He brushed his hair back over his shoulder and composed himself.
Tenny stared at his hands, now knotted together on the tabletop, red all the way up to his ears.
Hey, Reese, Fox thought.Come learn how to flirt from this guy and you’ve got your boy in the bag.
Ian turned to Fox, all business now. It was shocking the way all his showmanship melted, and he looked cool and professional. “Ghost said you’d be wired.”
“We are,” Fox said, quietly, in his true voice, and watched Ian’s brows give an uptick of surprise before settling. “We need him to admit to involving Peter Weston – that’s his assistant, or, was – in his crusade against the Dogs. It won’t be enough for him to say that he hates us.”
“Too commonplace a sentiment, I’m afraid.”
“We’re almost one-hundred percent certain Luis Cantrell is involved, but we don’t know all the inroads and connections.”
“Ghost said something about crime syndicates joining forces in New York.”
“And a human trafficking ring that I don’t think we’ve scratched the surface of yet. The more he can give us, the better. We need to charm him, get him comfy, and act like we’re on his side.”
“Darling, charming is my best quality, don’t you know. Give me ten minutes, and he’ll be eating out of my hand.” He shot a wink at Tenny, who frowned in response.
Fox kicked his brother under the table. “Get your head on straight. Deal with your blue balls on your own time.”
“Have I touched a nerve?” Ian asked, too innocently.
“No. Look, here he comes.”
~*~
Carter felt like he was the last person who should have been picked for this part of the plan, but Reese had looked right at him, and said, “You should come.”
Mercy was going along too, and had shaken him fondly like a dog shakes its puppy. “Yeah, come on. It’ll be good practice.”
Practice for what?he wanted to ask, but hadn’t argued.
Stepping up.
The plan was simple – so simple that Carter was worried it wouldn’t work. He and Reese left off their cuts and traveled to the office – set in a gleaming industrial building off Gay Street, overlooking the river and the iconic Gay Street bridge – via club truck. Reese had scraped his too-long hair back into a tidy knot at his nape; they wore nondescript t-shirts and jeans, tool belts around their waists and hardhats crammed on their heads. Carter toted a small, metal stepladder.
Mercy, though, walked into the building several paces ahead of them, wearing his cut, his long hair loose, his shirtsleeves short enough to flash his ink. Every inch of him screamedoutlaw biker, and he drew immediate, alarmed looks from the people milling about the lobby.
“Hey,” he called, far too loudly, as he strolled toward the counter. “I need to talk to the mayor about some shit.”
“Oh, God,” Carter muttered; ducked his head and followed Reese to the elevators.
Ratchet had been able to pull up the building’s floor plan on his computer, so they knew which floor the mayor’s personal office was on. They boarded a thankfully empty elevator car, and Carter pushed the button.
He let out a deep breath when the doors closed. “I don’t know that this is gonna work.”
“I’m going to set the fire in the trash can,” Reese said, calmly – almost soothingly, Carter thought. “And you will speak with the receptionist.”
“Thanks,” Carter muttered, but knew it was the best call. They’d talked about it on the way over, and decided that Carter had a much better chance of being charming and apologetic than Reese.
The elevator arrived, and they stepped out into a windowless, carpeted hallway. One man hurried past, shuffling through paperwork and muttering to himself, an ID card on a lanyard bouncing against his chest.
When he was out of earshot, Carter said, “Try not to burn the whole place down, alright? I don’t wanna have to jump out a window – and then go to jail for torching a government building.”
Reese only nodded, and took out his book of matches.
When the garbage can started to smoke, they went around the corner, heads ducked so their hardhats hid their faces from the cameras, and approached the reception desk that allowed access to the mayor’s inner-sanctum.
