Page 63 of Direct Action

“Is that a good idea? Beck, I mean. Is he ready to go back into the field?”

“Word on the street is, Sterling’s looking for a bodyguard.”

That meant Shep had put out feelers, and someone had reported back.

And Beck as an enforcer, yeah, that would work.

“Do we know why?”

“Fallon’s working on that while Shep works on those flight logs.”

“You mean, Fallon was working on it,” Fallon said on an approach, offering me his laptop.

On the screen there was a picture of a blond guy, built in a way that meant he saw a goodly amount of the inside of a gym, along with chemical enhancements to help build the muscle. But it couldn’t be denied the results were impressive—if he was going for the roid look of the early eighties. Next to him was a petite, very pretty brunette who also spent time on the inside of the gym and likely ate only salads to the point she was unattractive and boney.

“Meet Tyson Morrison, one of Sterling’s bodyguards,” Fallon announced. “And that’s Cynthia Thomas.”

I glanced at Fallon, then at Pete and asked, “Does Poppy know you found a connection to Sterling?”

“No.” Pete shook his head. “And I think it’s best she doesn’t.”

I didn’t disagree. Cynthia was Poppy’s friend. She needed to be focused but not too focused on Sterling, and if she knew Fallon had found a direct link, she wouldn’t be able to stay impartial with the intel she brought back.

But Chloe was a different story.

“I need to tell Chloe about this.”

“Ryan—”

“I need you to trust me on this. I’m skating on ice so thin, one wrong swipe of my blade and I’ll find myself in water so frigid I’ll freeze to death. When she finds out I knew about this and didn’t tell her, she’ll be pissed. Hurt and pissed. If I ask her not to tell Poppy and explain why, she won’t tell her.”

Pete stared at me for a moment before he imparted wisdom. “Funny thing about honesty. When you give it to clear your conscience, you burden the other person with it.”

I felt a slither of discomfort crawl up my spine. Me telling Chloe served no purpose other than to protect myself. Yet I still couldn’t shake that it was the right thing to do.

“I’ll think on that and let you know which way I roll.”

Fallon turned his laptop back to face him and pecked one-handed at the keys before he turned it back around.

Tyson lying on his side on blacktop, with his throat slit. This after he’d taken one hell of a beating. And by the size of the man, that beatdown was delivered while he was either tied up or there was more than one attacker—say ten of them.

“Where was he found?”

“Manhattan. Lower East Side. Dumped next to a park. And before you ask, police report’s on the server and there are no suspects and no crime scene.”

I looked back at the picture. No pool of blood, just an angry gash across his neck.

“That’s a clean cut,” I noted.

“That’s in the coroner’s report that’s also on the server. No hesitation marks.”

Unlike in the movies, it takes force and skill to slit someone’s throat in one clean swipe. And if the person is struggling, it makes the task even more difficult.

“Beck know this?”

“He will when I call him,” Pete returned.

“Before we got here, did Poppy say anything else about Cythnia’s side gig as a hostess?”