The engine hums beneath me as I pull up to the curb. Archie’s already waiting on the steps, cigarette between his lips, wool coat slung over one shoulder like he thinks we’re still at school and the world is some kind of game.
He climbs in without asking questions, flicks the cigarette out the window, and settles into the passenger seat with a sigh that smells like tobacco and apathy.
“You’re late,” he says, glancing over at me.
“I’m never late,” I reply, pulling away from the curb. “You’re just impatient.”
He smirks, but it fades quickly as the city rolls past us in streaks of steel and shadow. We don’t speak for a minute or two. Brotherhood nights require a particular kind of silence beforehand. Something close to reverence. Or dread.
Then I say it, casually. “Be at the estate Saturday night.”
Archie looks over at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Your estate?”
“Yes.”
“For what, exactly? Exorcism? Execution? A cult initiation, maybe?”
“A party,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road.
That gets him. He turns fully in his seat. “You’re throwing a party?”
I nod once.
His laugh is loud and sudden. “You? Hosting? With people? God, I hope it’s not themed.”
“It’s for Martine,” I say.
That shuts him up. He blinks, lips parting slightly. “So this is what we’re doing now? Social hour with the wife? Is she still under surveillance, or will she be confined like a prisoner for her protection? I assume. Emerald-studded.”
I don’t answer right away. His fucking jabs are a waste of my acknowledgment.
But finally, I focus on telling him, “I found Douglass.”
Archie stiffens. His voice drops. “Where?”
“In plain sight,” I say, grip tightening slightly on the wheel. “At the Huntington-Russell Estate.”
He goes quiet again, slower this time. Processing. Calculating.
“You’re telling me the man we've been chasing across three countries was under his own roof.”
“Not technically his roof.”
“Whatever,” Archie says. “And Martine?”
“She doesn’t know.”
He exhales. “Jesus, Herron.”
I finally glance at him. “Saturday isn’t just a celebration. It’s a distraction.”
His smile returns, slow and sharp. “You really know how to ruin a party.”
Archie leans back in the seat, stretching out like we’re on some casual drive to the countryside. But I can see it in the way his fingers drum against his knee. He’s alert now. Listening. Which means he knows this isn’t about cocktails and conversation.
“You really know how to ruin a party,” he repeats, but this time softer. Testing.
“It’s not ruined,” I say. “It’s repurposed.”
