While some agencies might have superspecial gadgets reminiscent of James Bond and Q, for the most part, the FBI relied on the standbys, pistols, drones, and other explosive ordnances. Or so Callie had told him. At least HICC—who’d brought him on as a temporary “consultant”—had kitted him out with an undetectable wire. And a gold chain that felt heavy and awkward around his neck, but one Chanel and company wouldn’t look twice at. That little bit of jewelry contained a camera, allowing everyone on the team to see the room in real time.
Khafra shook his head; the other two followed.
“I don’t like it,” Hershorn said.
“We’ll be right outside,” Charnette said. “He won’t go in until we’ve cleared everything else.” Meaning there wouldn’t be anything left to distract them or pull them away from theirposition outside the door. A little voice inside his head said Charnette was tempting fate by making that claim, but he kept his mouth shut.
Hershorn heaved a sigh that seemed too big for her petite body. “Fucking Stella,” she muttered, although no one missed the affection in her voice.
“Okay, we have the plan then. We head out at midnight. Our tech team, with the help of HICC, will take over the Sweet Dreams security system at two. Team A will tail and intercept all cars that leave the premises. Team B will move in and neutralize the two-legged security.” She paused. “Did anyone check for dogs?”
“No dogs,” Tologodor said.
Hershorn nodded. “Once the outside security is handled, you three move in with your teams.” Her gaze swept over her three reports, who all nodded in response. They’d spent an hour assessing entry points and memorizing the sweeping patterns they’d use once inside. Lovell had paid enough attention that he wasn’t going to surprise or be surprised by anyone when he joined the party, but the details weren’t relevant to his role, so most had washed over him.
“You.” Hershorn pinned him with a look that wasn’t quite a glare but made him wonder if she had kids or dogs or any kind of dependent creature living with her and if so, whether they were ever afraid of her. “You don’t move until Charnette gives you the green light. It will take you three minutes to jog from your position in the woods, where you will stay until told otherwise.” Again, another look that he acknowledged with a nod. “Once you reach the house, Khafra will escort you to the door of the room where our targets meet. You will only walk through that door on Agent Charnette’s go-ahead. Is that understood?”
He’d been on enough missions and ops that he knew the drill. The minutiae mattered. The repetition mattered. The detailsmattered. His part in this theater might be small, but he didn’t want to give the team any reason to change their mind about his presence. “Understood,” he said.
“When you enter the room, follow the script you discussed with the psychologist. When you reach the point that more time isn’t going to yield more results, say the word and our teams will take it from there,” she said.
It wasn’t a complicated plan, but balancing what he wanted, personally, with what he needed to do for the FBI could get tricky. Not to mention the fact that the second he walked into the room, his siblings and their cohorts would know something was wrong. No way would their security just let him waltz in.
There wasn’t much he could do about the latter, but he’d spent two hours that afternoon talking with a psychologist on the HICC payroll about ways he could tease information from the Sweet Dreams crew, goad them, if needed. But whatever else those four were, they weren’t entirely stupid. Even if they didn’t find the wire on him, which he’d been assured they wouldn’t, they still might not talk. He’d take the chance, though. And he had every incentive to make it out alive, so he’d follow Hershorn’s plan to a T.
They reached the end of the briefing, his part anyway. Anticipation hung in the air, thick and heavy, buzzing across his skin. In five hours, they’d leave for the small northern New Jersey enclave where his siblings ran the Sweet Dreams house. Five hours.
He planned to spend four of those with Daphne, leaving no question for either of them about the benefits of him staying alive.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The door clicked shut behind James. A deafening silence followed as Daphne’s gaze stayed fixed on the spot where he’d stood seconds earlier. The comforter curled softly over her bare shoulder, the pillow sank gently beneath her cheek, the smell of sex clinging to everything surrounding her.
He’d dressed in the dark, but it was only half past eleven, and this was New York City: Lights from the streets below danced across the ceiling in a kaleidoscope of color. Seven floors below her, life went on. Young people headed to the bars, people her age headed home after a meal, the unhoused started settling into their spots for the night.
Five hours. That’s what the FBI anticipated. Five hours to travel to Sweet Dreams and execute the raid they’d planned. It would take longer than that to clean up, but James’s part should be over by then.
She rolled onto her back, then glanced out the window. No rain tonight. She wondered if that was a good or bad thing. It would make moving through the forests in New Jersey easier, but rain muffled sound. On a night like tonight, she imagined that the crack of a twig or the rustle of a branch would carry through the unfettered air.
The first rumbling of unease slithered through her. The danger hadn’t suddenly become real; she’d just suddenly let it seep into her mind. Until now, she’d been choosing to think about James, about the potential aftermath on his psyche of confronting his siblings, of how her life would change if she bought a house in Mystery Lake and moved permanently. The future. She’d been conveniently thinking about the future, as if tonight was like any other, with the singular exception that they’d wake up tomorrow and no one would be trying to kill James.
But with him gone, the reality she’d been keeping at bay didn’t so much as break through like a battering ram, it scratched and scraped and slowly ate its way through the false, and flimsy, barrier she’d put in place to hold it back.
Tonight, James was going to confront his siblings. More to the point, though, he was going to walk into a room filled with four people who trafficked humans and, in all likelihood, were responsible for at least one murder, the real Nicole Monroe. Probably more. His mere presence would be a threat to everything they’d built. He wasnotsomeone they’d welcome with open arms.
And he was facing them all without any protection—not for his body or his mind. And while the former gave her pause, the latter made her heart hurt. She’d agreed with his decision not to walk in armed, understood that if he had a weapon, they’d be more likely to shoot first and ask questions never. But what would protect him from the assault of his past? From the lies, the pain, the fear, the helplessness, that seeing his brother and sister might bring up?
Her childhood had been hellish, too. A very different kind of hell from James’s, but not one she’d wish on anyone. She’d always had Callie, though. They’d always had each other.
Thinking of a young James—a victim of his mother’s neglect and abuse, a punching bag for the men she brought into his life, and a target of his brother’s and sister’s jealousy-fueled hate—her heart ached. An isolated island of a boy who’d somehow managed to break the unholy trinity of drugs, violence, and poverty.
Only tonight, he’d be revisiting it. He wasn’t that same boy anymore. And while he must have been extraordinary even then, as a man he was…astonishing. She had no illusions that he was perfect or even anything close to that. But that was exactly what made him so remarkable. The flaws, the chinks, the cracks, the chips, they made him unique, they made him a testament to strength. Like something unearthed from centuries ago, his survival alone an aspect of his beauty when so many of his contemporaries had been ground down until nothing remained.
Unbidden, the image of him as a lonely boy came to mind again. Sports and his athletic prowess had made him popular; he’d said as much. But being popular didn’t mean he had friends, didn’t mean he felt connected or supported or safe. He’d never said, but she suspected he hadn’t felt that until he’d landed in Mystery Lake. He’d probably seen glimpses of it while serving with his brothers, but not enough to bring him directly to them when he’d discharged. It hadn’t been untilafterhe’d tried to find that connection, that belonging, with Daisy, that he’d sought his brothers out.
Another wave of admiration washed through her. He wanted connection, he wanted family, he wanted so many things he hadn’t had growing up. And he’d had the courage to reach for it not just once, but twice.
Snagging her phone off the side table, she stared at the wallpaper photo that came to life with the movement. Conscious of both her and Callie’s privacy, she never used one of the hundreds of photos she had of the two of them together. Instead,a generic picture of the Eiffel Tower, pretty but unremarkable, looked back at her. One she’d taken when she first moved.
