“There are too many inconsistencies in the client’s story,” Darius continued as we all resumed walking.
“Lies,” River corrected.
“Maybe,” Darius agreed reluctantly.
“What kind of inconsistencies?” I asked.
“Locations and dates are not lining up. Names keep changing,” River went on. “And before you say it might be fear speaking, it’s not. Not a single bone in that client holds fear.”
“The bottom line is this person needs protection,” Astor challenged. “Don’t tell me we’re worried about them?”
“It’s not them we’re worried about,” River reasoned. “It’s taking on a client who might be even worse.”
Darius didn’t object, although he didn’t agree either.
“What would you do, Kian?” Astor questioned. “Ever encountered a situation like this?”
“No two situations are the same. However, if you want my advice, it’s to go with your gut,” I recommended.
“Well, that helps,” Astor remarked wryly.
“Actually it does,” Darius stated, giving me a sidelong look. “My gut feeling says we don’t take on this client.”
“Hallelujah,” River exclaimed just as we stopped in front of an Irish bar. Music hummed behind the door, bass steady and alive.
Astor tilted his head toward the entrance. “You want one of us inside since you’re flying solo?”
Amir, my head of security back in Albania and the man I trusted explicitly, was on multiple Interpol lists, but my connections meant he’d never face extradition. Some would say it was unwise to have such a high target as my right-hand man, but I would disagree. He was the best, and I only worked with the best.
“I don’t need a babysitter here,” I retorted. “You three go on.”
Darius was already headed away from me, scanning the street as he called over his shoulder. “Text if you change your mind.”
The three men moved on, their voices fading back into easy banter while I stood alone, my breath fogging the air.
I scanned the bar through the window. It was one of those DC places that tried very hard to look casual while quietly charging twelve dollars for fries.
I saw them before I even opened the door. The two Ashford brothers and the man I’d be meeting officially face-to-face today, Kristoff Baldwin.
Not long ago, I’d worked on digging up information at Byron’s request. He needed someone to look into an unusual matter with his ex, his cousin, and his late friend Jonathan.
There wasn’t much there aside from a crazy, alcoholic ex-wife who was jealous and coincidentally had a loose connection to the Black OilSyndicate. Although, all reports pointed to her walking on thin ice with her family for the past two decades.
Kristoff’s cousin, Sophie Baldwin, was in an accident she was convinced involved foul play, but the data merely pointed to a freak-of-nature crash that cost Jonathan his life.
Fucking love triangles.
I reached for the handle and pulled the door open, warm air spilling out, along with music and the smell of beer. I noticed Alessio first as he sipped happily from his beer bottle. He seemed to be more relaxed than I’d ever seen him, long legs stretched and jacket slung over the back of his chair.
Byron swirled his whiskey. “I’m just saying, if a senator starts a sentence with ‘off the record,’ it should absolutely be on the record.”
The Ashford brothers had a clear distaste for politicians after the experience with their senator father. Although, I didn’t think they were talking about him in this particular case, since he was dead.
“Any senator we know?” I questioned, pulling out a chair before taking a seat.
“Pretty much every single one,” Byron answered, his tone dry. “Your bourbon.”
“Thanks.” I reached for the glass and took a sip. “They usually think they’re invincible.”
