Page 82 of Undertow

Merrick will be pissed,but he’s wrong this time.

After thinking through multiple scenarios and scoping out Hana Nakamura again, only one move makes sense. Sure, I’m valuable as a double agent, but I’m worthless dead.

“What the hell are you doing?” the executive chef barks as I shove a truffle in my mouth.

I don’t know his name, and he clearly doesn’t know mine. Good.

“Just taking a break,” I say, reaching for another dessert off the catering tray.

He smacks my hand away.

“You’re not even on my staff. Why the hell are you in my kitchen?” His furious glare skims my Palmetto Grande uniform. “Who’s your supervisor? Where are you supposed to be right now?”

“Dude. Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!”

As hoped, we now have the attention of everyone in the kitchen. The chef is on stage with over a dozen subordinates waiting to see how much authority he has. If he’s like most elite chefs I’ve encountered, his level of authority is just below the level of his ego.

That’s what I’m banking on, anyway.

“Just a tip. Maybe dial back the raspberry extract in the truffles. They’re very berry forward… Unless this is for a kid’s party?”

His face purples with rage. “Out! You’re done here! I’m calling security.”

I bark a laugh. “You can’t fire me. You’re not my supervisor.”

“I sure as hell can! Do you seriously not know who I am?”

“Should I?”

He motions to someone behind me, probably an assistant who will make the call he threatened.

“When I’m done with you, you’ll never work for a McArthur company again.”

God, if only that were true.

I smirk and fold my arms over my chest. “Oh no, not that,” I mock.

He raises a fist, his arm trembling with restrained violence.

I don’t even flinch. He won’t hit me. Unlike me, he actually likes his job and wants to keep it.

We bicker for a few more minutes, while I goad him long enough to wait for security. I do my best to push him right up to the edge without the tension spilling over. My mission has already done enough collateral damage to innocent bystanders. I don’t need an unemployed chef on my conscience.

I’m relieved when I see the silhouette of several security guards clear the rear entrance of the kitchen.

“This one,” the chef snaps, waving at me. “Get him out of my sight. Tell HR to send me the paperwork. I’ll sign whatever the hell they want to get this idiot off our property.”

“Hey, now. No need for name calling,” I say in a mocking tone.

His glare is enough of a response now that the security team has me caged in their walls of muscle.

Despite my many encounters with hired guns, I don’t recognize any of them. McArthur must keep a separate set of mercenaries for himself. Makes sense, given their unique job descriptions.

I say nothing as the men march me out of the kitchen through the back exit. The silence continues along the service corridor and is finally broken by a phone.

One of the guards answers quickly.

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