“Of Slash? She can take care of herself.”
“Don’t break her heart again. Elsa would never forgive you, and neither would I.”
“I know what I’m doing.” He tossed his cousin a nod. “Thanks for the help.”
“I have to get back to my coffin.” With a wink, Luciano walked inside and shut the door.
Carrera drove home in silence, his thoughts focused on the million things he had to get done, like yesterday.
In his house, he made his way to the basement, pausing at the retina scanner outside his safe room. After the light turned green, he entered. He set the spray bottle next to the duffle and removed the gloves.
Thirty minutes later, he was parking in the underground garage at the J. Edgar Hoover Building in DC. After passing through employee security, he scanned the lobby.
Sin stood in the corner talking with a sharply dressed Black man. Both men wore dark, tailored suits. Sin wore a blue tie, the stranger a red one.
As he made his way over, Sin turned in his direction.
“Good to see you,” Carrera said shaking Sin’s hand.
“Carrera Santini, Luther Warschak,” Sin said.
“Mr. Warschak.” Carrera shook his hand.
“Please call me Luther. Good to meet you, Carrera. I’ve heard good things about you.”
“Luther and Z started ALPHA,” Sin said.
“We set up a clause in the job description that we would choose our replacements,” Luther explained. “I retired a few years ago, but Philip—Z—wasn’t ready. I trust Sinclair’sdecision, and I’ve read up on your career. You should expect pushback.”
“From whom?” Carrera asked.
“From Philip, from the Director,” Luther said. “Hell, it might be from your Special Agent in Charge. The claws come out when it’s time for a promotion. You’re level jumping so many rungs, you’ll probably get called to The White House.”
“Is Z expecting us?” Carrera asked.
“No,” Sin said. “Surprising him is better.” Sin glanced at Luther. “Ready?”
“I’ll meet you upstairs in the executive conference room,” Luther said.
Luther headed toward the elevator bank, but Sin suggested they take the stairs. At the scanner, Sin said, “I reprogrammed your card remotely. See if it works.”
Carrera held his government ID against the wall-mounted scanner. The light turned green, Carrera turned the door handle and stepped into the stairwell.
One flight down, Sin directed him down a corridor and around the corner, stopping in front of a closed door.
Knock-knock.
“Come in,” Z said.
Sin opened the door.
Philip Skye—known to many only as Z—was on his computer. With a remote in hand, he clicked a button and the four monitors on his wall went dark.
After Sin stepped inside, Carrera stood in the doorway and glanced around at the shithole office, if he could even call it that. Nothing but an old metal desk, an executive chair from decades ago, a harsh desk lamp, and a computer. The musty smell, paired with the depressing digs, had Carrera wondering what the hell he was getting himself into.
Z slid his gaze to him. “Is this your choice?”
“It is,” Sin said.
