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He turned from the table and his observations to the man lingering in the doorway.
“Ryan.” He beckoned the man into the room. “Tell me you’ve made progress?”
“Better than.” Ryan held out a thumb drive. “I know who it is and where.”
“Oh?”
“Her name is Jessica Chapin. She went to uni with Daar Suleiman’s niece. And you want to know what’s better? We already have a man talking to her. Remember when that bloke, Oliver, confessed to talking you up to someone? It’s her.”
Maxwell didn’t recall anyone named Oliver. Then again, he had a lot of plates spinning. “Handle it. Squash this. I don’t have time for petty games children play.”
“How exactly—”
“Handle it,” Maxwell snapped. “Wipe her and anyone helping her off the face of the planet. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
He’d been patient and bided his time until now.
It would be his day.
Chapter Two
Wednesday. Recovery Facility, Undisclosed.
Samuel stared up at the ceiling as the bedside clock continued to taunt him out of the corner of his eye.
Mother fucker.
He’d hoped that incorporating more yoga into his day meant he’d tire himself out and be able to sleep. Instead, here he was, wide-eyed with no desire to fall asleep. From the time he was young, he’d always struggled to put his mind at ease to the point he could find rest. It came from the near-constant drive to succeed he’d learned from his father and was in large part what made him an excellent agent.
Being left out here in the mountains with little to no work had him ready to climb the walls.
There were no mental problems for him to untangle. No leads for him to roll over. The paperwork he’d been allowed to do was all busywork. Hell, he’d only been given the very minimum amount of information about the current op that had been sent out today. Not enough to even begin to speculate about how it might go.
Damn it all to hell.
He threw back the blankets and pushed himself upright with his good arm.
It wouldn’t be the first night he’d haunted the hallways.
No doubt the nurse left on-duty would offer him some sleep aid that was bound to make him fuzzy-headed. He refused them every time, but the offer was always there.
He shoved his feet into the fleece lined slippers Logan had given everyone at Christmas. They were handmade by one of his family members.
Samuel wiggled his toes.
What tribe was Logan part of?
Samuel grimaced. He’d have to ask. That seemed like an important detail he should know by now. Had he ever sent a thank you?
The slippers at first glance were a fairly standard leather moccasin. But there was no mistaking these glorious things with some store-bought crap. The way they fit the foot, the plush insides, all thanks to the wonders of bespoke clothing. When Samuel had reached the point in his life where he had money to live comfortably, he’d stopped buying his suits off the rack. He got a lot of shit from people about his professional style. Some called it Black gospel chic, and so what if it was? A man could take pride in his appearance. So yeah, he wore bespoke suits that weren’t just black, navy, or khaki. And he appreciated the attention to detail that came from making a truly great pair of shoes. He’d have to make sure to stay on Logan’s good side from now until eternity so he could keep buying these.
Maybe Samuel could buy a few pair? Dad would love these. His step-mom, too. She was always complaining about the cold since they’d moved to Chicago on account of his step-sister’s heart condition. She was part of a study while going through treatment. Hell, he should get everyone a pair. Chicago was far too cold for Georgia people, that was for damn sure.
He grabbed his hoodie off the foot of the bed then headed for the door.
This late, security wouldn’t turn a blind eye if he tried to go outside for a walk. Not to mention once the sun went down it was downright freezing out there.
