Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (12 page)

“Very funny, smartass,” Sam said, as he casually strolled in, overhearing Grady’s comments. The starched collar on his dress shirt was askew as he dropped a myriad of mobile electronic devices at the head of the table, barely hiding a grin. “Fucking traffic on the Coast Highway was terrible. Goddamn it, I hate being late.”

They all looked at each other questioningly, Beck’s eyes darting toward a smirking Ash who remained at his spot near the window, away from the group yet close enough to participate if he deemed it necessary. He usually didn’t.

Grady’s smile was knowing. “I didn’t hit traffic. Did you guys hit any traffic? No? Hmm, that’s odd, Sammy. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the super hot babe in your bed, right?”

“Fucking traffic,” Sam repeated firmly, “and we’re gonna leave it at that. And I’m not going away for good. God knows, you yahoo’s need constant supervision. I’ll only be gone for two weeks, so try not to blow the place up or run us out of ammunition, okay?”

“Ah, the perks of a honeymoon,” Mike piped in. “Sex, morning, noon and night.” Holding up his phone, the screen showing a high resolution photo of a bawling baby with snot bubbles coming out of his tiny nose, he cautioned Sam. “Don’t let this happen to you, man.”

Grady snorted. “Can’t you do that here, Sammy? Why do you have to leave us with the irresponsible uncle?” He gestured toward Ash. “There’s a good chance he’ll leave us locked in a hot car while he sits in a crab infested titty bar for hours. We’ll have nothing to drink and only a stale french fry from underneath the driver’s side seat to eat.”

Beck abruptly sat forward in his chair, his chest burning at the mention of a strip club. Brushing off the questioning looks with a shake a his head, he wondered when the fuck water started giving him acid reflux.

The man in question—still propped against the wall on the far side of the room, much the way he lived his solitary life—observed them all with a barely there grin. “Only if it’s happy hour all day long and they have ESPN. Or if it’s Wet and Wild Wednesday. I hear that’s when the best girls show up.”

“When is it Sorority Sisters have a Slumber Party Day?” Nolan asked, serious as the day was long. “That’s my personal favorite.” Winking, he added, “Pajamas are optional.”

Sam stifled a smile. “Waiting a month is already pushing it with Ali. She’s threatening to go to Italy with or without me, and considering she’s packing very little in the way of clothing, I’m gonna be on that plane.”

“And the rich get richer,” Nolan mumbled, shaking his head.

That did spark a smile from Sam. “Can we move on now, people? And keep it somewhat clean? This is a professional working environment.”

“Yeah,” Mike whispered nervously, hitching a thumb in the direction of the lobby. “She’ll castrate me if I so much as think about frequenting a nudie bar.”

“And the rest of us, too.” Ash muttered, reaching for his phone when it chirped, tapping rapidly across the screen. “Nobody’s safe.”

“So if we’re done with talk of female nudity, how about we discuss what pays the bills around here?” Sam asked, with an easy grin. “Anything unexpected go down while you two were in Bingham Heights?” He looked first at Nolan, then Beck.

Bingham Heights was a small suburb on the south side of Chicago. Once a decidedly stagnate neighborhood with a population that held steady at three thousand people, give or take the current year’s birth to death ratio, it was a quaint town for those seeking the quieter side of life. Its saving grace for city commuters was the Chicago Transit station near the edge of town. You could make it to the downtown loop in an hour if you took the L, versus a solid two in your car on Interstate Ninety-Four. Word on the street was that you took your life into your hands trying to shave sixty minutes off your commute time by taking the red line train northbound, but it hadn’t always been that way. A richly funded Chamber of Commerce campaign had touted the idyllic town as the perfect place for young hipsters to buy cheap fixer upper’s, ride their beach cruisers to the public library, and drink vegan smoothies at the organic street cafe. The whole thing had backfired miraculously though, when the Chicago gang element realized Bingham Heights might also be the prime location to run drugs, guns, and the occasional cracked-out prostitute. The Chicago PD’s presence in the town had always been scant and the local police department was no match for the violent Gangster Disciples and the havoc they wreaked. The infiltration had been slow, their numbers increasing over a handful of years, and before city leaders could grasp what was happening right before their eyes, the town called Bingham Heights became affectionately known by pot dealers and gang bangers alike as Be High. And those bangers now made up the majority of the population. The inept Chief of Police began a mass recruitment of law enforcement, and given the alarming level of illegal activity, the bar for hiring qualified applicants was set radically low. Soon, the interaction between an inexperienced police force and an antagonistic gang population was nothing short of a powder keg.

Last week, when a beat cop on routine patrol shot an unarmed, sixteen-year-old boy matching the description of a burglary suspect, that keg had blown sky high.

The department’s official report stated that shooting a high school kid three times, twice in the torso and once in the head, was justifiable due to provocation. Outraged members of the community said it was racially motivated abuse of power and the excessive force was first degree murder, plain and simple. Within hours, protests erupted in the streets of Be High, led by family and friends of the victim. Peaceful during the light of day, hoards of citizens exercised their right to assemble as the national media ascended on the town. So did a criminal element that saw the tragedy as an opportunity to vandalize and riot when the sun went down. Businesses were broken into, looters stealing everything from Twix bars to truck tires. Fires flared up along populated streets as Molotov cocktails were hurled in protest, law enforcement repeatedly failing in their attempts to contain the violent crowds. Buildings were damaged and livelihoods were wiped away during the long hours of the night, as violence spread over the entire region.

State government had finally stepped in, with the Feds following shortly after due to the saturated media coverage and public outcries of police brutality. With arrests ranging into the hundreds and the exchange of nightly gunfire nearing third-world levels, the US Attorney General decided it was the perfect time to visit the quaint town. Scorpio had been contracted by the alphabet agency to provide a high risk team due to the AG’s rank within the government and the quantity and quality of potential threats.

Consisting of Beck, Nolan, and Grady, it was a basic bodyguard detail—on steroids.

Escort the AG and his small posse of people, getting him in cleanly so he could make a public statement on the front steps of the city courthouse and meet with the victim’s inconsolable mother—for no more than twenty minutes, but no less than ten—then back out without incident.

The wheels on the AG’s plane had barely left the ground before they implemented the second and final portion of their assignment. Get the cop that killed the kid out of the city. Seemed easy enough, if it wasn’t for the mob of armed thugs ready to implement some ghetto justice of their own. The officer’s identity had been withheld for his safety, but under Freedom of Information laws, the chief was not only obligated, but under intense pressure to cough up the name to the media. Beck’s experienced direction had the hunted man on a private plane headed toward east Jesus Wyoming before that revealing press conference was over.

As lead operator, Grady and Nolan deferred to him as he filled Sam in. Ash already knew the details, as it was standard protocol to maintain communication with one or the other as the operation unfolded.

“Nothing unusual,” Beck said, laying it out. “We met the small group at the airfield at eleven hundred, escorted them into the area without incident, stopping to sing Kumbaya at the courthouse and make a touching, professionally written speech before meeting with the mother and a few of the kid’s closest friends.” He grabbed another bottle of water from the center of the table. “She’s torn up, as you can imagine, but surrounded by her pastor and a team of lawyers foaming at the mouth. We had them back at the airfield, safely ensconced in first class with a tumbler of scotch, by thirteen hundred hours.”

Sam nodded. “And the cop?”

“Routine,” Beck said, chugging half the bottle, his mind distracted by thoughts of his sexy, early morning visitor. “He’s scared shitless he’s gonna be sent to the gray bar hotel before this is all said and done, but for now, he’s tucked inside a rural farmhouse near the bustling city of Green River, Wyoming.”

“And the crowd?”

He shook his head. “A non-issue.” Glancing at Nolan and Grady, they silently seconded his assessment. “On direct observation, it seems the media made the protesters out to be more bloodthirsty than they actually are. Structures were partially burned out and the streets are littered with trash, but no tear gas or bullets flew. Maybe they were on their best behavior for the AG’s visit. There were fucking camera’s everywhere, though.”

Sensitivity to exposure was something Scorpio took seriously and the group did their best to fly under the radar, their former careers preceding them. Home grown terrorists were trending and members of the military, both current and former, were high level targets. They’d returned to San Diego late yesterday evening and due to the increased probability of recognition, Beck had reluctantly shaved his nearly month old beard last night, leaving only a layer of closely cropped stubble behind. He’d been enjoying his hiatus in facial hair grooming, the unruly, grizzly look suiting his mood since Sam’s wedding.

“Get your billable’s in order and on Carrie’s desk by noon.” Ash said, speaking up for the first time. “I want that invoice out immediately.”

“Already done.” He’d had plenty of extra time this morning, showing up to the office early after leaving Hope standing on his front porch.

The pinched tightness around her china blue eyes and the cute worry line creasing her forehead had vanished at his offer of a room and it wasn’t a transformation he’d easily forget. For a girl who stood to inherit a fortune, she was carrying a hefty weight on her shoulders. And while he didn’t really know her for shit, he was damn sure she would gauge his eyes out if she knew he’d seen her relief so clearly.

“Okay, then. What’s up next?” Ash said absently, swiping at the screen on his phone and switching gears. “Mike and Nolan, what’s the status on your prep for the protection detail in Bogota? Mike, you first.”

“The three vehicle convoy is scheduled for next Friday, leaving El Dorado International at oh-eight hundred, as long as their flight from Miami arrives on time. The route’s a busy one, but quicker and safer than traveling the rugged rural roads. Rush hour traffic figured in, we’re estimating the ninety mile trip at two hours, thirty-one minutes, give or take. The meeting with facility managers and subsequent factory tour should take no more than five hours. Factor in a corporate lunch on the premises and we should be on the road again by sixteen hundred or so. Anything later than that and we’re working against darkness, and that wouldn’t be good.”

Pindao, a major electronics manufacturer, had several factories throughout the world, but their largest was in Bogota, Columbia. Local labor and industrial real estate both came cheap, and the central location eased distribution to the demanding North American market. As long as the corrupt government’s pockets stayed lined, then it was a monetarily beneficial place for international corporations to assemble their goods. It was a good fit for all, until the suits in the high-rise corporate office wanted to visit their money making machine. Sometimes the farmer needed to check on the dogs guarding the hen house, and in this part of the world, that meant things could get a little dicey, safety wise. Kidnapping the CEO of a major international corporation, with millions at stake and investors to please, wasn’t really a big deal. There was always another suit waiting in the wings, just as smart and more than willing to take over the position should an unfortunate beheading occur when the ridiculous ransom went unpaid. But kidnapping the CEO, along with a handful of the company’s most important shareholders was like winning the Super Bowl of terrorism. People cared. People who were so flush in excess cash that paying a million dollar demand was almost a guarantee.

Ash nodded at Mike’s timeline, rubbing his fingers across his eyes. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one. I’m adding you to the team, Beck. Grady, you can hang back here. I need a guy stateside if our friends in D.C. call, so the four of us will go. Plan to be wheels up on Wednesday night and we’ll recon Thursday.”

Sam interrupted, making it clear that he would postpone his honeymoon so he could join them on the mission, and after a heated exchange where Ash made it even clearer that he was going to Italy, like it or not, the conversation moved to other business.

Beck swore inwardly. He’d just invited a strange woman into his house—which was completely out of character considering he’d demanded his own bedroom for his sixth birthday, no longer willing to cohabitate with his twin brother—and now he was leaving town next week. Grant hadn’t been offended when he’d jumped ship for his own room. Apparently Beck was a bitch to live with, even as a child. But now that he had this woman, Hope fucking Coleson, sleeping in his guest room, the last thing he wanted to do was leave her alone in his house.

But he’d never balked at a deployment no matter where Scorpio sent him, and he couldn’t start now. That would only draw more attention from Ash and Sam, who were eyeing him like a hawk already, looking for signs he’d gone back to the hard stuff. Beck had no choice but to make the trip and the guys needed him, anyway. This job could go sideways in a heartbeat and if any of them went down, he’d never forgive himself. That was the way of the Spec Ops world and the Scorpio world, too. When blood was shed by one, it was shed by all.