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"They're not groups who, historically, like each other. They've usually been enemies," McCoy supplied, relaying the information that had come from Arty.
"But the enemy of your enemy is your friend," Huck said, sighing. "The Chechens alone were bad enough. With whatever new leadership they have going on," he said, looking at McCoy, who shook his head.
"No, we don't have anything to go on about who is heading shit now. Whoever it is that has arrived, hasn't left their headquarters as far as we can tell," McCoy said, shrugging.
"We need to get some more feelers out, see if anyone knows what is going on. We can't be the only organization keeping an eye on them."
"I'll head out as soon as we're done here," Seeley said, always ready to jump into action.
"You have to take Remy," Huck said, getting a hard look from Seeley. Not because he didn't like Remy, but because Seeley was notoriously tight-lipped about his connections. Which was probably why they were so willing to continue to feed him information, or help him get whatever items he was looking for.
When the mother chapter had been down here trying to set us up, they'd been pissed when Seeley wouldn't give his secrets away. But, eventually, that president had sighed and accepted that Huck wasn't that kind of leader, that he didn't feel like he needed to know every single detail of his men's lives in order to know they were loyal.
So Seeley kept his secrets, and we all got his loyalty, and, by extension, his connections.
"I'm not saying he has to sit in on conversations with you, Seeley," Huck said, tone as apologetic as he could be. Which wasn't very much. "I'm saying we all have targets on our backs, and Remy needs to be watching yours."
"I get it," Seeley agreed, nodding.
"That goes for everyone right now. We go out in pairs, or not at all."
"And the women?" I asked.
"For now, they will stay here. If Teddy gets uncomfortable with that, we will hire Booker to hide them."
"Has anyone contacted Booker?" McCoy asked. "Since he and Ayanna were by our place recently. If they are watching us..."
Huck and I shared a look, both thinking the same thing at once.
Arty.
Arguably the most vulnerable out of all of us.
"He's gonna hate being in hiding," I said, shaking my head.
"Not if he can hide out at Booker's office," Huck said, making a good point.
"Alright. Seeley and Remy, you handle Seeley's contacts. Che and I will get Arty somewhere safe. McCoy, you good with staying here? I know Teddy's building is secure, but just in case, I would feel better knowing you were here with some guns."
"I got it," he agreed, nodding.
By the time we got Arty packed up and over to Booker's office, it was the earliest part of morning, the sun just starting to spread its fingers across the sky.
But Booker came to the door in under a minute.
Fully awake.
But not as put-together as we usually expected him to be. His jacket was off, his tie was around his neck, but untied, his shirt open several buttons.
There was a drink in his hand.
"What's wrong with you?" Huck asked, blunt as ever.
"You're the one calling in favors, and you're going to question me?" Booker asked, moving inside, which was as close to an invitation as we were going to get.
Booker had been busting ass for years in his field. Which meant his office was a far cry from the shoebox it had been when we all had first come across him. He had a massive warehouse space with cement floors and massive windows he'd spent a fortune replacing with bullet-resistant glass. There were several offices for his team, each of them glass-walled and tidy.
There was a seating area to the front of the open space with sectionals and a coffee table weighed down with books.
Toward the back left was a full kitchen which spoke to how often these men and women practically lived at the office, crashing on the couch, cooking their meals there, eating at their desks.
"Kid, you can set up over there," Booker said, waving to a glass office, empty save for a desk and chair.
"On it!" Arty said, buzzing with anticipation at getting to work near his hero.
"You guys ever not in some kind of trouble?" Booker asked, leading us into his oversize office, one where he had his own couch because he crashed there so often.
It didn't escape Huck or me that he went right for the whiskey bottle sitting half-empty on his desk. Huck and I shared a look, but said nothing. Booker had a massive business going. Any single job could have gone badly, leading him to drink. And none of that was any of our business.
"Seems like it," Huck agreed. "And this isn't the only trouble. Che's wife has some issue we are dealing with too, but, luckily, they haven't seemed to sniff us out yet. Gives us a chance to handle our problems first."
