Jackson shrugged too. He was only half-lying. Dominique knew her way around a Louisville slugger and wasn’t afraid tocome in swinging.
“Come on then—car is this way,” said Pete.
They drove from the airport into the city, and Jackson watched the high-rises of San Francisco get closer. Watching the neighborhoods change should have been fun, but Jackson barely saw them. Pete drove them without hesitation and barely looked at the map displayed on the dash. The destination arrived all too slowly and all at once. Jackson wasn’t sure he was prepared and stared up at the hotel as they approached.
The building had a vintage 1920s exterior with a completely remodeled interior. At twenty-four stories, it had probably been a very tall building at the time it was built. Now it looked quaint. It was lit with a Miami vibe in hot pink neon uplights that made it stand out in the night skyline of San Francisco. Granger had rented the penthouse, which wasn’t cheap—even by Deveraux standards. Jackson squinted up to where he could faintly see a balcony railing, glinting pink in the lights and showing the faintest outline of what might have been palm trees.
Pete skipped the front entrance with the valet and drove them down into the parking garage. A quick hand-off of some cash and a waiter let them into the freight elevator and then walked away like he didn’t want to remember what they looked like.
The elevator stopped at the penthouse level, and Jackson looked before getting out. No one was around.
“Ready?” Jackson asked.
“As we’ll ever be, I guess,” said Pete. “It’s down there at the end of the hall. I’ve got the passkey. You want first or second?”
“First,” said Jackson, pulling on gloves. Pete shrugged and did the same.
They made their way down to the door at the end of the hall, padding quietly on the thick carpeting. Jackson made a choice and took out his gun. Granger was the kind of person who hired someone to do his dirty work, but Jackson didn’t want to becaught by surprise. Pete slid the key into the lock and pulled it out again. The light flashed green, and Jackson opened the door with his free hand.
The suite’s interior was a living room and bar area with an accompanying bedroom and bath off to one side. French doors opened out onto an expansive deck, and he could see the lights of San Francisco through drifting sheers. The roomhadbeen decorated in standard hotel textures of beige and dark wood. Currently, it was decorated in drug-fueled temper tantrum. The couches had been slashed, lamps lay on the floor, and over everything was a fine dusting of white powder as if someone had thrown an entire baggie of coke at the ceiling fan. But aside from the mess, the room appeared empty. If there had been hookers, they were gone now. But Jackson didn’t see Granger either.
Jackson advanced a few more steps, maintaining his position as the point person. Pete was behind him and slightly off to the right, maintaining clear sightlines. They picked their way through the debris, scanning for any sign of Granger.
There was the sound of breaking glass and a guttural chuckle, and Jackson froze.
“Whoops,” said a male voice, and this time Jackson could hear that it was coming from outside.
Jackson pushed aside the curtains and stepped out onto the balcony. Granger was sitting on the broad balustrade—one leg on each side of the railing. His back was against a potted pam tree, and he was staring at the remains of a crystal tumbler that had shattered on the slate tile of the deck. He had a bottle of Louis XIII cognac in his hand. He picked up his head as Jackson stepped out. Granger had shaved his hair down to the scalp, although a fuzz was starting to grow back. He looked thinner than he had seven months ago.
“Come to gloat?” Granger asked, his words slurring.
“Come to take you home,” said Jackson.
“Fuck you,” said Granger. “Fuck all of you Deverauxes. What are you, cockroaches? I paid good fucking money. Why can’t at least one of you fucking die? It’s like people have no pride in their work anymore.”
“I know,” said Jackson. “It’s like, what the hell am I paying a hitman for if he won’t even kill one stupid rich kid?”
“Yes,” snarled Granger. “Although, I also blame that on you. It’s not like I could afford quality hitters. I had to go with the JV team. Fucking Deverauxes.” He took a pull from the cognac bottle.
“Well, you could have maybe invested in better hitmen instead of an eight-thousand-dollar bottle of booze,” said Jackson. “Just throwing that out there.”
Granger drank a little further, then set the bottle back on his leg and belched.
“But then you’d win,” he said. “Why should I have to give up one damn thing because of you? I should be at home in bed with someone’s wife. And you… You should be in the gutter where you belong.”
“Is that where I belong?” asked Jackson, amused.
Granger hurled the bottle at him. Jackson ducked, and it smashed on the tile behind him. Either Granger’s throwing skills were weak, or his vision was total shit right now. Pete had come out and was moving to the opposite side, into Granger’s blind spot, starting the process of flanking and sheep-dogging the man. The ex-CEO was going with them, one way or another.
“Well, you sure as fuck don’t belong here,” snarled Granger. There was a loud honk from below, and it distracted him. He looked over the edge, seemingly fascinated. “You know what the funny part is?” asked Granger, his mood shifting again.
“I’m sure you’ll tell me,” said Jackson folding his arms.
“This was all supposed to go away. I had all the cards. I had the money. I had the people. Eleanor Deveraux and her stupidfucking hearings were supposed to go away. I was never even supposed to have to show up.”
Jackson frowned, trying to decipher Granger’s ramblings.
“I’m not sure how you thought you were going to avoid a congressional subpoena,” said Jackson.
