The Rollins boys were both thrill-seekers, both hedonists by nature. Britt fed his cravings for excitement and adventure by skydiving and rock climbing and surfing Maui’s big waves. But who was to say Knox wouldn’t have always found a way to feed his cravings through unlawful enterprise?
Were crooks born or made? Britt had always assumed it was the second, that horrible luck and impossible choices were the reasons most people turned to a life of crime. But perhaps that wasn’t the case for everyone. Maybe for some people, the thrill and stimulation they got from illicit activity was stamped into the very fabric of their souls.
It was a depressing thought.
Sighing heavily, he made his way across the grounds toward the gatehouse. The asphalt expanse had been recently seal-coated, and the chemical smell of the stuff, like a mixture of sulfur and crude oil, lingered in the damp air.
The storm had moved on, but it had left behind dark puddles that gathered the moonlight and reflected it back into the night sky like mirrors.
Off in the distance a siren wailed. The Chicago River lapped leisurely at the banks on the backside of the property. And closer in clashed the discordant notes of a jazz band.
Manus Connelly, one of the four native Chicagoans who’d been taking round-the-clock shifts guarding the gate at BKI, had terrible taste in music. He was an excellent conversationalist, though.
And that’s what Britt needed.
Some conversation. Some amusement. Somedistractionfrom his swirling thoughts.
All the Connelly brothers were good for a rowdy and raucous good time. They had personalities as big as their statures and as many jokes as they had freckles. But Manus was the true wordsmith, a genius when it came to exchanging quips and matching wits.
When Britt got within five feet of the wrought iron gate, it began to slide open, rattling on its track as it went. The guardhouse had monitors showing footage from the security cameras around the property. No doubt Manus had seen the moment Britt exited the building and had been waiting for him to cross the grounds.
After Britt slipped through the opening in the gate, Manus’s big head with its giant bush of red hair poked through the access window on the side of the little building. His thick, Chicago accent mixed with the humidity of the air until Britt felt enveloped in all that was Chi-Town. “What’s up, my man? Can’t sleep?”
“Not a wink.” Britt passed a mug through the window and Manus accepted it gratefully.
“Damn.” Britt waved a hand in front of his face when he was hit by the noxious cloud that wafted out of the guardhouse. “It smells like a camel’s ass crack in here. What the hell have you been eating?”
“Sausage and sourcrout.” Manus gave him a toothy grin. “And don’t knock it ’til you try it.”
“I’ll pass.” Britt leaned his elbow on the windowsill. “Is Birgit German?” he asked, referring to Manus’s pretty wife. “I didn’t know that. Although I probably should’ve guessed given her name.”
“Mmm.” Manus nodded. “First-generation German American. Her folks came over in the late seventies.”
“Huh. A second-generation Irish American and a first-generation German American. Did y’all meet over a pint of beer?” He smirked at his own joke since both cultures were known for their love of the hop juice.
“As a matter of fact, we did. First time I saw her was at the St. Patty’s Day parade. We drank green beer until we puked. By the time Octoberfest rolled around, I’d put a ring on her finger.”
Britt laughed and shook his head. “A Windy City romance made in heaven.”
“True enough.” Manus saluted him with a self-satisfied grin before sniffing the contents of his mug. “Hot chocolate? In July?”
“Made it for Eliza. You know how shock and trauma have a way of chilling you down to the marrow of your bones.”
Manus chuffed distastefully. “Wish I didn’t. But I do.”
Having worked at Black Knights Inc. for nearly a decade, he and his brothers had born witness to some high-stakes action that would’ve had your everyday security guard shitting his shorts. The Connelly boys were as tough as old cow hide, though.Thankfully.
“Eliza’s recipe?” Manus asked before taking a tentative sip of the steaming liquid.
“Mmm.” Britt nodded, drinking from his own mug. “With just a dash of cinnamon tossed in for good luck.”
Manus nodded appreciatively. “And how is our girl?”
One corner of Britt’s mouth quirked. “She kicked Fisher out of her room a while ago. So I’d say she’s fine as a fiddle, back to her regularly scheduled programming.” He paused and shook his head. “It astounds me how two people I love like family can be so different. But they’re like fire and ice.”
“If you ask me, they’re more like fire and gasoline.”
Britt snorted his agreement since he’d said something very similar earlier that evening.
