Page 127 of Golden Atonement

“Yeah, who the hell are you?”

“My name is of no concern. Please forgive my tardiness. My employer has made arrangements for your stay, along with your guests, while you are in the city. If you will please follow me, I will escort you to the Langham.”

I chuckled, leaning back against the counter and snarled as I looked this fucker up and down. What was it with these men wearing suits and ties? What the hell was wrong with a comfortable pair of jeans and a good Henley? “Ain’t going anywhere with you, Jack, not until you tell me who the hell you work for?”

“He works for me.” Another man in a suit walked over, extending his hand.

“Great. Another suit,” Bullseye mumbled.

“Does seem to be the dress code in this fucking state,” Massacre added.

“Mr. Doherty, or would you prefer Reaper?”

“Reaper’s fine.”

The man nodded. “My name is Rowen Shay. I believe you’ve requested a meeting with Crispin Sinclair?”

“And how the hell would you know that?”

The man smirked. “Let’s just say that we have a mutual friend.”

Groaning, I looked over at Bullseye who moaned, “Lena.”

“Yes.” Mr. Shay nodded. “Ms. Collins is very well known.”

Bullseye growled. “Her name is Franks now, asshole.”

“My apologies.” He smirked, then took a step toward my wife and smiled. “And you must be the effervescent Remi Doherty. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Stepping in front of my wife, I snarled, “Mine.”

The man didn’t look repentant one bit and added, “I have taken the opportunity to reserve all of you rooms at the Langham, as it will suit your needs better than this place. Now, if you would all follow me.”

“And why would we do that?” I asked, refusing to move.

“Because Mr. Sinclair is waiting for you at the Langham.”

“I want McDonald’s,” Solomon grumbled.

Rolling my eyes, I ignored the cranky hungry fucker and simply said, “Bullseye, if you feel anything off, put a bullet in this fucker’s head.”

My VP grinned. “With pleasure.”

Chapter Seventeen

Reaper

“I didn’t even know the Langham served hamburgers,” Sinclair said, sitting across from me as he watched Sandman hoover up his third double cheeseburger while sucking down another chocolate milkshake.

Leaning back in my chair, I chuckled. “I’ve never met anyone who’s told Sandman no and lived.”

“Apparently,” the man replied, reaching for his glass of wine. “You asked for this meeting, Mr. Doherty. How can I help you?”

“Don’t want anything. Just wanted to meet you.”

“Why?” The man frowned.

“Let’s just say I like knowing all the players.”

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