Page 40 of Born To Be Bad

“Call my family,” Alistair barks at him. “Warn them. They need to get out of the house right now.”

Alistair’s phone rings. I see his screen: unknown caller with a plus seven dialing code.

“Russia,” thinks Alistair out loud. He motions for Henderson to come closer.

Oh shit. My anxiety ramps up again.

He answers, putting it on speakerphone. “This is Ravenscroft.”

A small voice, nervous, with a local English accent. “Mr. Ravenscroft, sir.”

“Who is this?”

The man hesitates. “Blackwood told me to call you if there was a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” demands Alistair. “Who are you?”

“Max. Max Brodie. I’ve been working with Blackwood for the last six years.”

Honestly, he didn’t sound old enough for that to be true, but what do I know?

“Intern?” asks Alistair.

“He used to call me his protégé.”

Alistair’s expression turns stony. “Why are you using past tense?”

Max doesn’t answer.

“Brodie,” says Alistair in a vaguely threatening way. “You said he used to call you his protégé. Tell me you got a promotion. Or that you quit, or something other than what I’m thinking.”

Still quiet. Henderson looks down at the ground, unblinking.

“Sorry,” says Max, his voice thick with emotion. “Blackwood’s dead.”

CHAPTER 23

The Protégé

ALISTAIR

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. A huge headache swirls just behind my brows, getting ready to settle in.

FUCK.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

The protégé stutters his reply. “I have his … I have his … body.”

“How?” I demand. “What the fuck happened?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out,” says Brodie. “It happened so fast. It was confusing.”

“Just tell me what happened,” I growl.

Lucky narrows his eyes in suspicion of this “protégé” of six years we’ve never met. He has a point.

“But first,” I say, “I need to know we can trust you. That you are who you say you are.”

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