CHAPTER 4
O’Donoghue lost his earlier bid for power, and now planned to make a comeback. No way the man didn’t know about Southwestern sticking their nose in SNB business.
The SNB wouldn’t take this lying down. They took care of their own. O’Donoghue might be a familiar face, but he wasn’t SNB. Would never be if Lucky got his way.
Johnson sat at the next desk, head in her hands. “She’s gonna make one hell of an agent one day, but Robinson spends way too much time watching bad 80’s cop shows. Keeps wanting to go all ‘Lethal Weapon’ on me.”
“This from the woman who walks into a room and makes bad guys shit themselves.”
Johnson looked up. “You know, you’re right! What the hell is wrong with me?”
Lucky chuckled. “Why, Rett, are you getting too old for this shit too?”
“Maybe.”
“What? I thought you lived for terrorizing lawless shitheads.” Swearing at work, out of hearing range of the kid, didn’t count, did it?
“I do, but damn.” Johnson shook her head. “I’m starting to understand why rookies make you want to run screaming. I wasn’t that bad, was I?”
“Would I let you into my cube if you were?” No one officially mentioned her moving in as Bo moved out. Boxes labeled with her name showed up one day—not that she had to fight anyone for the honor of sharing space with him.
Johnson raised her Big Gulp in toast and proceeded to drink from a lipstick-stained straw.
He should tell her about O’Donoghue and Southwestern. Maybe she had some insight since she’d once been a part of that organization. “Rett…”
Lucky’s cell phone rang. He held up a finger and leaned back as far as he dared in the chair known as Hell Bitch for its determination to throw him flat on his ass. The display didn’t say who called. Could be a drug lord, an informant, or family member with a new number. Spin the wheel, take the risk. He’d learned to hide a wince every time he answered an unknow number. “Harrison.”
“Mis… Mr. Harrison?”
Lucky jolted upright in the chair, grabbing the desk to steady himself. “Who is this?” The voice coming through the cellphone sounded run through a woodchipper.
“This… this is Chastain.”
Lucky’s brow furrowed. He made a conscious effort to smooth out “the trench deep enough to plant potatoes” as Bo said. Wracking his memory didn’t bring anything to mind. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Chastain Pharmaceuticals.”
Oh. That Chastain. Owen Landry’s intended victim, whose company developed a state-of-the-art diabetes drug Landry intended to steal and sell to a global giant corporation in exchange for a lofty position pulling in megabucks.
The Chastain the SNB saved from a hitman.
Landry’s plot nearly cost Walter—and Lucky and Bo—their lives. “What can I do for you?” Please let it not be another voluntary company audit. He’d nearly died of boredom last time. Johnson might be interested. She’d definitely been interested in Chastain.
“I’m being followed.”
Not Lucky’s area. “Have you called the cops?” Let Atlanta PD earn their keep.
“They won’t help me without proof. They… they say I’m being paranoid.”
Paranoia kept a man alive. Yet, Chastain hadn’t struck him as the paranoid type. Having a hitman stand over you with a gun might’ve ensured a lifetime of paranoia. “So, why call me?” Lucky’d had his nose smacked enough for encroaching on jurisdictions.
“Because you give a rat’s ass.”
What the ever-loving fuck? Lucky? Caring? Well, yeah. Maybe. A little. The reason Landry took such drastic measures when Lucky wouldn’t turn a blind eye to the asshat’s attempt to close down Chastain’s business and steal his hard work.
Even without owning a soft heart Lucky got pulled into entirely too many situations based on doing the right thing.
Why had his mother tried so hard to raise him right?
