If Lucky hadn’t been looking so hard for a reaction, he might have missed his enemy’s slight flinch. Ah, so he hadn’t known. Then he also didn’t know about Lucky’s guardian devils.
Nice to have a pair of aces up his sleeve.
Victor Mangiardi and Nestor Sauceda, the man who’d saved Lucky and Bo’s asses in Mexico, and handed over Victor’s useless nephew, the man they’d needed saving from.
Sitting up straighter didn’t help the wannabe fill Walter’s role. Not by a long shot. “Be that as it may, you’re no longer fit for undercover ops or training. You’ve become a liability, and some see your conviction for drug trafficking as a clear strike against your career.”
Lucky bent over the desk, getting right up in O’Donoghue’s face. The bastard jumped back. “How can you fight the war on drugs if you can’t think like the enemy? That’s why Walter brought me in to begin with. Not to mention all the cases I’ve solved. Check out the stats. I’ve got more successfully closed cases than anyone in the department, past or present.”
“Harrison.” O’Donoghue spoke slowly. “You’re not making this easy. You’re being relieved of active duty. A panel is currently debating your future with the SNB. I’d like you to go for psychological evaluation.”
An invisible fist delivered a roundhouse right to Lucky’s ego. “I’m already seeing a counselor.”
“You’ll be assessed by one assigned by me. If you want to keep your job. I’ll have Human Resources make an appointment.” He turned a soul-crushing glare on Lucky. “If you hope to have any kind of future with this organization, you’ll do as you’re told. I’m not Walter Smith. I won’t laugh off your indiscretions and defend you against those who complain.”
“Asshole!” Who cared if Lucky got fired now, with some Johnny Come Lately holding him by the short hairs? He gave the door a less-than-satisfying slam on the way out and stomped down the hall to his cubical. Let the asshole remove the chair Lucky had dragged in, or better yet, leave it there to cradle Lucky’s sore ass the next time he went in there for a chewing.
O’Donoghue had gotten one thing right: He was no Walter Smith. Not even close.
Bo wasn’t waiting for Lucky, darned the luck.
Lucky slammed his fist down on the desk, dislodging one of the ever-present coffee cups. The cup hit the floor, sloshing out day-old coffee. He dropped down, grabbing the desk when the chair tried to throw him. All he needed to make a shitty day even shittier.
Keith stuck his head inside the cube, a grin plastered to his face. “Heard you got sacked!”
Lucky reared back to punch him. Keith darting his gaze to the corner gave Lucky pause.
Surveillance junkie better not have installed a camera. “Come to gloat?” He’d play along for a moment, since he already skated on thin ice.
Keith slapped a hand on Lucky’s desk. “Oh, yeah, buddy.” He maneuvered his back toward the offending corner, lifted his hand, and stuffed a scrap of paper under one of the surviving Starbucks cups on Lucky’s desk. He sauntered off without another word.
What the hell?
Lucky stood and paced, putting on what he hoped would be a worthy performance. He slammed things around, knocking another cup to the floor and palming Keith’s paper scrap.
With his back to what had to be a camera, he read, “O’Donoghue, Landry, Rogers, and O’Donoghue’s personal lapdog, Phillip. Do you sense a takeover?”
Rogers. In surveillance. So, Keith felt the hot breath of replacement coursing down his neck too. The two senior agents under Walter’s command, now with targets on their backs. Bo hadn’t been here long, and neither had Johnson. O’Donoghue said they were in Lucky’s corner.
Bo most definitely was, but more and more Johnson showed signs of disloyalty.
Lapdog Phillip. Loretta’s boyfriend. Had she passed on information from Lucky to the loser?
Out. He needed to go out. The clock on the wall said eleven forty. He’d take his lunch hour early.
He texted Bo,“Running errands”and trotted to the elevator. Lisa sat behind the reception desk, chatting with Judy from acquisitions, allowing Lucky to slip into the elevator and jab the down button unnoticed.
A desk job! After all he’d done for this place! Walter would be livid, but Lucky couldn’t go running to Walter. Walter trusted O’Donoghue enough to keep him around, and besides, recovery came first before Lucky dumped this load of shit on his boss’s doorstep.
The doors opened in the parking level and Lucky peered out. He’d gladly take his wrath out on anyone he found. But no. No one. He made a beeline to an empty parking space. Right. Todd used his car to play taxi for Mrs. Smith. He’d better not put a single scratch on the .
Oh, well, nothing burned off righteous anger better than going for a run—or fucking. Too bad Bo wasn’t here, and he wasn’t dressed for running.
He could pull his gym bag out from under his desk, but that’d mean going back upstairs. With his side still healing, Bo might give him a good talking to about running anyway, though he hadn’t yet continued their conversation about Lucky’s recent adventures in the boxing ring.
No one said he couldn’t walk.
Down Peachtree, turn the corner, and keep going. He stared into the pit of an excavation site, heavy equipment digging up the ground to put in another skyscraper—one destined to block his conference room view of Stone Mountain. Asshats.
