your girl want in?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“That leaves the last piece of the puzzle,” Ghost said, “and it’s the most delicate. Somebody’s gotta get inside the mayor’s office and see what they can find there.”
“You really think somebody’s gonna keep that shit in their office?” Briscoe asked.
“If they’re stupid enough to take us on,” Ghost said, smirking, “I figure anything’s possible.”
~*~
Fox didn’t own a suit, and neither, of course, did his younger brother. But Macy’s was open at ten, and by ten ‘til noon, he and Tenny were, if not tailored, at least decked out in new suits, shirts, ties, and cuff links. “It’s the little details,” Fox explained needlessly, adjusting his cuffs as they approached the door of Chez Henrí. His cuff links were mother of pearl, and the flash of them in the sun was muted and tasteful.
Tenny – to be a shit, Fox thought – had picked bright gold, shaped like little swords with diamonds set in the hilts. “I know,” he said, tone bored, and reached to smooth his hair back again. Both of them were pomaded to within an inch of their lives, and Fox thought they looked admirably unlike themselves.
They reached the door, and a doorman swept it open for them. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”
“Afternoon,” Fox replied in his Tennessee drawl.
“Thank you so much,” Tenny said, mimicking his accent perfectly, and they stepped into an air conditioned, perfumed waiting area lined with tufted leather benches, the white-painted wall paneling hung with dreamy Southern landscapes.
The hostess greeted them with a decent, but fake, French accent, and after checking their names off on her list showed them to Mr. Shaman’s table.
Ian sat alone – Fox clocked Bruce in a corner booth with a view of both his boss and all the entrances and exits – at an intimate circular table draped in white linen, auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight, dressed in a dove gray suit with a powder blue shirt, the menu held before him in one elegant hand. He didn’t acknowledge them as they sat, only thanked the hostess with a tight smile and resumed looking over his lunch options.
Fox hadn’t spent much time at all with the Dogs’ moneyed drug supplier, but what he’d glimpsed of him in London felt like enough to read him properly. He was smart, originally from old money; he liked tasteful, expensive things, and he was a slave to aesthetic. He also had a bitter, insecure streak that he hid masterfully beneath good manners and flirtation. A thing to exploit, should the need ever arise.
“Well, how you doin’, sugar?” Fox said, laying the Southern accent on extra thick. He intentionally swerved into Texas oil baron territory.
Ian closed his menu, rested it on the table, and looked up with a slow-spreading shark smile, eyes glittering cruel above it. “I’m splendid,” he said, accent crisp – and not at all fake. Money and breeding dripped off every syllable. “Though you seem to be in the wrong state, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, well.” Fox grinned back, just as wicked, and slipped back into his Knoxville persona. “What can I say, I like showing off.”
Ian’s smile widened, and some of the coldness melted from his gaze. “Damn,” he said quietly, “you are good. Kenny said. But. Well, one never knows.” Then he turned his head to regard Tenny, and his expression turned downright predatory – and pleased. “And who have you brought to our little charade? He has your eyes. A brother, hm? A much prettier brother.” Lower: “Hello, darling, what’s your name?”
To Fox’s amazement, Tenny blushed. A lot. His face stayed carefully neutral, save for the flicker of a muscle in his jaw.
Ian laughed, soft and delighted. “Oh, you’re sweet, aren’t you?” He sighed, and sat back. Glanced down quickly at his left hand, the gleam of platinum there. “I’m quite happy, but it never hurts to look. Beautiful things are to be admired.”
