ANDERS AND OMAR
Ten YearsAgo
“Did you hear? Rami kicked the winning goal for his team last night,” Omar says, pride in his chest.
Everett smiles. “He’s been so helpful with Naji. He’s new to the language, but he and Rami speak soccer perfectly.”
Anders raises a shoulder. “True. Though…would it have killed either of them to enjoy violence instead? Like, not even a hint of murder in those two.”
“Habibi, they’re only thirteen.”
“What does that have to do with anything? I had detailed plans for killing my neighbor by the time I was thirteen.”
Parker clears her throat. “I have a family trip to get to this afternoon. Can we get started?”
“Sorry, Park.”
“No worries,” Parker says, opening several files. “Who do we have here? Oh yes. Preston Whitaker was acquitted last week of several crimes for which he was definitely guilty. Drugs, trafficking, fraud,” she says, ticking off her fingers. “Just to name a few.”
Everett’s lip curls. “How the fuck does he keep on getting away with this shit?”
“He won’t anymore.” Anders rubs his hands together. “Let’s go after the motherfucker.”
“Let’s not.”
Anders, Omar, Rafi, and Everett stand as Seth Wakefield enters the room. Despite being only average height and at least two decades older than everyone in the room, he has the kind of strong, square build that makes a person sit up and pay attention.
“Mr. Wakefield,” Omar says, his voice even. “How nice of you to join us.”
“I think we all know that’s not the truth,” he says dryly. “I’m here because I noted your next operation has to do with Preston Whitaker.”
Anders grins, leaning back in his chair. “Absolutely. Once we take that motherfucker down, it’ll nearly double your bottom line.”
“You will not be taking down Preston, now or ever,” Wakefield says, plucking at his expensive suit.
“Why not? The guy is an asshole. He’s a cheat, a liar, and a human trafficker.”
“He’s not a good person, that is true. But then again, neither am I. He stays on the board.”
“Why?”
Seth Wakefield is not the sort of man who enjoys being questioned. Walking over to the touch screen, he opens a file near and dear to Anders’ heart.
“I know you think I don’t see everything, but I assure you I do. For instance, Mr. Bash, you sent a request to our R&D department to cure a very specific kind of leukemia with the gene therapy your team procured last month.”
“Yes,” Anders says through gritted teeth. The Bashes and Goodnights had been good neighbors and good friends for along, long time, and he never forgot how Trip described the horrifying way that fast-moving leukemia had taken his mother all those years ago. Anders promised himself he would do what he could to ensure that no family went through that ever again.
“This kind of thing doesn’t have the sort of return on investment I usually like to see, but I understand this request is personal, so I’ve left it alone.” Wakefield locks eyes with one of the most dangerous serial killers in American history. “If I find you’ve gone behind my back and tried to handle Preston Whitaker on your own, this research goes away. The same goes for all of your little side projects. Whitaker is not to be touched.”
“You still haven’t answered why.”
“The why doesn’t matter, Mr. Bash. Just know that if you go after Whitaker, you tug on a string that threatens to take down everything. Don’t push me on this.”
Omar lays his hand on his husband’s thigh. “Habibi, let it go.”
“But…”
“Let it go.”
