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This is a gift for me and Ryder—a miracle, even if he does go to prison.
So, no. I’m not unhappy.
I’m not unhappy at all.
RYDER
Present
Disciples’ clubhouse
Burbank, CA
“It would definitely be better if we had the fucking agent’s name, but I can spin this in our favor.” Powers looks up at me and back to the printed file we got from Pavel this morning.
Basically, it connected all the dots, except for the name of the actual dirty FBI agent.
Lighting a cigarette, I lean back in my chair, feeling a sense of calm. Everything’s in place.
“Perfect.” He shuts the file. “Anything else I need to know?” Jett looks at us. “Alright, it feels like I’m missing something, but at this point in the game, that’s probably for the best.”
He looks down at his vibrating phone. “I’m late. If you need me, call, but remember I start jury selection tomorrow. Then it’s on, and we fight dirty.” He pockets his phone and looks at each of us sitting around the table.
“Thanks, Jett. We appreciate all the hard work.” Blade stands, holding out his hand. Jett looks down at it and frowns as he shakes it.
“I don’t need to go over the rules, right? No one leaves town, no dead bodies, etcetera.”
I stand up. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m gonna lay low for the next week or so, buy a suit or two, get everything in order.” I nod at him.
He doesn’t look happy and I almost grin. Jett Powers is a lot of things, but trusting is not one of them.
“Christ.” He shakes his head but leaves.
“Are you sure I can’t talk you into letting me go?” Poet looks up from his phone. “If not me, then Axel?”
“No.” I take a deep drag on my cigarette and let it out. “I need to look that motherfucker in the eyes.”
Poet nods. “Fair enough. Reed says you can use one of his G5s. His pilot will be ready in four hours.”
“I’m going with you,” Blade says.
I take my last puff and put the cigarette out. “You can’t and you know it.”
“I don’t like you going alone.” Blade looks like he’s aged ten years the last two days. Not that I look any better. We need sleep.
Someone knocks on the door.
“I’ll behave,” I tell him.
When I open the door, Frosty walks in carrying another laptop.
“Here it is, all of it. I’m beating myself up over this. I completely missed it.” He runs a hand through his already messed-up hair.
“We all did. It wasn’t until I saw in the file that he was writing prescriptions for the Russians that I put it together.”
He shakes his head. “I did that background check on her when you first started fucking her. I mean, we knew she was hiding stuff.” Frosty starts typing, and Cindy’s picture comes up on the monitor. “I didn’t even think about her dad.”
Only, it’s not Cindy. It’s Isabelle Susanne Davis. A young teenager with big blues eyes and blond hair who looks at the camera as if asking for help through the lens.
“Jesus.” Axel scrubs his hands up and down his face.
I motion for Rip to slide over the bottle of Jack.
“This is Cindy’s, aka Isabelle’s parents: Donald Davis and Sueanne Davis. Another picture comes up of the two at what looks like a black-tie event.
“Sueanne apparently died when Isabelle was fourteen. She crashed into the stoplight a few blocks from their Tribeca townhouse. Her blood alcohol level was 0.30, and she had numerous painkillers and sedatives in her system. That appears to be the start of Isabelle’s issues. She got arrested for underage drinking, was in and out of therapy. Until at seventeen, when Donald had her committed. Then she’s gone, disappears, until she gets a job at Out Takes.” Frosty walks over to the fridge for his Red Bull.
“So, for around five years she’s off the grid? How’s that possible?” Poet lights up a cigarette.
“Don’t know. I’ll keep searching.” He sits again and starts typing on his laptop. A picture appears of a tan man with dyed black hair and white teeth, wearing a lab coat and smiling with his arms crossed.
Frosty gestures with the Red Bull can at the screen. “Donald Davis is sixty-two years old. He’s the orthopedic doctor to the stars. He’s made a fortune, but he came from money to begin with. His net worth is over six-hundred-million dollars.”
“Goddamn it.” I open the bottle of Jack, take a swig, and hand it to Blade.
“Yeah, he has enough money to buy whoever he wants. I guess he has taken offense at his daughter ignoring him. That and her attachment to you, Ryder. The money trail does come from him to Misha. He is, was, writing illegal prescriptions for opioids, especially fentanyl, for them to sell.
“All this because he wants his daughter back?” Poet looks at me.
