Page 19 of Scarlet Angel

With that, I head on to the helipad. Chances are he’s jostling my chain for kicks. Probably on an errand for his father.

Halston Moore, or Dorian Senior, is one of the most controlling men I’ve ever met, and given my circle of Type-A’s, that’s saying something. The man treats his adult son like an errand boy. All the same, I shoot off a text to Ash to have someone follow Dorian in the morning.

* * *

Charlemagne prances in high platform heels, a short skirt that poofs out in tiers, and a bustier that puts her voluptuous breasts on display. She holds the door for me as I step inside, scanning the private room. No windows, a plush four-poster bed, glass cabinets with amenities, and a narrow bench at the end of the bed.

“Is this the best you have?”

“I’m afraid so, love.” Her red lips are full, and they shine brightly against her dark skin. Her nails could double as daggers.

“All right.” I pull out five hundred pounds and pass it over.

She takes it with a gracious smile. “Enjoy.”

The door closes, and I take in the room. Nomad offered to provide a location, but I like clandestine clubs.

Built-in secrecy. If someone exits a room, they assume you’re fucking, and if they ever leaked it, they’d risk their treasured membership.

I drag the bench away from the bed. The room is tiny, but in the bathroom, there’s a stool beneath the vanity. I remove the dainty piece and sit it across from the bench.

If we need to sit, that’s taken care of.

I step inside the bathroom, hidden from the hallway or anyone entering, and wait.

Two minutes pass and there’s a rap at the door.

There’s a faint clicking sound, and the door opens. In the mirrored ceiling, I glimpse the man entering the room. A herringbone six-on-one jacket and matching trousers. Brown wing tips. Classic posh wanker.

The door clicks closed behind him, and I step forward, careful to avoid startling him.

“Nomad,” I say. It’s the name he gave when I called the number on Leo’s card.

The man’s name is Tristan Wagner, although he uses the last name Voignier when on Interpol business. In most of his cases, his real identity would hinder his cause.

He first came across our radar when he followed a case to the Caymans.

An Interpol contact equals access. A tool for leverage. He’s not our only contact, but a general rule with resources is that you can’t have too much of a good thing.

“Falcon.” My lips twist at the code name assigned to me. I don’t necessarily agree with the code names, but on the off chance anything is being recorded or someone overhears, best to not share names. That’s sound advice I can abide by. Of course, the Interpol officer knows my fucking name. Knows everything about me, probably going three generations back.

“I appreciate your agreeing to work with us,” he says.

“We have mates in common.”

“That we do.” His eyes narrow. “You requested this meeting. Do you have something to share?”

“I do.” I pass him a dildo and love the fuck out of his puzzled expression. “There’s a chip inside.” There are photos and maps on the chip. It’s everything he needs to track a human trafficking route in Southeast Asia run by a Vietnamese chap who attempted to short-change me on a real estate deal. But it’s in my interest to blow his operation anonymously.

“Anything for me?” What I want is confirmation Leo landed safely. I don’t know his true identity, but he’s not a Sullivan. If I’d pressed on the day of the confrontation, when I considered killing the traitor, he wouldn’t have told me.

After all those years, Leo didn’t trust me, but I trusted him from the start. He’s a good man. A rarity. It’s why I knew I had to force him to bring Willow along when he disappeared. He’s too selfless. He needed a shove.

My first call to Nomad was to tell him he needed to orchestrate an exit. Have to give credit where it’s due. His team pulled it together. Nomad and I worked well together on that first project. Assuming Leo landed safely, that is.

Nomad scratches his jaw as if he’s uncertain what I’m asking.

“Did the package arrive safely?”

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