That didn't stop him from asking, "Will you need anything else tonight, sir? Anything else at all?"
For a moment, I let myself consider all the possible answers. The violent ones. The vengeful ones. The ones that would end with his suit in ruins and both of us finally dealing with the tension between us.
"No," I said, ice in my voice. "That will be all."
"Very well." He smoothed one hand down his suit. The gesture was both practical and distinctly effeminate, and it made me want him all over again. "I'll have the quarterly reports on your desk by morning. And I'll prepare everything for the DoD lawyers."
I left without answering. Security personnel snapped to attention as I passed. Lucky Losers employed over five thousand people across three continents. They'd all known who was in charge even during my absence. Maxime had made sure of it. I wanted to hate him for it, but I couldn't. I had plenty of other things to hate him for.
The house in HydePark was dark when my driver pulled up to it, and my hip was screaming. He offered to help me to the front door, but I declined. This was still the one space where I was the undisputed master of my domain, and that wasn't going to change.
The place was both a mansion and a fortress, with eight empty bedrooms, bulletproof windows, reinforced walls, state-of-the-art security, and marble bathrooms with waterfall showerheads. It was both a luxury and a prison on my worst days.
I poured myself a finger of Japanese whiskey and tried to ignore the deafening silence. Six billion dollars was our largest contract yet. The victory should have tasted sweet, but all I could taste was the singular sour note of loneliness.
I stood at the back of the house, staring out the French sliding doors at the covered pool and designer furniture dotting the outside entertainment area. When was the last time I'd used any of it? When was the last time I'd wanted to?
I went through my evening routine on autopilot. Shower, then a soak to ease the pain in my hip. Pain medications. Fresh clothes. Another whiskey while I reviewed market reports. The pain in my leg had faded to a manageable throb.
My phone rang at 3:17 AM while I was lying awake staring at the ceiling.
"Sir." Commander Reid's voice was tight. "There's been a breach at the lab."
I sat up too quickly and regretted it. "What kind?"
"Physical. Forced entry through the east service corridor. Security protocols overridden. Three men down."
"Dead?"
"Unconscious. Same symptoms as the Banshee test subjects."
Ice flooded my veins. "What's missing?"
Reid paused. "The Mk I prototype. All the design specs from the secure server."
Fuck. This was bad, extremely bad.
"Lock it down. Protocol Omega. No one in or out." I was already moving, pulling on clothes. "Where's Dr. Hardin?"
"Missing, sir."
The whiskey turned to acid in my stomach, and my head swam thanks to the pain medication, but there was no time for recovery, not in a crisis. "I'll be there in five minutes." I grabbed my cane, my gun, and my phone. "Get Maxime."
"Already on his way, sir."
I ended the call. Rage and adrenaline hit me in equal measure. The specs. The prototype. Hardin missing. The timing was too perfect.
Someone had played me, and when I found out who, I'd burn everything they'd ever touched to the fucking ground.
I jerked awake andimmediately knocked over the nearly two-hundred-dollar bottle of Meursault. I jumped up with a curse and started trying to blot up the liquid with my silk robe. It wasn't until I was on my knees soaking wine out of the Persian rug that I realized my phone was ringing.
I grabbed it without checking the display. "This had better be important."
"Sir, it's Reid." His voice was tight in a way that made my stomach drop. "We have a situation at the lab. Omega Protocol."
I dropped the robe and shot to my feet. "What happened?"
"Breach. Three guards down, the Banshee prototype missing. Dr. Hardin's gone. I need you here now."
