Hot As Sin

8

“Nothin’. It’s just…” He meets my gaze. “Someday somebody’s gonna come along who’s gonna scale those fortress walls of yours, brother.”

I mutter, “For f**k’s sake. You sound like a love song.”

He purses his lips. “Yeah, that’s a good line. I’m gonna use it.”

I roll my eyes.

“But the point remains.”

Now I’m getting irritated. “What f*****g point?”

“That if you’re not careful, you will wind up that old geezer Clint Eastwood character who spends his life protectin’ other people’s families instead of makin’ one for himself. You don’t wanna wake up one day at seventy, incontinent and alone.”

Without an ounce of sarcasm, I say, “Thank you for that inspiring speech. I’ll take it under advisement. Can I please enjoy my party now, Debbie Downer?”

He makes a face. “Stubborn dick.”

“Mother hen. You taking estrogen, old lady? ’Cause you’re starting to sound like my grandma.”

“Bet your grandma was a smart old bat, though.”

I laugh, because she was. Then my cell phone rings. I check the number, and it’s my new boss calling from New York. He’s not the type for small talk, so I know it’s important. I hold up the phone and look at Nico. “Gotta take this.”

He claps me on the shoulder and smiles. “Okay, but don’t fuckin’ sneak out without sayin’ goodbye. Yeah?”

“I wouldn’t leave without getting a hug and a kiss from that gorgeous wife of yours, so you’ll see me before I go.”

He flips me off, I blow him a kiss, then he’s ambling away, shaking his head and smiling.

I hit Answer on my cell. “Mr. Hughes.”

“I told you to call me Connor,” says a deep, rumbling baritone. “You disobeying orders already?”

“No, sir. Connor. Sir.”

“Jesus H Christ on a crutch,” he mutters.

“Sorry. Reflex.”

“I hope that reflex is leftover from your time in the corps and not outta some half-c****d idea about respecting your elders or some such nonsense. Got my wife givin’ me enough s**t about me bein’ old. Don’t need my new recruit doin’ it, too.”

When we met at my interview, I’d estimated his age somewhere in the neighborhood of forty, give or take a few years, which makes us contemporaries. His wife—a stunning redhead with a firecracker personality and a catastrophically ugly wardrobe—is probably a decade younger. In addition to a proclivity for pigtails, piercings, and Hello Kitty clothing, she’s got tattoos all over.

I liked her right away.

Her husband, on the other hand, is as intimidating as hell. Built like a mountain, he’s got a glower that could melt steel. If his size or stare don’t scare you, the weapons strapped to his waist will. And I happen to know from the research I conducted before accepting the job that the man is as lethal as they come. He could just as easily blow my head off with a single shot from his rifle from a mile away as he could kill me bare handed without breaking a sweat.

So calling him “Mr.” and “sir” is less of a respect thing and more like a self-preservation thing.

I have a hunch anyone who gets on the bad side of Connor Hughes doesn’t live long enough to do anything else.

“Affirmative,” I say, sticking a finger in my ear because the music’s making it hard to hear him. I turn and walk away over the grass toward the casita at the far end of the yard. I’ll go inside to get some privacy if this conversation continues long enough.

“Sounds like you’re at a party. Sorry to interrupt.”

“No worries.”

“I’ll make this quick. Since we don’t have much time before you deploy, I’d like you to review the information for the op and familiarize yourself with the players before we get you in the field. Any questions you got, we’ll go over ’em when you get here. I’m emailing you a link to our secure server. The passcode is the motto on the picture on the wall behind my desk. Hope you noticed it, ’cause you’re not gettin’ another.”

Why that should make me grin, I have no idea. I guess I just like a good challenge. “Copy that.”

He grunts, which I interpret as he’s pleased. “We’ll have a car waiting for you at JFK.”

“Great. I’ll text you if my flight is delayed.”

He chuckles. “Not necessary. We’ll know.”

Right. He’s got eyes and ears everywhere. There’s a full-time staff at Metrix who do nothing but scour satellite transmissions and decode encrypted communications. And his wife freelances for the National Security Administration. They probably know what color underwear Vladimir Putin is wearing.

“Oh, and Nasir?”

“Yeah?”

“The code changes in twelve hours.”

When the line goes dead, I laugh out loud. Apparently Connor Hughes isn’t one for goodbyes, either.

I’m already halfway to the casita, so I decide to take a piss before heading back to the party. The structure is as modern as the house, all glass, concrete, and straight lines, with an incredible view of Los Angeles all the way to the Pacific.

The front door—a huge slab of glass that showcases an empty living room—is locked. No problem, I’ll just go around back and have a whiz outta sight of the crowd. I make my way around the side of the guest house, then step into the shade of the covered patio in the backyard.

Then I stop in my tracks, arrested by the sound of a long, low moan.

What the f**k was that?

I wait a moment, but don’t hear anything except the pulse of the music and muffled laughter from the party.

Then the moan comes again, accompanied this time by what sounds distinctly like the crack of flesh hitting flesh.

Someone’s getting beaten up.