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He jerked around, his immediate reaction to grab the weapon positioned behind the waistband of his jeans, his face hard and prepared for an enemy attack. Then his cold expression softened with a grin as he advanced. “Well, well. My old buddy. Wow, dude. You’re looking almost presidential.” He stubbed out his cigar, moving around his desk.
“Watch those insults there, buddy. I’ve killed men for less.” Laughing, I moved closer. The only kind of embrace he’d ever allowed was to clamp our hands on each other’s arms so when he pulled me into a bearhug, I stiffened. He was definitely out of sorts, the attempted murder weighing heavily on him. Images and memories from our past flowed into my mind, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. How many years had it taken me to shove them in a dark padlocked box? Having them resurface instantly pissed me off more than being in his world.
I could lose my job for associating with a known criminal. If the powers that be found out anything else… Well, I’d never see the light of day again.
He pushed away after a few seconds, lifting a single eyebrow. “How are you doing?”
“I’m doing fantastic, but I didn’t come here to talk about me.”
“I’m not certain that’s the case. How about a drink?”
I glanced at my watch then nodded. “Hell, I’m off duty. Sure.”
He was even more jittery than I’d seen him before, his hand twitching at least once. Maybe it was the remaining effects of the drug the killer had used to try to stop his heart. He seemed cagey, his statement making me curious as to what the hell he meant.
“Are you really ever off duty, my friend?” he asked, still grinning as he moved closer to a bar.
“Hell, no, but for tonight, no one can reach me.”
“Good to hear. Scotch?”
“You remember,” I mused, glancing around his study. It was full of books in floor-to-ceiling bookcases. I couldn’t remember the guy having ever read a single book when we’d been at the university. Granted, the location was considered special, training for sons and daughters of elite members of society. Our education had been… creative at best, although I’d learned more weaponry skills and martial arts in a short period of time than twelve years in the CIA had taught me.
“I never forget anything, my friend.” He suddenly became quiet, concentrating on pouring the two drinks. When he turned, his eyes held the same kind of darkness I’d seen on several occasions.
He was out for blood.
“So, you want to tell me what the hell happened and why the urgent call? I thought you had enough muscle to handle anything.”
He closed the distance, handing me the drink before answering. “Let’s wait until my other guest arrives. Tell me about your life.”
Other guest. Why did I have a feeling there was a hell of a lot more to whatever was going on than he’d told me in the brief conversation we’d had?
I accepted the drink, taking a sip and marveling at the smooth taste. I still kept what he’d likely call a rotgut variety of scotch in arm’s reach at the office and at home, although I was rarely ever in either location. “My life is great. Too much work. Long hours. Limited pay, but hell, it beats being…” I sighed, unable to finish the sentence. The sad thing was my life was boring, dull, and almost nonexistent. Lately, I’d starting longing for an alternative life
But at least I’d felt something those four years other than the basic needs of life. We’d lived every day to the fullest, brutal but honest with each other. Everything had tasted better. Food. Wine. Women. Nothing had been off limits. It was like participating in the devil’s feast, but it was a continuous table full of food, servants of every type to do our bidding. I missed the old days more than I cared to admit.
He exhaled after a few seconds, finally nodding, but I could tell he’d seen the faraway look in my eyes because I’d seen it in his. Together we’d been a force. Then we’d been torn apart, forced to grow the hell up.
By a mistake that had almost cost us everything, including our lives.
“I understand.” He lifted his glass, waiting until I toasted with him before taking a sip. “We have a lot to discuss.”
“Do we?”
“Yeah, I think we do,” the new arrival said in a flat tone.
The third voice was one I’d recognize anywhere. Brogan Lancaster.
I turned toward the doorway, shaking my head. “My God, buddy. Haven’t you changed?” Changed wasn’t close to the correct term. The man was like a brick shithouse, having grown by six inches and beefing out by fifty pounds. With his inked sleeves and his closely cropped sandy blond hair, the man looked like a killing machine. I hadn’t seen him in almost ten years. Time had flown by.
That was what spending almost six years behind bars could do, especially in the wretched facility he’d been sent to.
He headed toward us, his swagger another reminder of the different man he’d become. While he acknowledged both of us with a single nod each, his nostrils flared as he looked at the bar. “I need a drink. Make it a double.”
“I guess you do,” Alexander rumbled, issuing a bitter laugh afterwards.
Thirty seconds of silence was thirty seconds too long.
