They lapsed into silence as they enjoyed their drinks. Manus went back to eyeing the security footage. And Britt sighed deeply as he watched the owner of the bagel shop pull into the empty lot.
The place opened at six AM. Which meant the bagels started baking hours before.
Britt had never been much of a morning person. But there was something appealing about the simplicity of running a business like the one across the street.
No middle-of-the-night flights to the other side of the world. No one attempting to put a period on the end of his life. No bombs or bullets or illicit assignations with fellow operatives in the back rooms of bars. Just early mornings.
Early mornings. And monotonous days. And weeks that drifted into months…
Britt wouldn’t last a minute in a job like that. But he wished,ohhow he wished he could. Because then he could invite Knox to come live and work with him.
As it was, Knox couldn’t be trusted to know the truth of Black Knights Inc. Knox couldn’t be trusted with much of anything, come to think of it. And that’s what bothered Britt the most.
The brother he’d so loved and admired growing up, the brother who’d sacrificed his future so Britt could have one, had lost himself somewhere along the way. And the man who showed up in his place?
Well…Britt barely recognized that guy.
A slight breeze blew an empty plastic bag down the street. He lifted his face to catch the notes on the wind: wet concrete, the faint fishy scent of the river, and the ever-present tinge of car exhaust.
Over the years, he’d grown to appreciate Chicago. Appreciate the hustle and bustle, the way Midwesterners were a no-nonsense bunch, and how seriously they took their deep-dish pizza and Italian beef sandwiches. But he’d never loved the City of Big Shoulders the way he loved his hometown.
Unlike Chicago, there was very little hustle and bustle in Charleston, South Carolina. Southerners didn’t do much of anything quickly, and he figured that was because they spent eight months out of the year trying not to sweat their asses off. Whereas a Midwesterner would come right to the point, a Southerner preferred to meander around a bit, believing part of the fun was in the conversational journey.
The people living in the two cities had one thing in common, though. They both took their local cuisine seriously. Except in Charleston it was all about the she crab soup and the shrimp and grits.
It’d been a little over five years since Britt had been home. Five years since he’d walked along the battery or heard the bells chime at the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. Five years since he’d sat in a courtroom to hear a judge sentence his brother to hard time.
Taking another sip of hot chocolate, he wondered how long it’d be before he was sitting in another courtroom, listening to another judge tell his brother he was going in for the long-haul.
Manus had turned down the volume on his radio, but a particularly discordantclashof cymbals brought Britt’s mind back to the present. He frowned at the redheaded behemoth. “You know, I’ve always prided myself on being polyjamorous.”
Manus lifted one bushy orange eyebrow. “I’m not here to kink shame anyone.”
“Poly-jam-orous,” Britt emphasized. “Meaning I listen to almost all music. Rock, pop, country, blues. But I have never understood the appeal of jazz. It sounds like a bunch of noise and?—”
“Hold that thought,” Manus cut him off. “We have company.”
Britt pushed away from the window’s ledge and watched a large, black SUV slink up the empty street like a stalking cougar. Government plates were pinned to the front bumper and a telltale tint filmed the windows.
Bulletproof,he thought. Then he clarified.Well, bulletresistant.There’s no such thing as true bulletproof glass.
“Possible they’re just passing through?” Manus asked when the SUV pulled past the guardhouse and the driveway that led into the compound.
“Unlikely seeing as how blondie there in the driver’s seat is the one who came to the hospital to interview Eliza.”
“Middle of the night visits from the feds can only mean one thing,” Manus muttered. “Bad news,” the two of them said in unison.
Manus chuckled. “Pinch, poke, you owe me a Coke.”
Britt shot him a flat-mouthed look. “What are you? Seven?”
“Nope.” Manus shook his head. “But that’s how old the twins are. Just celebrated their birthday last weekend. And their throw-back witticisms are contagious.”
Britt harrumphed. “And here I was giving you credit for being the cleverest of all the Connelly brothers.”
“You were? When?”
“On my walk out here.”
