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Confused, I asked, “You’re afraid of flying?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I like my feet on terra firma.”
“You live in a penthouse.”
“So. It’s morefirmathan a plane,” he grouched. “Then I had to deal with that bitch Temper for the whole flight, andthenI had to get into a private jet to land here! Private jets crash, Lodestar.”
“Not often. Planes are safer than cars.”
“I rarely drive.”
Though our conversation was bizarre and I was still standing in a jail cell, I rolled my eyes. “But you do it.”
“If I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t. It was a lot easier when my parents lived closer to the city.” He pointed a finger at me. “None of that takes into account the fact that I got my ass involved with a CIA/United Brotherhood-sanctioned hit on—”
“I didn’t ask you to,” I snarled, not letting him finish.
“You didn’t have to!”
More confused than ever, I questioned, “Wait a minute. Who was the sanctioned hit on?”
“Sheridan Reinier.”
I gaped at him. “The Director of the CIA?”
“Yes,” he hissed. “It’s one thing killing and hiding the body. It’s another job to shit on the CIA’s doorstep and not expect them to stand in it. He’s alive and kicking in a container, just waiting for you to—”
“Let me get this straight,” I interrupted before he could go down a tangent. “You had the chance to kill Reinier but didn’t?”
“You want to kill him. Who am I to accomplish one of your goals for you?” He sniffed.
There were bigger fish to fry than this, but… “Where is he?”
“Somewhere in the Catskills. You’ll have to ask Temperance for exact coordinates.” He grimaced. “That container has been there for a while. Probably not the first time it’s been used as a jail cell.”
“It’ll be a black site.”
“And people say that mafia factions are dirty.”
“Your brothers would cry over the shit I’ve done in the name of serving the United States,” I said rawly, but I’d admit, the bizarre conversation was putting me at ease. Enough that I stepped nearer to him. Enough that, even though the door behind him was open, I didn’t try to knee him in the balls to make my escape. “Will they let me go?”
At my whisper, he stared deep into my eyes. “So long as you don’t try to kill your grandfather.”
“Don’t call him that,” I spat, rearing back in disgust. “He’s—”
“Your only chance at eviscerating the Sparrows, Lodestar.”
The words were uttered flatly.
But it was his repeated use of my handle that hurt.
Which was stupid.
He wasn’t calling me ‘cunt’ or ‘American slut.’ I’d been called far worse things in my time by men, but never by Conor.
