“Jericho.” I grab my phone again, smirking as I straighten my neck. “You’re gonna set it up for me.”
She scoffs. “Sure. Have your people submit a work order, and I’ll have my people quote you. Once we’ve ironed out the details, I could have my team inside your building in a week or so. You’d need to cover the cost of travel, too, since this is a destination job and we?—”
“No quote. No money. No covering anything.” When the doors open on the ninth floor, I step out again, cross the sparkling tile expanse, and push through my office door. “If you get us all set up with state-of-the-art doodads and crazy high-tech thingybobs, and most importantly, if you make it so I don’t have to enter my login details anymore, I’ll tell you who wants you dead.”
She startles and stills, even the trill of ringing phones on her end of the line silence. “Jericho?”
I set my coffee on my desk and my bag on the floor underneath it. Dropping onto my chair with a huff, I tilt back and stare up at the ceiling. Six flights up, I have an entire floor going to waste. A whole department ready to be utilized, and free rein to do with it whatever I want. “Sounds like we have a deal, Ms. Solomon. It’s always a pleasure doing business with you.”
She harrumphs. But I know we have a deal, and soon, I won’t have to waste my timetap-tap-tappingat a keyboard when I would much rather cut a dead body open.
“I’ll have a car pick you up for your meeting with Abate,” she counters. “Unbutton your blouse a little. It’ll make him happy, and since he’s dying tonight…”
“Will I leave the body there when I’m done?”
“Absolutely. It sends a message to the others: we’re comingfor them, and we’re not gonna be gentle about it. Also, take your meds. For Jen.”
Screw Jen.
“I’ll check in this afternoon once you’re in the car.”
“Mmhm.” I bring the phone from my ear and end our call with a thumb pressed to the screen, then I simply… sit. I stare into nothingness and remember, despite my best efforts and reasonable success at dissociation, that my life is still on fire. My marriage is in the trash. My heart hurts more than I can ever truly explain, even to myself, and Archer…
Drawing a long, rattling breath, I exhale and toss my phone onto my desk. Pushing to my feet and crossing to the floor-to-ceiling windows, just like I did yesterday, I look down and find Mr. Harrison leaning against a shiny black SUV, his eyes covered with a pair of sunglasses, one hand in his pocket, and the other wrapped around the phone pressed to his ear.
He’s talking to someone; he’s probably snitching to Felix about the party drugs turning up in the mail. Copeland is Malone territory, after all, and the Malones cleaned this city up to keep Archer and Tim safe, and by extension, to keep the Malone wives happy. If my stance on the situation has changed—or, ya know, my marriage is over—then Felix will want his market share back.
It’s business, after all.
“Whew, Chief.” Raquel strides through my door, fanning her face in my peripheral vision. “A skirt today? Hot damn.”
“Shut up.” I drop my chin until the tip touches my chest and the back of my neck stretches, and because my office door swings open again and my team files in, I resign myself to the beginning of a new day.
Another morning of rounds.
Another Thursday in paradise.
“Guess everyone’s starting early today, huh?” I wander around my desk and drop into my chair. “I let you leave five minutes earlyone time, and you punish me by turning up a whole hour early the next morning.”
“And here I thought the boss would appreciate promptness,” Doctor Flynn quips. “I’m happy to hang out in the coffee room if you don’t want me here yet.”
ARCHER
“She’s gonna kill you.” Fletch paces an ugly, unkempt living room, dragging his fingers through his hair and knocking his hat askew because of it. Then he jerks his hat back down again and paces some more. “She’s gonna go postal, Arch. Straight up fucking homicidal.”
“She’s not gonna kill me.” I slide my shirt back on, fastening the buttons one by one, and I definitely don’t speak of how my fingers shake a little, or how my heart thrums achingly out of control. “She won’t even know, so calm the fuck down and get over it.”
“You were shot, dickhead!” He spins and stalks my way, poking my chest right where a bullet hole took a chunk out of my shirt. Then a second bullet hole. A third. “Masslin got eight shots off, and you caught three of them.”
“Not even half.” I fix my buttons all the way to the bottom and pretend my entire torso isn’t on fire. Every fucking muscleI possess, screaming in pain. “And I had a vest on the whole time.”
“You caught more bullets today than you’ve ever received on the job since I’ve known you.”
“No. My vest caught them.” Fuck him. Fuck his worry. Fuck his worry aboutmywife. “Which is literally why we wear them.”
“Eight shots, Archer! Four went into his sofa. One into the television. And three into you. Kinda tells me you were actin’ a little fucking reckless.”
“Kinda tells me you were hiding behind the fridge and leaving me to do the heavy lifting.”
