Chapter 20

20

The man gazed out the window of his opulent study. Yard upon yard of prime Kentucky Bluegrass shimmered in the late summer heat. The grounds made his mansion—every imported inch of it—worth everything he’d spent.

His fingers itched to grip a nine-iron.

Beyond the manicured lawn, oaks and birches swayed in the late afternoon breeze, their leaves a symphony of greens soon to burst into autumn’s fiery palette. He inhaled deeply, savoring the heavy air that wafted through the open window.

“I’ll schedule a weekend here during peak color,” he mused, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. “Assuming Seven-Five allows department heads such frivolities.”

The crystal decanter of scotch caught his eye, promising liquid warmth and momentary escape. As he reached for it, the shrill ring of the secure line shattered the silence. He snatched up the device, its weight oddly comforting in his hand.

“Dragonfly reporting in, sir.” The woman’s rich contralto sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.

He stared into the middle distance, pushing away thoughts of Dragonfly’s lethal grace. “Tell me you have Jason Reilly,” he ordered, anticipation building.

A pause stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension. “That’s a negative, sir. There were complications.”

He slammed a fist on the polished mahogany desk, rattling the scotch decanter. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he fought to control his rising frustration. “Walk me through it.”

Dragonfly’s voice crackled through the line, crisp and cool as autumn frost. “Reilly got the drop on Thetford and Caine. I had to terminate them both.”

Idiots .

His fingers tightened around the device, knuckles white with suppressed rage, but he forced his voice into a semblance of calm. “An excellent call. Good thing I sent you along at the last minute.”

“Yes.” A pause, pregnant with expectation. “Probably well worth my emergency fee.”

“No question.” He bit back a sardonic chuckle, knowing the true depth of his desperation remained his own dark secret.

Inhaling deeply, he continued, each word measured and controlled.

“You cleaned up the site, yes?”

“Of course.”

He ended the call with curt thanks, slamming the receiver down with a satisfying crack. Finally alone, he unleashed his fury. The crystal decanter sailed across the room, exploding against the far wall in a shower of glass and amber liquid. The acrid scent of spilled alcohol filled the air, mingling with his frustration.

Footsteps approached rapidly. His young assistant burst through the door, eyes wide with concern. “Sir? I heard?—”

“Get me a scotch,” he snapped, cutting him off. “Three fingers.”

“Sir.” The assistant scurried to the sideboard, carefully avoiding the glittering shards on the floor.

He turned back to the window, unseeing eyes fixed on the deepening shadows outside. His mind raced, conjuring and discarding plans with brutal efficiency. Failure was no longer an option. The sands of opportunity were running out, his chance to prove himself to Seven-Five’s upper echelons slipping away with each passing moment.

The squeak of the cork coming out of a fresh bottle eased his heartbeat.

Now or never.

Destroy, or be destroyed.

Chase, or trap.

Trap. Yes.

A triumphant sound rose in his throat. He could still have Reilly.

His assistant handed him the tumbler, amber liquid sloshing gently. “You’ve got a plan,” the younger man observed, curiosity glinting in his eyes.

He took a long sip, savoring the smoky notes on his tongue. He shouldn’t divulge his plans, but what did it matter? Either the kid would rise through the ranks, in which case this serves as a valuable learning experience, or he’d die.

Either way, no harm. No foul. He took another sip. “I have a way to lure Reilly and the Mendoza woman into the open.”

“How?”

“I’m going to get them to turn on each other.”

“But what if Mendoza kills Reilly? You want him alive.”

He waved his hand, dismissing the protest. “Mendoza’s not that talented. Reilly will put her down in a heartbeat.”

“Still, people get lucky,” his assistant persisted, worry etching lines around his mouth.

He shrugged, ice clinking in his glass. “Maybe.”

Another sip of scotch, another moment of contemplation. “Reilly’s not the only BlackOut specialist with intel on us. There are others. If he dies, he dies.”

As his assistant melted into the shadows, he turned back to the window, watching as the last rays of sunlight painted the trees burnished gold.

Either way, handling Reilly would impress his new bosses. An imperative, if he wanted to end up richer.

Instead of dead.