2. Grayson

2

GRAYSON

T he sidewalk cafe blasts some forgettable pop song through the speakers overhead. I ignore it, just like I ignore the fly that keeps landing on my forehead and strutting like a conqueror.

Nothing can take my focus from the scene across the street. A black BMW polished to a glossy sheen has just pulled up in front of Grio’s Restaurant. Nice car. Fancy mag wheels, custom hood ornament, the works.

It’s not the car that interests me, though. It’s the piece of work getting out of the back. Marcellus Lovato doesn’t look like much. He’s all of five foot three, with a double chin that no amount of salt and pepper stubble is going to hide. His hair started running off the top of his head and down his back years ago, but he still combs it over in an effort to fool people.

He’s not fooling me. Not by a long shot. And I’m not talking about his hair.

Lovato waddles into the restaurant, his cocky demeanor more grating than the fly walking around on my face. I wave the insect away. The man will take a little more effort to be rid of.

But I will be rid of him. And so will everyone else.

I finish my drink. Iced tea, and not the Long Island variety. I don’t have anything against tossing one back during a routine job, but this time I want my head clear and in the game. Lovato might not have had a direct hand in what happened to my sister, but he was inner circle to the man responsible: Antonio Castillo.

I reach into my shirt pocket and pull out the silver charm bracelet my sister used to wear. A tennis racket, a dog, and a roller skate dangle from the tarnished chain. I rub at the discoloration with my finger in a vain attempt to remove it. I could just have it polished, but that would mean wiping away the last traces of my sister.

I shove the charm back into my pocket, feeling dark. No, Lovato didn’t kill my sister, but he’s close enough to count for me. And I have plenty of reasons to take care of Lovato. He’s even worse than Castillo in a lot of ways. And that’s saying something. Antonio Castillo was a drug lord selling weapons to terrorists out of Colombia.

I toss a couple bills on the table and stand up, gaze laser focused on the restaurant across the street. The sun splashes across the windscreens of the gridlock traffic, making me adjust my hat to compensate. Twenty-six straight days of sunshine. You’ve got to love LA.

Or not, I think as I cross the street. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I drag it out before I make it all the way across. After I check who’s calling, I nearly drop it back in my pocket.

But then I remember, Jax Wilder is my boss now.

I tap the green circle and put the phone to my ear.

“Yeah?”

“Grayson, I need you to come into the office, stat.”

I cock an eyebrow as I draw to a halt outside Grio’s.

“I’m in the middle of something.”

A long silence.

“Yes, you’re in the middle of coming into work. ‘Sweet private security gig.’ ‘Turning over a new leaf.’ Ring any bells?”

“I can’t put this off, Jax. It’s time sensitive and I only have one shot.”

More silence. I can picture Jax’s face. Probably not too pleased with me, but he gets it. Being as he used to work the LA beat, he’s probably seen even worse shit than me. Probably.

“Okay, fine. Just take care of it quickly. There’s a case that I think will be right up the alley of a former CIA spook.”

I grunt, and head around the rear of the restaurant, cutting through a narrow alley.

“All right. I’ll be there as soon as I can. This won’t take me long.”

“I’ll see you at the office, Grayson.”

Jax ends the call, and I thrust the phone back into my pocket.

“Time to go to work,” I mutter as I make my way through the narrow alleyway.

A place as busy as Grio’s employs more than twenty serving staff during peak hours. With the revolving door for waiters being what it is in LA, I know I have an excellent shot at infiltration.

There’s an art to blending in. A lot of people think it’s all about being unobtrusive. They stick their hands in their pockets and avoid eye contact because they think that will make them stand out less. In reality, it makes them more noticeable, because nobody trusts someone who won’t make eye contact.

And then some people are on the opposite end of the spectrum. They think that blending in means looking as confident and comfortable as possible. These types of people will go out of their way to seem extroverted and friendly.

The right way is, as always, a metered, balanced approach. Most people aren’t gregarious social butterflies, especially when they come into their minimum wage workplace. Likewise, most folks don’t keep their eyes on the ground and avoid social interaction completely.

So I grab an apron and nod at one of the waiters smoking a cigarette by the door, as if we know each other. He nods back, the look in his eyes speaking volumes. The waiter doesn’t recognize me, but he’s too lazy and uninterested to dredge up his memories to verify my identity or not. Exactly the type of response I need.

I head into the back, the heat of the kitchens enveloping me like a tight glove. Sweat beads on my brow as I sidle through a traffic jam near the prep table. Everyone is too busy to pay me much attention.

“Damn, the place is packed,” one young man says to me as I head for the lobby floor.

“Yeah, but that means good tips,” I reply in the same jaded tone.

“Yeah. Good luck out there.”

He claps me on the shoulder as I go. We’ve never met, but he assumes we have. Assumptions are a dangerous thing. I discovered that in my former profession.

Lovato, for example, assumes that he and his table full of sleazy cronies are speaking a pidgin dialect of Portuguese that no one outside of certain parts of South America will understand. But I understand every syllable as I approach their table.

“...told you, Hauer, you can have three brown-skinned girls for the price of one white-skinned one.” Lovato drains a glass of gin and slams the glass back down for emphasis. “Now, I’ll arrange whatever kind of company you need, but as your friend, I have to tell you that you’ll get more bang for your buck if you loosen up on those requirements of yours.”

The apparent Hauer smiles back, but his eyes appear dead behind thick glasses.

“I appreciate you, Marcy, but I like what I like.”

“Well, try not to break your toy so quickly this time. It’s a good thing that Escobar’s nephew needed that kidney transplant, eh? Otherwise your whole purchase would have gone to waste.”

I keep it off my face, but their discourse turns my stomach. Lovato has needed to go for a long damn time. I’m glad to be the penicillin for this particular infection.

“Hi, gentleman,” I say in a high pitched lilt. “I’m Aaron, I’ll be your server today. Can I start you guys out with some water?”

“You can bring me another damn gin and tonic,” Lovato growls. “And some more of those crab cake appetizers.”

“Right away, Sir.”

As I scribble on the pad, I ‘accidentally’ knock over a half full bottle of beer, which pours onto Lovato’s lap.

“You fucking idiot!”

He stands up, staring in rage at the dark spot spreading over his pants.

“I’m so sorry, Sir,” I say, helping him dab at the stain with a cloth. No one notices that I slip my other hand into his pocket and steal his phone.

“Don’t touch me! Just bring me my drink, and those appetizers better be on the house.”

“Of course, sir, I’m sorry again. Your drink and your food will be complimentary.”

I bow my way out, and then head into the lavatory. I get into a stall and shut the door behind me.

I tilt the phone so I can see the reflection off the screen. Greasy fingerprints allow me to discern the four digit code locking his phone. Once I’m in, I start navigating through his many contacts and files.

It only takes me about five minutes of scrolling to hit something juicy. Real juicy. The motherlode of incrimination, you might say. For all of Lovato’s slipperiness, his phone proves to be everything I could ever have hoped for.

Of course, none of it does me any good. I’m not a cop or a prosecutor. But I can pass the information along to the appropriate interested parties, thanks to some help from an old friend.

I ‘mistakenly’ send a text to a prominent investigator downtown, adding plenty of attachments that spell out just what I think he’s buying and what Lovato is selling.

I duck back into the kitchen, pick up a gin and tonic and a plate of appetizers off someone else’s platter, and head back to Lovato’s table. I set the food down, using the movement to disguise the fact I’m slipping his phone into the booth beside him. When he finds it, Lovato will assume it fell out of his pocket.

I go back out the way I came in, leaving my apron where I found it. It will take some time for the authorities to work their way through the treasure trove of illegality I just sent to them. I look forward to Lovato getting what he deserves.

I walk a block down the street to where I parked the Jeep. I pay the exorbitant fee and get behind the wheel, finally able to spare a thought as to what kind of job Jax has for me.

I’ll probably get a job protecting some crusty old film producer. But then again, Jax said it would be right up my alley. Does that mean he needs my skills at subterfuge? Or maybe he knows that I’m subtle until it’s time to start raising Hell.

About halfway across the city I get a call. The screen says M. I tap the speaker and talk loud enough to be heard over the wind.

“What’s up, Malloy?”

“So, did you get him?”

“Let’s just say the sands of time are running out on Lovato. I couldn't have done it without your tip. Thanks again.”

“Yeah, well, just remember to pay it forward, all right? Listen, I’ve got some irons in the fire here. I might have something else for you soon.”

“Like what?”

“Can’t talk about it on an unsecured line, but trust me, the irons are almost white hot. You know, Gray, you really should find yourself a woman and settle down now that you’re done with the spook business. It might make you better able to let go of your grudges.”

“I don’t hold grudges.”

“Tell that to Lovato. Or Castillo…”

I grit my teeth. I can hear Malloy grunt on the other end.

“Sorry. I know that wound’s still pretty deep.”

“Always,” I reply. “And I’m not the settling down type.”

“That’s fair. Whatever happened to that waitress you were dating? Alice? Ellen? Something like that?”

“We were never dating, it was a hook up. She chewed too loud and tried to make everything about how her parents never really loved her.”

He chuckles. “What about that one chick? The hairdresser or whatever?”

“Make up artist. And again, not really someone I dated. She was always trying to get me to talk about the times I had to retire a target.”

“Is there any woman you would actually date?”

I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose.

“Who are you, my therapist? The only women who could possibly understand me enough to be with me for the long haul are exactly the type I could never trust. And I’m sure that they would feel the same way about me.”

“That they can’t trust you, on account of you being a former spook?”

I grunt. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Well, far be it from me to dole out love advice. I’ve been divorced three times, and the alimony is murder. Anyway, I’ve still got those irons in the fire, and I should know something fairly soon.”

“Hit me up when you do.”

I end the call then, because Malloy is that kind of contact. We’ve never been the closest friends, but we have a mutual respect based on our shared history with the CIA. We understand each other. Malloy is no saint, but then again, neither am I. He’s one of the few people I feel like I can trust.

He certainly came through today. In spades. I’ve been after Lovato for a long damn time, and when I retired from the spook business I was afraid he’d slipped through my fingers forever.

I roll to a stop outside the Platinum Security office. Jax Wilder is a former LAPD cop turned owner and CEO of the private security company. Not that long ago, he had just two employees who he couldn’t afford to pay, Griffin and Ryker. He also had exactly one client. That first client changed everything.

Now, he’s expanded to a bigger, nicer building with its own parking lot. I spot a Mercedes with the full options package gleaming in the sun. It looks like Jax’s better half, movie star Easton Ross is in residence. Or rather Easton Wilder now that she and Jax got hitched.

A cool blast of conditioned air blows in my face as I enter the office. My eyes adjust to the gloom as I head down the hall to Jax’s door. On my way, I pass Ryker working a punching bag in the gym.

Ryker is an ex Navy SEAL badass. We first met in the jungles of Colombia, where we teamed up against our mutual enemy, Castillo. Back then I was still with the agency, on an undercover assignment. Until that bastard Castillo took my sister away from me…

I shake my head. Now is not the time for me to go to my dark place. I take a deep breath and continue past a door that hides massive computer power. I wonder if the resident tech specialist is in.

Arriving at the boss’ office, I rap on the thick wood, and hear Jax’s deep voice tell me to come in. I push the door open, prepared for Jax’s square jawed stoicism.

I’m not prepared for the guest he has in his office. At first my senses are nearly overwhelmed by an intoxicating caramel scent. Then I notice a dark mane of hair, black like midnight silk and with a glossy sheen. The long hair frames a lovely, olive skinned face set with two of the most compelling brown eyes I have ever seen.

Tight yoga pants and a tank top sheathe her body like a glove. I try not to stare, because she’s a client and it would be bad form. But my sweaty palms and thudding heart tell the truth my face refuses to.

“Ah, here he is now. Ms. Gilroy, this is one of my security specialists, Grayson. Grayson, this is Charlotte Gilroy.”

I approach her, offering a hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Gilroy.”

She takes my hand in a tentative, shaky grasp.

“Please, call me Charlotte. Ms. Gilroy sounds kind of weird.”

Charlotte’s full ruby lips form an uneasy smile. Her eyes swim with fear that belies the jovial expression. I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know that something or someone has terrified this lovely young woman in the most profound way.

I don’t know who or what threatens her. I don’t even know who she is. But I do know one thing.

Anyone who wants to hurt her is going to have to go through me first.