Brigid’s hands curled over the table, and she looked around frantically. The door was so close. She focused back on Raider.
If anything, he looked a little bored. “My money would be on the redhead,” he said, losing his smile. “Now, friend. You can either go get us a dessert menu, or you can fuck off and slink back to your bodyguard duties.”
Brigid swallowed a gasp. Had Raider just said the F-word? She glanced toward the corner, where one of the other bodyguards had started strutting their way. This was about to get bad. She wasn’t armed. Was Raider? He couldn’t be. They’d flown commercially, and he hadn’t declared a gun.
They had to get out of there. Right now.
The guy grabbed Raider by the tie, and then everything happened so quickly that Brigid froze in place.
Raider stood in one easy motion, manacled the back of the guy’s neck, and smashed his head down so hard into the table that the wood cracked in two. Dishes and utensils flew in every direction while the guy and the table crashed to the floor.
Brigid’s chair rocked back, and she yelped, scrambling to her feet to keep from falling. The guy on the floor didn’t move.
Raider’s easy and brutal violence shocked her more than the fight itself.
“Hey!” The other bodyguard, a redheaded man with a barrel of a chest, ran forward while yanking out his gun.
Raider pivoted and kicked the guy beneath the chin, following his downward spiral in a blur of motion. Three punches and a quick twist, and Raider stood with the gun pointed at the back table. When he lifted his chin, the two men there raised their hands.
The remaining patrons looked on, not moving.
Raider straightened his tie and tossed a business card on the table. “Have your boss call me if he wants to get serious.”
Brigid could only gape, her mind fuzzing. What had just happened?
Raider backed toward her. “Door. Now.”
She stumbled for it just as sirens echoed down the street. Running outside into a light rain, she rushed to the passenger side of the compact they’d rented at the airport. Raider calmly entered the driver’s seat, started the engine, and drove away from the restaurant.
Brigid gulped down panic, struggling to secure her seat belt. “I don’t understand. Why in the hell were we sent to that restaurant?”
Raider set the confiscated gun between them and maneuvered around traffic. “I have a feeling our mission went according to plan.” His hands were light on the steering wheel, but his voice held a tone she couldn’t identify. She scrutinized him. He looked as if he’d been out for a relaxing lunch with a friend and hadn’t probably just put two guys—two tough guys—in the hospital for a week.
Just who was Raider Tanaka?
* * *
After a silent plane ride back to DC, where Raider read a series of HDD reports and refused to answer any of Brigid’s questions, especially about the darn business card, they finally ended up at their headquarters just as night began to fall. As usual, the dilapidated elevator hitched at the bottom floor and then remained quiet.
“I hate this thing.” Raider smacked his palm against the door. “Open, darn it.”
The door shuddered open.
Amusement bubbled through the unease in Brigid. “You’re magic.”
He looked over his shoulder. “You have no idea, Irish.” Then he crossed into the small, dimly lit vestibule of the basement offices.
Had he just flirted with her? For Pete’s sake. She moved out of the claustrophobic space on wobbly legs. This day was overwhelming on way too many levels. Enough of that silliness. Reaching the wide-open room, she sighed. A coat of fresh paint had brightened the office a bit, but the myriad of desks were still old and scarred, and the overhead lights old, yellow, and buzzing. They’d arranged four desks in a pod belonging to Raider and his colleagues, Malcolm West and Clarence Wolfe. The fourth was empty so far.
Raider looked down at the cracked concrete floor and shook his head.
“We’re supposed to paint that next,” Brigid said, coming up on his side. Wasn’t that the plan? Though she probably wouldn’t be left in place that long. She shivered and tried to stay in the moment. “I think there’s art coming, or screens that show outside scenes.” The basement headquarters were a step down from depressing, even with the fresh paint. This evening, the big room was eerily silent.
Three doors in the far wall led to an office and two conference rooms, while one more door, a closet for the shrink, was situated to the west.
A German shepherd padded out of the far office, munching contentedly on something bright red. It coated his mouth and stained the light fur around his chin.
“Roscoe,” Brigid breathed, her entire body finally relaxing. Animals and computer code, she knew. It was people who threw her.
