“Good plan. Get your ass up here.”
“Got an op?”
“Why else would I be calling?”
A pause. “Oh. Good point.”
Lear Winter was, in some ways, a quintessential computer geek. He’d made a fortune as a white-hat hacker, and still moonlighted doing that when he wasn’t on assignment for me. At first glance he looked the part of a computer geek, too—tall, wiry, with a curly, unruly mop of sandy blond hair, a few days of growth on his chin and his thick black-rimmed glasses perpetually sitting on the tip of his nose. But the thing is, this was a look he intentionally cultivated. It kept people underestimating him. He’d made his fortune as a hacker, and then had been recruited by the NSA.
Mainly for fun, he’d tried to hack into the NSA servers. They’d caught him and kept him out, of course, because you can’t actually hack the NSA. But he’d tried, and he’d gotten farther than anyone else had ever managed, so they snatched him up and taught him some new tricks. He enjoyed the work, but had tired of that gig, as well.
Somewhere along the way he’d been bitten by the adrenaline junkie bug. Free-climbing, wingsuit flying, homemade jet packs, HALO diving, motorcycle racing. RealPointe Breakstuff. He could and would jump off the top of a skyscraper in a wingsuit and insert himself into a moving convertible. I’d seen him do it: I’d dared him, doubting he could actually do it. He’d proved me wrong, which had cost me a hundred grand.
So if I needed someone to get in somewhere difficult while doing someMission Impossiblestyle fancy computer shit, I’d send Lear. He wasn’t a combat specialist, though. The only man I trusted who hadn’t killed anyone—that I knew of, anyway. Didn’t mean he was soft, though. He could take care of himself, this I knew. But those were skills he kept deep under wraps. He didn’t care for violence, much. He was content to let the rest of us do the dirty work, and considering Lear’s prowess in other areas, the arrangement worked for us just fine.
I had one last call to make. I hit the speed dial and let it ring. “Harris. What’s happening?” This was Duke Silver.
“I need you and Thresh to come in.”
“I heard some rumblings. Some celeb’s kid got snatched?”
“Yeah.”
“If they’re calling you, it must be a good one.”
“I don’t know if ‘good’ is the operative word, here. They kidnapped a three-year old girl, Duke. And they’re threatening to kill her and send her home in pieces if Jon and Callie don’t pay up. They’re willing to pay, but they want their daughter back in one piece.”
“A three-year old girl?” His voice took on a low growl.
“Cutest you’ve ever seen.”
Duke was Thresh’s best friend, and suited to the position. Almost as big, and just as deadly. And they both, despite being stone-cold killers, had soft spots for little kids. Didn’t want any of their own—they claimed— but if you put a cute little girl in front of Thresh or Duke, they turned into big ol’ puppy dogs. They’d play tea-time and blow bubbles and do their best dancing bear impressions. So I was sort of blatantly pushing his buttons. Not that I needed to—if I told him to suit up, Duke suited up. I sure as fuck paid him enough, so he’d better.
“Thresh is with me,” Duke said. “We’ll be there in forty.”
“Make it thirty.”
“See what we can do.” He ended the call, and I pocketed my phone.
I didn’t want to know what Duke and Thresh got up to when they were off-duty. Probably bench-pressing Hyundais and deadlifting entire buildings and eating entire cows, hooves and all, raw. You know the old cartoons where a big beefy guy would pick up a horseshoe and eat it because he was so badass? Duke and Thresh were like that.
The crew called in, I decided it was time to pack. And see what my dear, stubborn, mischievous Layla was up to.
Not much, it turned out. I found her sitting at her iMac, browsing through the info Michelle had sent over from LA. She was doing it naked though, because that was Layla. She got me off three times before noon, and now was prancing around naked hoping for more. Yeah, I’m a lucky-ass man. I mean, just fucking look at her:
Thick black hair in an explosive mass of springy ringlets hanging loose down her back. Mocha skin stretched tight and toned and flawless over a body that had curves for goddamn days. Didn’t matter how recently I’d blown my load, didn’t matter how many times we went at it, I always wanted more. She just had that effect on me. She also had the effect of driving me to my actual wit’s end. Stubborn, impossible, difficult, high-maintenance. Not because she was needy or clingy, but because she was just so goddamn determined to do everything her way, and never ever listened to a fucking word I ever said.
“Hey babe.” She heard me, felt my presence behind her. Turned, smiled at me. “Got the troops rallied?”
“They’re all on their way in, with bells on.” I gestured at the computer. “Whatcha got?”
“Not much, yet. Profiles on Jon and Callie, mostly. What you’d expect. Insanely rich, though not quite up to Roth’s standards. House in Malibu, one in the south of France, another in the Caribbean. Both are A-list actors, six Oscars and five Golden Globes between the two of them, with the numbers being in her favor, actually. She’s got four Oscars and three Globes, he’s got two and two. Both divorced three times each, to high profile A-listers. Had affairs, left their respective spouses, dated for a while before finally getting married in a quintessential Hollywood wedding, millions spent, a who’s-who guest list, the works. Had Cleo three years ago, and Callie actually Insta’d the whole thing, no filters, no hair or makeup, just her raw experience giving birth. Kinda crazy, actually, and pretty impressive. By all accounts, they’re both well-liked and well-respected in the industry, to the point that even their exes don’t really hold grudges.”
“So no motive that we can see? No obvious enemies?”
Layla shook her head, curls bouncing and swaying—and other bits too. Yum. Mesmerizing. I had to focus on her words rather than the way her body swayed and jiggled with every twitch.
“…They’re fucking actors, you know? How would they have enemies who would hate them enough to do something like this? Puck hasn’t worked the scene yet, so we don’t have his report to look at, but this looks financially motivated. I mean, duh, right? Two rich-as-fuck A-list actors? Of course they have the cash to pay a fat ransom. But the fact that whoever did this was willing to shoot the nanny? They mean business.”
