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Colt snickered dryly. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?”
“Hmm,” Lyle grunted, feeling the phone now, gripping it, pulling it out past the elastic of the waistband of Colt’s briefs, past the belt in his jeans.
“It’s locked though,” Colt stated.
But Lyle’s hands were at work over the screen of the phone. Holding it in one hand, his other hand awkwardly bent around to reach the screen, his little finger tapping away.
Colt frowned. “What the fuck are you-”
The phone lit up, unlocked. Lyle didn’t look but he knew Colt would be wondering how Lyle had managed to bypass the facial recognition.
Colt glanced at Lyle and took a breath to give him shit, no doubt.
Lyle then hushed Colt, and slowly, deliberately dialed a number. A number Lyle knew by heart. A number he didn’t think he’d ever dial again.
Colt left him to it, frowning mutinously at Lyle. It started ringing. Lyle lifted it to his ear as best he could. Colt leaned over to listen in, too.
It rang. And rang.
And then was answered.
“Code in, please?” came a cool, female voice from the other end of the line.
Lyle bit his lip, and reluctantly spoke. “Red Kite five five nine.”
Colt gaze was burning into Lyle, but Lyle ignored him.
There was a slight pause.
“Checkpoint Lucinda?”
“Lucinda Nocturne,” Lyle recited the passwords he knew. He just hoped to fuck they were still valid. He held his breath.
After a long pause, and some gentle typing on a keyboard from the woman on the other end of the call, “Red Kite five five nine cleared, proceed.”
“Secure?” Lyle barked out.
“Positive,” the cool voice responded.
Lyle responded immediately. “Code nine nine, repeat, this is Red Kite five five nine reporting a code nine nine situation… requesting a firearms unit and backup to coordinates…”
Lyle reeled off the grid references for where he suspected they were. You could take the boy out of the military but you couldn’t take the military out of the boy. That’s what one of the nameless sweetbutts he’d had over the years had said to him one night. It had stuck in his head, for some reason. Yeah, he’d been half out of his head but he still knew the six digit grid reference for where they were.
“Activate Honey Bee protocol...” Lyle continued, reeling off the instructions like he was listing out the inventory of the clubhouse bar from memory.
He hung up and lowered the phone from his ear. He forced himself to look at Colt.
Dark eyes stared back at Lyle. “What in the name of ever loving fuck-”
“I’m the mole,” Lyle blurted out. “It’s me, I’m the FBI agent, I was inserted into the club… then when you invited me back after you burnt the old club to the ground, I was instructed to stay on… I work with Blue-”
“You havegotto be kidding me?” Colt shouted.
Lyle felt the heat from Colt’s body, as they still sat so close together.
“No, I-”
“So the drunk fuck-up was all a fucking act?” Colt raged, disbelief evident on his face.
