Page 13 of Cozen

She would not allow someone—not even an Astor—to slight her. No good thief could let something like that go.

Cozen set Fourth’s items in Pearl’s hands and quietly said, “Do be sure to tell Fourth that appearances are deceiving, and the next thief he insults might not be so kind as to return what they take. It’s a good lesson to learn when you’re dabbling in this business.”

Cozen stepped closer to the waiting town car. Her drive to the airstrip where she would be picked up by a private jet. Ace leaned against the back passenger door of the town car. They would be saying goodbye now, as his job in this whole thing was over.

He was the broker.

He made the deals.

Or he made them work.

Nothing more.

Cozen pressed the phone to her ear, and eyed the colors in the early morning sky. Miami was just as beautiful in the morning as it was at night.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end of the phone was both comforting and familiar.

“Mama,” Cozen greeted.

Well, the closest thing Cozen had ever had to a mother seeing as how she moved from foster home to foster home for the majority of her childhood years. She would give up her very heartbeat for her.

“Zen, baby, where are you? I thought you would be home already.”

“A job came up,” Cozen said.

“Ah.”

Her mother didn’t even sound surprised.

“I need some information, though. Mostly on the target. Think you could help me?”

“We’ll all help,” her mother said. “More so with some of us than others. I know how you work, Cozen.”

Cozen smiled.

She hadn’t expected anything different.

After all, she learned from the best.

April 2nd, 2013

Sargon Makri didn’t know how to stay in one place for very long. It just wasn’t in his nature. His father, William, liked to blame it on Sargon’s Persian roots—the nomadic need to constantly move was just in his blood; he couldn’t help it.

The one good thing about constantly bouncing from place to place, and never quite settling for long in any one, was that Sargon made a lot of friends.

And a lot of enemies, too.

A hand came up to clap his cheek before he could dodge it—not that he would, being it was his boss of the moment. He had a lot of those, too, over the years. His life had never had one clear path or goal, but rather, many winding roads.

He never managed to stay on one side of the tracks, either. Not good, or bad. Rather, he straddled the line, and occasionally jumped back and forth depending on his preference or need at the moment.

Sargon sometimes wondered if that was because of his roots, too.

He knew it wasn’t.

Life made him this way.