Page 37 of Any Means Necessary

“I can hardly stand these indoor events. It’s illegal to smoke almost everywhere nowadays,” he comments, reaching into his tux pocket to pull out a box of cigarettes. He holds it out to me in offering, and I take one. I’m not in the habit, but a good smoke hits just right every once in a while. Roscoe positions himself in front of the door, and with a quick look around I can see Barlow’s security stationed not too far away.

“You just get lonely out here smoking by yourself?” I ask, taking a puff of smoke. I pinch the cigarette between my thumb and index finger, watching the end spark in the darkness. The security lights hanging over the exit doors cast long shadows across the back alley, our smoke clouding the beams until they’re hazy. “Your timing is impeccable.”

“Sounds intriguing. Knowing you, this’ll be good,” Barlow responds easily, one of his hands going into his pocket. “What’ve you got?”

“There’s a case coming your way. Alek Kozlov, Russian arms dealer.”

“You want him to walk?”

“I want a conviction. Ten years in Sing Sing.”

“Who’s on it?”

“Mitchell,” I respond. “Crenshaw’s on delivery.”

Taking another drag, a buzz of energy settles over my skin as the nicotine amps my system. The sounds of the city echo from the street—white noise to my native ears as we stand in the cool night air. I feel at ease here in the darkness, the shadows stealing the need for me to put on a mask to appease an audience. My fingers itch to remove my tux coat and roll up my sleeves, but the urge is ignored with practiced control.

“You won’t have any interference from my office.”

“That’s good to hear.” Taking this moment for the constant racing of my mind to settle is a small reprieve. When my companion’s eyes cut to me, I know it’s a fleeting one. Back to business. “Either you really like my company, or you’ve got something for me.” My tone informs him I’m very aware it’s not the former. Barlow doesn’t bother with pandering, instead giving me a nod.

“Someone’s looking for you. He’s using a lot of capital to get your name.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Preston Wells, he’s the President of Welling Industries.”

“Electronics manufacturing, I’ve heard of him.” I run a hand over my beard thoughtfully. “What does he want?”

“His company is competing with Moda Manufacturing for a merger with PlexiTech. He wants the competition fixed. You’re the best Fixer.”

“Give him my name. If he can pay, we’ll see if it’s worth my time.”

“Oh, Wells can pay alright,” Barlow says with a laugh.

Good, my price for corporate espionage is ungodly steep by design. The amount of red tape that needs to be skirted to gain results while remaining discreet is a real pain in the ass. While violence has its time and place, fixing mergers requires a level of finesse that takes more strategy than anything else—with schmoozing and palm greasing that makes me miss the old days when pulling the trigger was the solution to every problem.

“Send him my way,” I say. Barlow nods with a grin, dropping the cigarette butt on the ground and stamping it out with the grind of his shoe. I don’t bother to put out my light, instead just flicking it across the alley.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Russo.” With that, he’s turning to re-enter the building to get back to the party. I don’t follow him. Now that my business here is done, I’m leaving. The sooner I can get out of this fucking tux, the better.

Chapter Eleven: Lexie

Stepping out of the apartment lobby, I see Roscoe standing at the street with the car door already open for me with the engine running. His lips twitch with a smile as he greets me with a nod.

It’s been a few days since I’ve been summoned for the job. Things have been pretty quiet around the penthouse with the men off dealing with business. But after receiving a text to be ready to go when Roscoe pulls up, I’ve got my game-face on.

The air is tense when I climb into the SUV where Callum is already waiting. He’s focused on his phone, furiously typing either a text or an email. As soon as I’m in the car, Roscoe climbs behind the wheel and we’re peeling away from the curb. Looking between the two men, I feel like I’ve missed something.

“I feel like something’s wrong…” I let my voice trail off, meeting Roscoe’s eyes in the rearview mirror before turning my attention back to Callum.

“Things didn’t go how I planned, so it’s time to switch tactics.” The darkness beneath Callum’s words makes me pity whoever screwed him over. Feeling my eyes, he glances in my direction.

“You’re bleeding,” I say, startled, causing Callum to reach for his temple. His fingertips come away covered in blood. I scooch closer in concern, trying to get a better look. “Let me see.”

“I’m fine,” he argues.

“Let me see, Callum.” I’m not taking no for an answer. When he finally relents, I lean in closer to get a good look. It’s not life-threatening, but it’s deep. “You need stitches.”

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