Everlasting (Family Justice Book 6) Page 42

  Oh well—he wouldn’t care about the wrapping paper for long.

  Putting the present on the counter with the rest of the birthday goodies she was slowly amassing, Angie surveyed her progress with a small frown. Something was missing.

  Tapping a fingernail on her lips, she ran through the plan in her head one more time. She had dinner covered and a decoration plan. Finn’s favorite local bakery, Jenni Rose, was making a special cake. Careful thought about a birthday soundtrack required hours of going through the endless playlists Parker had on their music system. It was all covered, wasn’t it?

  Sighing, she was crossing her arms when her eyes caught the craptacular manicure she was currently rocking.

  “That’s it,” she murmured. Smacking her forehead, Angie chuckled. “It’s all about the presentation, you twit.”

  She was about to have a walk around her closet when a better idea popped into her head. Dashing about the house, she quickly put things in order, grabbed her purse keys and sunglasses, and headed to the car.

  Shopping. That was what this situation called for. And some serious lady pampering.

  “That looks like it hurts.”

  Parker scowled at Roman. “Not as much as the other guy.”

  He nodded. Word. They’d inflicted a carefully executed and well-deserved humiliating defeat to some deserving dickbags. Was a minor bloodbath involved? Yes. Did he care? Not at all.

  Tossing an ice pack at the other guy’s face, Roman snickered when he caught it with his non-dominant hand. “Good to see you’ll still be able to beat off with your right hand wrapped up.”

  “Fuck off,” Parker grumbled, but he saw the glint of amusement in his eye.

  Lowering carefully onto a lumpy, sagging chair, Roman felt particularly snappy and let it rip. “One more shitty hotel room and I’m going rogue. What the fuck is this bullshit? I know the world order wasn’t exactly trembling in the balance, but we did save their fucking bacon. A little goddamn gratitude would be nice. Fuckers,” he added tightly.

  Parker looked at his watch then put the ice pack back on his mangled face. He looked like a grizzly bear that fell down a mountain. Fuck, they all did.

  “How long will they keep him? I shoulda stuck to him like glue. I’m his lawyer, for fuck’s sake.”

  Roman made a face at Parker’s statement. Alex had been gone for hours, and their squad of military escorts was also MIA.

  He grunted. “This is what they do. Fuck shit up—demand results—and then clutch their pearls. They’ll try to get him to confess to losing the Alamo, but nothing will stick because, let’s face it, Alex Marquez can think circles around those twats. It’s unfortunate that Polaris is going back to the States in a body bag but,” he said with an effort at controlled innuendo, “but the facts will prove he was shot by one of his own men.”

  They looked at each other—Parker through his one good eye and Roman with an unblinking dare in his.

  He looked the other man over carefully. They were in a unique situation. In the end, Team Justice did exactly what it had always done. They got shit done and didn’t give a fuck if they crossed or blurred any lines.

  But this was the first time a lawyer was part of the mix.

  “I guess it was good that the B team stayed on perimeter. Minimum casualties—maximum return.”

  Roman nodded his agreement. It was as much of an assurance as he was ever gonna get.

  It got quiet for a long time. He stared at the vinyl curtain above the window ventilation unit and watched it sway when the system cycled on. They both glanced at the hotel room door when a noise came from the hallway.

  From the emptiness of his mind, he suddenly thought of something and released a deep chuckle.

  “Did you see that Congressman’s face when Alex shit in his Cheerios? Oh, my god. I want to remember it forever.”

  Parker sat forward and dropped the ice pack. A red swath remained on his face from the cold compress. His crooked sneering smile gave Roman the impression he wasn’t someone you wanted to fuck with.

  “Alex hates dumb questions. Sometimes, great intellect leads to direct bluntness.”

  “Bluntness?’ Roman exclaimed. Imitating the insincere toady from some stupid oversight committee that did not impress him in the least, he mimicked the guy perfectly.

  “Major Marquez, if the information was unrecoverable, why did the United States’ taxpayers fund this unnecessary mission?”

  Parker snorted with disbelief. “Putz.”

  “Grow up, Congressman,” Roman continued in what he felt was a spot-on impersonation of the Major. “No, they weren’t going to find what they wanted. But they also weren’t tossing it in the trash. Eventually, someday, with the right technology, anything is possible. Did you want to wait for that day and wonder? Because I didn’t. That’s my chip,” he bellowed in his Alex impersonation. “And the last one I share with you.”

  “Boom.” Parker chortled. “I’m not surprised they’re kissing Al-Awadi’s ass, though. Stroking his ego instead of placing the blame in his lap keeps him on the hook.”

  “They’ll only stroke as long as they need him,” Roman coldly declared. “If they need a scapegoat down the line, he’s their guy.”

  Parker rested his elbows on the table and propped his chin on his hand. “It’s all coming back to me now. Why I happily walked away from public service. An awful lot of disgusting mixed in with the good.”

  “Yeah, I heard some politicos were licking your taint about running for office. Ambitions, Counselor?”

  “Fuck to the no.” He scoffed. “I let them play their game but get what I want while I can. Guys like us have too much shit going on to withstand that type of invasive scrutiny.”

  Jesus, he knew exactly what he was getting at. Next to his cousin Julian, Parker Sullivan was Roman’s only real competition when it came to bullwhip skill. Didn’t matter that they all learned as an innocent sidebar to an American boy’s cowboy summer. It was what they did with the talent later on.

  “Spend any time in New York?” he asked in a mild tone.

  Parker reacted with an odd look and a snort. “No. I tend to avoid the I-95 corridor from DC to NYC. Why?”

  Roman got up and went to the table. He sat and clasped his hands on the wobbly piece of shit furniture.

  “Remember that time in Bangkok when we got shitfaced and mapped out all those crazy plans?”

  “You mean the plan that led to Justice and made a couple of you guys insanely rich?”

  He grinned. “Yeah. Those plans. The agency wasn’t the only thing we came up with. Remember?”

  Parker observed him through slightly narrowed eyes. He was thinking back to that incredible week of epic fuckery.

  “I remember a harebrained suggestion to buy up coast-to-coast franchises and live off the profits.”

  He scoffed. “That was St. John, the lazy fuck. Grew up with dollar bills sewn into his nappies. What the hell did he know?”

  They shared a good laugh. Making fun of the trust fund kid would never get old.

  “I do recall an eyebrow raiser. Whorehouse, wasn’t it?”

  He gave Parker a dry look. “Seriously?”

  The guy grinned. “Maybe it was more of a hybrid,” Sullivan continued. “Brothel with a dungeon? Am I getting warmer?” His amused snigger told Roman he remembered exactly what the other plan was.

  He sat back, folded his hands on his stomach, and smirked.

  “No way!” Parker barked with laughter after a good, long minute. “For real? Like for really real?”

  “Yes, indeed,” he admitted. His chest puffed up with real pride. “Very exclusive. Formal. Insanely expensive.”

  An appreciative whistle bounced around the room. “Goddamn, Bishop. I’m impressed. Does Alex know?”

  “He knew I was thinking about it, but that was years ago.”

  “Now, when you say formal and exclusive, what does that mean? Shirt and shoes required?”

  Chuckling, he rolled a s
houlder. “We specialize in high-end clients with carefully vetted tastes. There are limits. The superstars who travel the globe demonstrating the BDSM arts are regular performers. Our functions are formal, black tie. There are several studios available and private rooms for play. Our members pay for privacy, discretion, exclusivity. Private parties are sold out a year in advance. We cater to every taste, have the finest equipment, and can tailor an event or a scene to suit the most discerning tastes.”

  “You’re a walking commercial.”

  “I have my spiel down, that’s all. Give zero fucks about lifestyle groupies looking for a thrill. This is high-end, upper level stuff. Want to treat your lady to a five-star meal with white glove treatment? Arouse her senses with some dress-up and fancy manners? Choose a theme. French bordello. A royal palace. It’s all good. Add a private scene scripted to your specifications. Our performers are artists and know how to play for the audience’s pleasure.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  “Interested?”

  “Dude,” Parker growled. “I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around what you’re saying.”

  “It’s all completely discreet. We don’t hang onto the specifics. Nobody’s kink is being aggregated on a spreadsheet.”

  Parker shook his head and laughed. “Wow. You’re full of surprises, Bishop.”

  “Alex did his thing, and I did mine.”

  “And still do security on the side or because you’re bored?”

  He had to give Parker an acknowledging nod. “I can’t be around that shit all the time. It’s a business, not a hobby. The security stuff gives me the opportunity to put some of my other unique skills to use.”

  “We’re all too old for this shit,” Sullivan sneered.

  “Trotting around the globe first class with an embarrassing expense account to keep a billionaire business genius out of trouble isn’t exactly stressful.”

  “Not what I heard,” Parker drawled. “Heard you stared down a crazed stalker alongside a SWAT team.”

  “Yeah, well”—he scoffed—“and then there’s that. Now I more or less assign other people to do the grunt stuff while I get the paycheck.”

  “Must be a good dude for you to put yourself out.”

  “The best. If I didn’t like Liam Ashforth as a human, he’d be using rent-a-guards for security. He’s a forward thinker and focuses his money and resources where it’s really needed. I like that shit. It’s how you avoid wars that continue for decades.”

  “You know what,” Parker grumbled. “I’m fucking starving. Let’s head to that sausage house down the road.”

  “Okay. We can check in with Alex—leave a voicemail and tell him where we are. The others are on their own.”

  “Don’t know what Rafe and Domineau are up to, but I guarantee the two girls are sightseeing. Probably loading up on cheap souvenirs too.”

  “Cam and Drae? Jesus, those two are funny. Even more fucked up and funny now that Jason actually smiles. His wife is something else.”

  Parker agreed and got in one last snarky shot. “What is that expression? They’re exploring an ersatz relationship?”

  Oh, my god. He almost fell over laughing. Ersatz relationship? He couldn’t ever remember hearing anyone deliver that sort of a line with such an innocently straight face.

  “I gotta introduce you to my girl. She’s got a scary grasp of language and knows how to use it.”

  They laughed as they headed out. Parker pulled a hat down low on his head to try to disguise his gnarly looking face. The hand wrapped in bandages was shoved in his pocket.

  Roman wasn’t doing much better. His left side was one continuous bruise from chest to ankle—that was what happened when you got thrown out of a window and landed on your side. It was damn painful to walk, so he ended up shuffling. The two of them looked like the walking dead.

  A family, probably American since Wiesbaden was a big military town, skirted around them with anxious faces. He wanted to laugh at the irony. They’d just saved the day and bought freedom and democracy a little more time to get things right.

  Ignoring the slight, he guided a one-eyed Parker Sullivan through the front doors and immediately hailed a taxi.

  He was over this crap and wanted to go home. Wanted to see his boy and feel Kelly’s arms wrapped around him. It was time to get his ass back on American soil.

  Alex was done. Finished. Over it.

  He’d been picked apart for days by a group of carrion crows leashed to the government. Every single one of them was a dumbass, and he was completely done with their shit.

  They weren’t going to pursue an investigation. How could they? It was all an act—a charade to justify their existence when everyone knew the folks in Washington were clueless.

  That particularly obnoxious cunt calling himself a Congressman was operating on some fantasy that Alex was vulnerable to veiled threats and manipulation. It would be funny—if he were in a laughing mood. They were trying to jerk off the wrong guy if they thought he was corruptible in any way.

  At first, he let them play their oversight game. Then he gave in to a mind-numbing debrief that was dumbed down to their level of stupid. When they showed their pathetic hand and tried to push him to the wall, well … enough.

  He laid down the satellite phone and stared at it for a minute then shrugged. Whatever. He’d called in a favor and triggered a big gun response. So be it. He’d done his part for God and country. Again and again and again.

  Flexing his fingers, he checked out the swelling and bruising around his knuckles. It wasn’t that bad, and he could hardly whine about it. Not when Parker looked like a crash survivor, Roman walked with a limp, and Domineau was sporting an impressive head wound from having her face smashed into a concrete wall.

  Alex looked around the bare room. As it was standard military issue—bland, boring, and functional—he wasn’t surprised. The people stationed at the military installation weren’t here for the charming Bavarian culture. Their counterintelligence operation was pretty well known. They were there to collect information, not be comfortable.

  The old-school analog clock above the door told him the time. He figured he had about an hour to kill, maybe less, before they threw in the towel and cut him loose. Until that happened, he refrained from calling Meghan. Pesky matters like border crossings and State Department clearances made certain things impossible.

  Shit. He needed a drink. And a steak the size of his ass—preferably bloody on the inside and slightly charred on the outside. He wanted to fill the enormous tub in their bathroom and soak for an hour. It’d take at least that long to draw out the leftover toxins from this bullshit interlude.

  And then he wanted to make love to his wife, and if that wasn’t possible, he was happy to simply hold her close. Smelling her hair and hearing her contented purrs—Meghan was the thing that made all the shit in his life bearable.

  The first of May was waving sayonara in the rearview. Parker was agitated times a hundred about getting home for his birthday, and Alex wanted to do everything he could to make that happen. The minute he was able, Sawyer was getting a call. He wanted the plane ready and in position on the East Coast, so the second they were on American soil again, they could make a straight line for home.

  A light tap sounded on the door, and a soldier with a harried expression stuck his head in. “Excuse me, Sir, but the committee would like you to return.”

  Alex flicked a glance at the clock. Not even fifteen minutes had elapsed. He was impressed.

  It was a short walk down another bland and boring hallway. Aware that he was listing to one side and ever so slightly crooked, he straightened the best he could. As they approached the two doors leading to the conference room, one flew open and a female soldier marched out carrying a stack of briefing books.

  Yelling was evident, and the young soldier sent to fetch him shot Alex a worried look.

  “Who does he think he is, going over my head?”

  Alex chuck
led, stopped, leaned against the wall, and listened.

  “That’s the point, Congressman. He went around you because of who he is. People like Alexander Marquez don’t have to dance to our tune. You may not like it, or him, but that’s how the world works. We need him. It’s men like Marquez and his misfit team who stand between us and unimaginable chaos and peril. Cut the man a break. And don’t take any of this personally. I guarantee you he doesn’t even know your name.”

  “Well, get him the fuck out of here before he whines some more and we all end up shuffling paper in Alaska. Prioritize their departure, Captain.”

  Alex was mentally doing a touchdown dance. Yes!

  “But nothing first class. Send them home in the cargo hold, for all I care.”

  Eh, whatever. That was what friends were for.

  When Captain Framel came out of the room, he saw Alex and gave him a discreet thumbs-up.

  That was it. This was over. He could go home. Once they went through customs, and their names showed up on an airline’s manifest and they were officially in the land of the living, he planned to call Sawyer. Arranging for the plane to pick them up in New York was only part of it. He wanted a first-class upgrade out of Germany for everyone and a bazillion white roses delivered to his wife.

  He was coming home, and he wanted her to know the second he was able.

  “She’s adorable,” Sophie cooed.

  Finn agreed with a smirk. “Stupid damn dog took over my life.”

  Remy smacked him playfully on the arm and made a face.

  “What?” He lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. “It’s true!”

  “She can hear you,” Remy teased. “Don’t hurt her feelings. You know you love her.”

  Sophie bit back a giggle and winked at Jace who watched this exchange from the other side of the room. They were at Finn’s condo for an impromptu dinner. She’d accompanied Stephanie to the stable because Calder didn’t want her to go alone. It didn’t matter that it ended up one pregnant woman helping an equally as pregnant woman. She ran into Jace—which was why she agreed to go in the first place—and next thing she knew, she went with him to Finn’s for dinner.