“Say that again?”
Park Chen stared at his former boss, Marshall Kendrick, in disbelief. The audacity of the man was astounding. As if sensing Park’s irritation, Kendrick smoothed a hand over his overpriced shirt then adjusted his black jacket. In all the years Park had known the man, he’d never seen him wear anything but a black suit with a white button-down shirt. It was like a uniform. A uniform as boring and uninteresting as the man himself.
Park closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, praying for patience. He just wanted to eat the dinner he could smell wafting in from the kitchen. Instead, he was staring down his former boss and fighting the urge to jam the letter opener sitting beside his left hand directly into the man’s carotid. It would be too messy.
“You heard me,” Kendrick muttered, glowering at Park. “I hate when you do that.”
“Do what?” Park asked, letting his disinterest seep into his tone, hoping it might hasten his departure.
Kendrick was a fool on his best day and incompetent on his worst, but through money and nepotism, he’d risen to a level of power he’d never earned, and it showed. He attempted to hide his ineptitude behind bluster and imperiousness.
“Stare at me like you’re contemplating murder.”
Maybe he wasn’t a total fool, after all. Luckily, Park’s sense of self-preservation outweighed his hatred of the man before him.
He gave him a cold smile. “Don’t be silly. I’m simply giving you my undivided attention.”
The only good thing about Park being benched to this boring desk job in Bangkok was that he’d been done with Kendrick. Yet, there he was, standing in the doorway of his study, already asking him for a favor.
A figure slowly walking behind Kendrick gave Park a timid smile, snagging his attention. Okay, so maybe being rid of Kendrick wasn’t the only good thing about being benched, but it didn’t matter because that good thing was off limits to Park.
In every conceivable way. For a dozen reasons.
Still, he couldn’t help staring at the big, brown eyes gazing at him with curiosity. Park hid his smile. Gift was so nosy.
To Kendrick, he said, “Come in and close the door. I don’t need everyone else hearing our conversation.”
Kendrick looked over his shoulder, seeming startled when he noticed Gift standing barefoot in Park’s living room, wearing jeans and a white sweater emblazoned with the black Gucci logo. Kendrick examined the boy for a long minute before stepping inside and closing the door in Gift’s pretty face.
Kendrick turned on Park, eyeing him with suspicion, but didn’t ask the question that was probably burning a hole through his brain. Instead, he began to pace the length of Park’s small workspace. “I’m putting you back into play. I need you as an instructor for Project Watchtower.”
The name meant nothing to him. He’d never heard of the program nor did he have any interest in being involved with it. Besides, what the hell were they teaching that made them want him as an instructor? Had the government finally created their own version of Quantico for black ops? The idea made Park’s lips twitch in an aborted smile, but all he said was, “Project Watchtower?”
Kendrick nodded. “Yes, it’s a new pilot program. A school,” he added hastily.
In all the years Park had known Kendrick, he’d never seen the man so…edgy. Usually, he was stomping around, barking orders and acting as if his presence was in some way necessary to whatever task was at hand. On the surface, Kendrick seemed the same, but when Park looked closer, there were some obvious tells.
Beads of sweat were dotting Kendrick’s hairline, and he kept squeezing his hands into fists as he walked. It was hot in Thailand. It was always hot in Thailand, but Park’s condo had air conditioning, as did any car Kendrick had used to get there. So, what was with the flop sweat?
He sat forward, steepling his fingers on his desk. “Explain to me what type of school needs a former assassin as a teacher?”
Assassin seemed like such a dramatic word, but there was no fancy way to say “hired gun” and hehadspent the last fifteen years killing people for the U.S. government all under the guise of diplomacy.
He watched Kendrick continue his pacing. Part of Park wanted him to sit down; the sound of his shoes scuffing over the hardwood floors was getting on his nerves. But the other part didn’t want Kendrick getting too comfortable. Park had other things to do.Betterthings to do. Like have dinner with Gift.
Park shifted uncomfortably as he thought about the pretty, soft boy waiting for him on the other side of that door.
Finally, Kendrick hesitantly said, “A program where we pair…neurodivergent operatives with neurotypical handlers in an attempt to make them effective deep cover operatives.”
Was Kendrick quoting some kind of brochure? It sounded like politically correct bullshit used to lobby for grant money.
Park shook his head, not even bothering to hide his irritation. “Neurodivergent? Neurotypical? Just speak plainly. What the hell are you guys up to?”
Kendrick stopped pacing, looking Park dead in the eye. “Fine. For the last two decades, the U.S. government has placed children with psychopathic tendencies with families of influence and raised them with a single purpose: to use them to act as deep cover operatives who can move seamlessly within both social and political circles while taking out high-level targets that might otherwise be out of our reach.”
Park blinked at Kendrick as the man’s words sank in. Children? They’d recruited…children. The government really had sunk to a whole new low. “Psychopathic?” he muttered, distracted by his own racing thoughts.
Kendrick nodded, as if encouraged by Park’s question. “Children lacking in guilt, empathy, and remorse.”
