Three

The office door opened, and Boomer was jittery with poorly-masked nerves. “They’re here. Pulling in the gate.”

“Yeah, I gotta go,” Walsh said into the phone. “I’ll come by your office at three.” He hung up while the mayor was agreeing. To Boomer, he nodded, and said, “Okay, show them in. The lead investigator can come back here and see me.”

Despite the flop sweat on his forehead, Boomer grinned. “Power move. Sweet.” He retreated, pulling the door shut behind him.

When he was gone, Walsh pulled out the bottom drawer of the desk, withdrew the bottle he’d stashed there earlier, and took three long swallows straight from the neck, wincing. He didn’t like vodka warm, or without ice, but needs must. After, he stowed the bottle, raked his hair back off his face with both hands, lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his chair, one boot propped up on his knee.

Muffled noise issued from down the hall. He shifted his chair, quarter-swivels side-to-side, raised knee hitting the edge of the desk on each swing. He lifted a hand in the air, rings winking in the lamplight, and lowered a finger as he counted down. “Five…four…three…two…”

The door opened again. For all his doofus qualities, Boomer did a decent job of playing it cool now when he said, “Hey, boss? This guy says he’s FBI.” He lingered in the threshold and tipped his head toward the unimpressed man standing just behind him.

Walsh caught the man’s gaze across the office and something in his belly unclenched. “Yeah. I’ll talk to him.” He gave a lazy wave toward the chair across from his desk and put his foot back down on the floor. He rotated the chair so his knees were under the desk, but didn’t bother to sit upright. Rested his hands on the chair arms and pressed his head back against its smooth leather. His name was King after all.

The agent shot Boomer a disgruntled look on his way into the office, and moved to stand behind the available chair, hands on his hips. In contrast to Boyle’s tac pants and FBI t-shirt getup, this guy wore a suit, off-the-rack, too tight in the legs. From his receding hairline, to his going-soft middle-aged physique, to the flat, dispassionate look in his eyes, Walsh clocked him straight away as someone who was doing as he was told, without any personal stake in the matter whatsoever. He could still prove to be a serious obstacle, but he wasn’t out for blood. A small reassurance, but a reassurance all the same.

Boomer shut the door with a click.

“Are you Kingston Walsh?”

“I am.” A beat. “Do I get your name? Or is this a one-way street?”

The agent sighed through his nose. “Agent Daniels. They said you’re the president of this club?”

Walsh nodded. “As of yesterday, yeah.” He gestured toward the chair again. “You want to sit?”

Daniels debated visibly, then sighed again, and took the chair. Gave a low, harsh exhale of relief when he landed.

Before he could gather another breath to continue, Walsh said, “Agent Daniels, let’s not muck around here. My club’s in a state of mourning right now. We’ve lost two members in a week, a child’s been abducted, and we’re all just trying to hold down the fort.”

Daniels frowned.

“Your people tossed this clubhouse, and all our personal homes two weeks ago, and found nothing. No one’s been arrested. Why are you here again?” He didn’t have to fake his exhausted exasperation.

Daniels didn’t answer right away. He glanced around the office, chewing at the inside of his cheek. He was younger than Walsh had at first thought: his receding hairline and pouchy eyes made him look fifty at first blush, but he was probably closer to Walsh’s age. Walsh could relate: he didn’t look so young anymore either.

When his gaze returned to Walsh, he said, in a careful tone, “Kenneth Teague killed a man in the offices above Bell Bar.”

“He did,” Walsh said, “in self-defense. Witnesses can confirm that the man – Big Jonny to his friends – was paid thirteen-hundred dollars to kill Ghost. The woman who lives across the street saw the attack.”

Daniels tipped his head, gaze sharpening to something approaching keen for the first time. “You sound like a police officer.”

Walsh shrugged. “I’ve spent a lot of time with them. And I’ve already spoken to Chief Fielding about what happened to Ghost, so I know this isn’t the first time you’ve heard this.” He gestured between them. “Not to mention: Ghost’s dead.” The word was chalky in his mouth. He heard his voice dip and waver and cleared his throat. Let Daniels think it was grief: he was prematurely grieving his tenure with the club, because once everyone learned that he’d lied…

Daniels leaned back in his chair, mirroring Walsh’s pose. “The Lean Dogs MC is not a social club.”

Walsh stared at him.

“Felix Lécuyer and Kenneth Teague’s deaths weren’t sad accidents or misfortunes.”

“You’re right. They were the direct results of Agent Harlan Boyle’s professional misconduct.”

A muscle in his cheek flickered. Then his lashes. Acknowledgement. “Agent Boyle–”

“Kidnapped an eight-year-old boy,” Walsh said. “Not a club member, not a criminal, a child . Is the FBI prepared to address that?”

“At this time, there’s no evidence to suggest that Agent Boyle had anything to do with–”

Walsh sat forward suddenly, and slapped both hands down on the blotter. Daniels jumped gratifyingly. “You can search this place top to bottom,” he said, low, and biting, and cold , and Daniels actually flinched. “You can search my house, and all our houses, and you can waste everyone’s goddamn time all over again. Pull our financials, whatever you want, I don’t give a shit. But man to man? You and I both know Boyle took that boy, and my guess is that you’re only here because your masters know it, and they can’t find him.” He sat back again, hands braced on the edge of the desk. “So you do what you have to do here. But you need to be very aware that, no matter what your boss told you, no matter who or what he’s covering for, if Remy Lécuyer doesn’t come home, or if he’s found dead, you’ll be lucky if the worst that happens to you is getting fired.”

Daniels lifted his brows. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a reminder that this club has a very wealthy patron, and access to New York’s finest attorneys. I think” – he steepled his fingers together, and saw Daniels glance at his rings – “that you need to decide which is more important: Boyle, the FBI’s reputation, or the life of a little boy.”

~*~

The agent who’d cornered Aidan at the bar – Tango lingering on the next stool, politely refusing to move when she asked if she could speak with Aidan alone – was smoking hot, and knew it. Her pinstripe pantsuit hugged her miles-long legs, and her makeup looked professional. With her dark hair pulled back in a high, sleek ponytail, and her lavender shirt unbuttoned more than was professional, she cocked her hips and hit him with a low-lidded glance through her lashes. She – or someone higher up – had decided weaponized sexuality was the way to break him.

Unfortunately for her, she looked way too much like Tonya to inspire anything more from him than an inward shudder of revulsion.

“Mr. Teague.” Her voice was stern in a hot-for-teacher way. Totally put-on and inauthentic. Aidan had spent too long with Sam – and her honest, sweet sincerity, her gentle eye-rolling, her fond exasperation – to be hooked by it. She aimed a manicured nail at her chest. “You’re the vice president of this club?”

“Of this chapter, yeah.”

“That’s a recent promotion, isn’t it?”

Since they’d had advance warning that the feds were on their way, Walsh had pulled him aside and said, “Listen. They don’t have shit. They’re hunting for Boyle, and they’ll slap one of us in bracelets if the chance presents itself, but they’ve got bollocks. Don’t give them anything. Be pedantic; walk them in verbal circles. Fuck with them just enough to get away with it.” His brows had lifted. Do you understand? That was Walsh’s game, Fox’s, Dad’s…Christ, Dad …but not Aidan’s. Usually.

But the VP patch on his chest was burning straight through his cut, and his shirt, and branding his skin, weighing every breath, flaring with each beat of his heart. The time for slacking off and cutting up was over. Time to start playing the game – the real game. The one that had kept people like Walsh at the top of the food chain despite all the obstacles in his path.

“Yesterday,” he said, and sipped at the beer Chanel had set down before him moments ago.

The agent – Agent Nowitzki, she’d introduced herself – glanced at his glass and then back to his face, lips curving downward the tiniest fraction. “Your late father was the president, right?”

“Right. Recently late, so, thanks for all the sympathy,” he drawled, swallowing down the tightness in his throat, gripping his own thigh beneath the cover of the bar when his free hand started to shake. “He was president, Walsh was VP. Walsh moved up, and I got nominated, so.” He shrugged, sipped more beer, and wished it was something stronger.

She consulted her pocket-sized spiral notebook, tapping its edge with her pen. “‘Walsh’ meaning Kingston Walsh, correct?”

“Yep.” He popped the P.

She glanced up, through her lashes again. He thought they might be fake ones. “He’s not American, correct?”

Though he knew to expect anything, he for some reason hadn’t expected this line of questioning. He fought to keep his expression placid and said, “He’s British. But he’s married to an American, so I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Yes.” She consulted her notepad again. “Emmaline Walsh. Is she here?”

“No.”

She gestured to Aidan’s left hand where it was curled around his beer. “And what about your wife? Samantha. Is she here?”

“No.”

“And your stepmother? Your father’s widow?”

He gritted his teeth, saw Tango give the faintest shake of his head, and took a slow, measured breath. “She’s out of town.”

She nodded, expression going grave. Then she slipped her notepad and pen into an inner pocket of her jacket – lifting it away from her body farther than necessary to show off the fact that her shirt was sleeveless underneath; Jesus Christ, feds – and softened her posture. Leaned up against the corner of the bar between Aidan and Tango.

Tango lifted his brows, and Aidan thought he almost smiled.

“I am sorry about your father, truly. It must be difficult.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“And your brother-in-law–”

“Yeah, it fucking sucks.”

Behind her, two other agents – these in the windbreaker/ballcap getup that denoted them as less powerful than Nowitzki and the guy who Boomer had taken to Walsh – were shifting from foot to foot, scanning the interior of the clubhouse.

“Look, you’re great,” Aidan said, and her faux sympathy gave way to a raised-brow excuse me look. “And I’m sure you have a whole list of questions on that little pad in your pocket, and you probably aren’t supposed to tell us anything, but do you have any leads?”

Her brows climbed higher, and, behind her, so did Tango’s, though less alarmed and more questioning. Aidan was going off-book.

“Leads?” she asked.

“On my nephew. Remy. He was kidnapped.” He frowned, and hoped it looked sincere. “That’s why you guys are here, right? The local cops are trying their best, but if a kid gets taken across state lines, the FBI gets involved.”

“I…” she floundered. “I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to–”

“Wait.” He sat up straight on his stool and frowned harder. “Are you not here looking for Remy? But…you guys were here already. And you didn’t find anything. And Remy’s missing . He’s…” Aidan blew out a harsh breath and slumped hard onto his elbow, shaking his head.

Tango’s compressed lips said he was laying it on a little thick. Fucking sue him: he wasn’t Fox or Tenny.

“Mr. Teague,” she said, more formally. “my team and I are following up on the previous team’s investigation: your brother-in-law’s murder charges.”

“But…he’s dead.”

“Allegedly.”

He blinked at her. “There was an explosion. We had a funeral. If the FBI thinks he’s only allegedly dead, why did they pack up and leave town?”

Slack with surprise, her face resembled Tonya’s less. Her lashes were definitely fake, and she’d missed a spot with her foundation, right at the crease of her nose. She was human, suddenly, and no longer an agent carefully-selected to get him all stirred up.

Aidan felt something like confidence blossom.

“I don’t,” she said, “we can’t–”

“Nowitzki,” a stern voice called, and she spun around on her stool to see her superior striding into the room from the back hallway. He was stern-faced, but not furious, Aidan noted. He snapped his fingers at the two loitering agents and said, “Let’s go.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nowitzki slid off her stool, then doubled back, and slapped a business card down on the bar at Aidan’s elbow. “If you think of anything you’d like to tell me…”

“Sure,” he drawled, palming the card into his cut pocket. “I’ll let you know.”

She blinked at him, baffled, and then followed her boss out of the clubhouse.

Walsh appeared at the mouth of the hallway, hands stuffed in his cut pockets, looking like Aidan felt: like he hadn’t slept, had alternated cigs, alcohol, and coffee to keep himself on his feet, and might collapse if he broke the pattern. He glanced over at them and lifted his brows after the front door had thumped shut.

“He did good,” Tango said. When Walsh didn’t immediately respond, he added, “He played the Remy card: assumed they were here to track him down, and she didn’t know what to think.”

“See? Tango says I did good,” Aidan said, and missed the mark on shithead charm.

Walsh’s brows lowered, though, and he nodded. He went about shaking out and lighting a fresh smoke while he gazed contemplatively toward the front door, then ambled over and climbed onto the stool beside Tango. “I don’t think they’re Abacus.” He leaned over to snag the nearest ashtray and drag it toward himself, and Aidan had a not-so-minor revelation.

This was the first time in memory that Walsh had sidled up and talked business with him. Real business. They talked , sure, and always had, but Walsh didn’t lean in close and talk about officer business with him. In confidence, like they were on the same page; like they were deciding the fate of the club – which they were , now.

Shit.

He gave himself a mental slap and said, “You don’t think?”

Rather than offer a fast, flat no, or shake his head in dismissal, Walsh considered a moment, tapping ash and taking another drag. He spoke on the exhale: “This guy – Daniels – didn’t have any of Boyle’s…” He gestured with his cigarette. “Energy. He’s here because someone told him to be, and he doesn’t believe us, and doesn’t like us, but I don’t think it’s personal for him.”

“You shoulda seen the chick,” Aidan said.

Tango supplied, “She wanted to get personal in Aidan’s pants.” He blushed when they both looked at him, but his small, bashful smile, aimed at Aidan, said he was trying to lighten the mood.

“She was playing it all ‘seductive.’” Aidan did air quotes.

“No offense,” Walsh said, “but you seem the type to fall for it.”

“Thanks,” Aidan drawled. “But, yeah, she didn’t give me Boyle vibes.”

“What did they want?” Tango asked. “Did they have a warrant?”

“Not yet, I’m guessing. Daniels didn’t say it, but he was fishing for info on Boyle. Right now, his crew’s asking stupid questions hoping we’ll let something slip.” He sent them both a warning look, and Aidan barely resisted rolling his eyes. “I told him we know Boyle took Remy.”

“Oh, but I’m the security risk?” Aidan asked.

Walsh waved his hand. “Nah. But you need more practice at blurting shit out.”

Aidan blinked at him.

“We’ll work on it. I told him, though, and I could tell he didn’t expect me to.” He sucked down the last of his smoke, ground it out, and Aidan could tell from the way he stared at the ashtray that he wanted to light another. Same, dude . “My guess is they’re going back to wherever HQ is right now and they’ll compare notes, then come back around.” His brows lifted meaningfully. “Be on guard.”

As if they could be anything but.