Page 52 of Assistant to the Assassin

“Still on pens. Pumps are fucking expensive.”

She rolls her eyes. “Tell me about it. Only reason I got one was because this one gave me kickass health insurance.” She points her thumb at me.

Of course, Beth would befriend the guy who broke into our bunker.

“What exactly do you smuggle? Alcohol? Weapons? Drugs?” I ask, crossing my arms over my bare chest.

He smirks, rocking back and forth on his feet, feigning humility. “A little bit of all three, but not the kind you are thinking of. I smuggle medical supplies. Rubbing alcohol, needles, medicine of the physical and psychiatric persuasion.”

“Insulin?” Beth guesses.

He winks at her. “You bet. We give supplies to the Caribbean and the coasts of South America and Africa. Ian said you would be willing to take me on as a supplier since you plan on staying here long-term.”

“Yes! That’s incredible,” Beth gushes, her voice filled with admiration and awe.

I roll my eyes, looking to Ian. “How did you get past the traps?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the couch cushions. “My dad was in Vietnam too, Henry. I grew up with the same stories that you did.”

Right. I forgot that. “If Harrison is going be here any day now, we need to make sure we have everything prepped and ready. Do you know how to fight, Ambrose?”

He shrugs. “Basics, but nothing advanced. I’m of more use to you behind a screen than behind a gun.”

“That’s fine; there are traps I have set that require someone to operate them—you can be in charge of that. If Harrison and his group have any tech that they’re using, I want you to hack them. Any communication links they have, jam them. I want them going into this blind.”

Ambrose gives a little salute. “Gotcha covered.”

I look next to me at Beth, but before I get a word out, she speaks my thoughts. “I’ll stay with Ambrose in the office. I’ll be your eyes in the sky.”

I place a kiss on her temple, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, then I nod to Ian. “You and I will be on the ground above, keeping up high in the trees. Whoever the traps fail to take out, we’ll snipe from above.”

“Do you have a map of the island?” Ian asks, standing up, wiping his palms on his pants. “And a map of where all the booby traps are?”

I give a brief smile, shaking my head. “I’m insulted you would ask.”

“You go get those,” Beth says, keeping her attention on our guests. “We’ll be in the kitchen. I still need to refill my pump cartridge and I’m sure these boys are thirsty. It’s hot as fuck on this island.”

“A drink would be great,” Ambrose agrees, extending his elbow towards Beth. “I could use some candy or juice if you have any to spare as well. Living in such a warm climate makes me prone to lows. I usually keep a backpack full of candy, but I’m fresh out.”

Beth takes his arm and all but squeals. “I think you’re my new best friend.”

Christ almighty. “Yes, yes he’s a god among men, but can we refocus on the task at hand, please?” I ask, my voice clipped.

Beth pouts, giving me a knowing look. “Is someone feeling jealous?”

“No. I just don’t trust him, and neither should you,” I say pointedly towards our new friend, who finds my skepticism amusing somehow. He hasn’t stopped smiling since he got here. It’s like he’s on vacation.

Beth shakes her head, squeezing Ambrose’s arm. “I’ve never had a diabetic friend before, H. T1Ds are like unicorns, and when you find one, there’s a kinship there that you don’t understand. So yes, I trust him. So does Ian. Take a leap of faith, babe.”

I feel my cheeks heat at that pet name, but I try my best to ignore it. Turning my attention back to Ambrose, I close the distance between us, pointing a finger in his face. “Fine, but I swear on every angel and saint in the heavens that if you betray us and jeopardize Beth’s safety, I will rip you apart in ways that would make medieval executioners quake in their shit-stained boots.”

With wide eyes, Ambrose leans down towards Beth’s ear and murmurs, “Is he always this intense?”

Beth nods, gazing at me lovingly. “Yep. He’s a scary motherfucker, but he’s my scary motherfucker. You should heed his warning though; I got roofied at a bar one time and managed to call him before I passed out. When I woke up, I was in Henry’s apartment, where the guy who roofied me was hung from the ceiling fan by his own intestines.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ambrose curses, looking a bit queasy, his charming grin now gone.

“I know, he’s romantic like that,” she says, with a smile, completely serious in the face of Ambrose’s and Ian’s disapproval and horror.

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