Now, it was as if his contact with Glennon had somehow dislodged that filter, bringing his view back into focus. And not only that, but something inside him clicked back into place. Something he had either turned off, or paused, or… He didn’t even know.
Or maybe that filter was just dissipating and had completely cleared?
In the end, did it really matter?
He looked at the number for another minute, and it was as if his body surged forward with purpose. Jaw set determinedly, he memorized it, deleted the exchange, emptied the trash, took the SIM card out of the device, and crushed it under his heel. Spinning around, he immediately went to his laptop and opened a video chat link to Francesca, the only person he could think of who could help him.
When the woman picked up, he didn’t waste time with niceties. “Fleur. Sorry if I woke you. I could use your advice.”
“You didn’t wake me. We just got home today, and I’m working through the jet lag by waiting up for Tripoli.”
Francesca. It still floored him. A little over two years ago, she’d been undercover at The Library working the sex-trafficking case involving Tilly. Then, without warning, she’d waltzed into Elysium, assigned to investigate the murders of several club employees, including Tilly. Now she was out ofthe FBI, married to Tripoli, a new mom, and living in a house outside Castroville with a Great Dane named Agatha, when she wasn’t traveling with him to the club properties.
“He went to work the day you got back?”
“Said it would be the best way to work through the jet lag for him.” He heard the soft woof of the dog, then a door sliding open as Francesca let the dog outside. “How’s your vacation going?”
“Uneventful until about ten minutes ago. I may have just committed several acts of treason and quite possibly may have some of your brethren waiting for me on my doorstep when I return home.”
One delicate eyebrow arched on the beautiful blonde’s face. “Do tell.”
WHO STOLE THE COOKIE FROM THE COOKIE JAR?
Triumph
Tripoli arrivedhome just as Triumph was about to go into his problem, or rather, G’s problem. His friend handed Francesca a wine glass as he slid into the breakfast nook where Francesca camped, placing his own glass and an open bottle on the table in front of them. Once again, his jacket was unbuttoned, his tie untied, and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. He’d always been a snappy dresser, but Francesca once made the mistake of telling him that the “post-work discombobulation” look was her favorite on him, so the man always made sure that, before he left the club, he was “dressed appropriately” for his welcome home.
Grabbing her husband’s tie ends, she pulled him in for a kiss, whispering something against his lips. He replied, too quiet for Triumph to hear. Blushing, she refocused her attention on Triumph through the screen after adjusting her glasses on the end of her nose, which had been bumped askew by her husband’s greeting.
“So,” she began, “what sort of trouble are we talking about? Maybe you should go somewhere you can’t be extradited from.”
Tripoli poured himself and Francesca each a glass of wine. “And is your trouble going to visit us afterward?”
He grimaced. “Fuck, I didn’t think of that. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, so I really can’t answer that.”
Waving him off, Tripoli took a sip from his glass. “Oh, it wouldn’t stop us from helping you. I just wanted to be prepared.”
“Speaking of extradition… where the hell am I anyway?”
Tripoli smirked, and her laugh was infectious. “I don’t think I’m going to tell you.”
“Fuck you both,” he said with no heat.
“You booked your own trip. I’m guessing you used your phone to board the plane. Check your damn phone, bro,” Tripoli reminded him.
This was what he loved about his friends. Tripoli and Cosmos were ride-or-die types, and not only that, they’d help you bury the body afterward if necessary. In high school, there had been six members in their little group—Tripoli, Cosmos, Fereh, Panama, Elyxandre, and himself. Most of them had scattered across the country after graduation, but now some had drifted back. If you needed something, it was like they’d seen each other yesterday, and shit got done. He also knew if he called the ones who hadn’t come back, they’d do whatever they could as well.
“So what’s going on, Triumph?” Francesca asked, seriousness reflected in her gray eyes.
He cleared his throat. “Hear me out. This goes back a ways. So you both know that in high school, I got arrested for hacking into some government files.”
Nodding, she replied, “That’s what led to your job at the NSA. You were too good at what you did, so it was better to use you for your skills than to let you rot away in prison somewhere or let someone more nefarious snap you up.”
“I was there until nine years ago. My job was as a specialty liaison to CIA operatives. I wasn’t a handler, but I was a gateway for select ones who needed my help with computer systems, security rerouting, stuff like that.”
He stopped. “Look, what I’m about to tell you is classified. I would never tell you, but… I’m out of the game, which means I can’t help her by myself. I’m smart enough to not even try.” He ran his hands through his shaggy brown hair. “My last job was an agent named G. We just went by first initials. I helped create her legend, so I was assigned to her at the start of her operation.”
“Legend?” Tripoli asked.
