We’re wheels-up in twenty, and since Archibald’s not the one running point, of course, he’s taking his sweet time arriving. I stand by the plane, coat open, wind kicking up off the tarmac. The sky’s dull. The kind of gray that makes everything feel dead, even the jet engines humming behind me.
A black SUV pulls in slowly, with tinted windows of anonymity. The door opens, and Archibald steps out, as if he’s arriving at a gala, not a classified op. Sunglasses, cigarette already lit. Smells like leather, smoke, and too much money. Always the same routine.
“You’re late,” I say.
He exhales, all drama. “Traffic.”
“We’re at Langley. There is no traffic.”
“Then I’m just fashionably delayed.”
I look at him. “You want to be fashionably buried?”
He grins. “If you’re offering.”
We walk to the stairs. The jet’s prepped. Cabin pressurized. Vodka stocked. I don’t plan on talking for most of the flight, but Archibald always finds a way to fill the silence with noise.
Inside, he drops into the seat across from me and pulls out a flask. Silver and engraved. Overkill, like everything he owns.
I wait until we’re in the air before I decide to beat him to his usually insufferable chatter.
“I married Martine.”
He doesn’t flinch.
I repeat it, this time more slowly. “She’smywife now.”
He leans his head back, then laughs once. His tone is dry, not mocking, just quietly amused. Like I told him I bought a yacht, or a vineyard, or a giraffe.
“You’re serious?”
“Dead.”
“You, married,” he rubs his jaw, still grinning.
I don’t answer.
He shakes his head. “Martine. The woman practically promised to me at birth. Married toyou?”
“I know she was promised to you.”
“Obviously,” he says with a snort. Not necessarily upset, but amused. “And what about your Chosen? Ford’s not around to pass her off to, like I’m sure he would have preferred.”
I remain silent, letting him work out whatever the hell this is, because it’s not a discussion I’m willing to engage in.
Archie is a playboy, but he’s a meticulous perfectionist when it comes to assignments from the Brotherhood, even if he is often late.
“I won't apologize.”
Archie shrugs. “Alright. You want to play house with a brat, be my guest.”
I glare at him.
“Does it seem like I really care, Hayden?” He raises an eyebrow. “I was just doing what was instructed.”
“She’smywife,” I say again, more to end the conversation than convince him. “That’s it.”
“And she’s like a sister to me, so don’t fuck this up,” he says with a bit more emotion.
