Page 107 of Prodigal Son

“We can pretend it never happened,” he pressed on, grim. “If you want. You probably want to.”

“If I want,” she repeated. It stung her pride. Stungbad. Of all the things she’d expected, this hadn’t been one of them. She swallowed down a surge of anger, some nasty, knee-jerk comment that would only damage things worse. “What do you want?”

He looked away, and a muscle in his jaw ticked.

“Albie, what do you want?” she repeated, more forceful this time.

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug that wasn’t just tired, but defeated. “To not be useless,” he said, and it hit her as something bigger than just now, his bruises, and bandages, and drug hangover.

“Hey,” she said, sitting forward, elbows on her knees. “Did you mean it?”

His gaze slid over, getting sharper by the second, laced with pain that he was keeping religiously locked down by sheer dint of will.

“When you kissed me,” she clarified. “Did you mean it?”

She could see him mulling it over. She wondered if he was afraid of the truth, or just trying to spare her from it. Finally, he said, “Yeah.” Voice a croak. “I did. I do.”

She took a big, shaky breath. “I meant it, too.”

His eyes widened a fraction, like that surprised him.

“I’m here,” she said, and reached for his hand where it rested on top of the blanket; laced their fingers together. “I don’t know what the hell’s going to happen. But I’m – I’m here, alright? And I want to be.”

His smile came slow, hesitant, edged with quiet disbelief. But it was true, and it warmed her.

~*~

For a moment, when he’d first spotted him, Fox hadn’t recognized Ian Byron. It had to have been the shock of the unexpected, because no one this carefully, intentionally theatric could be easily overlooked in one’s memory.

Someone had fetched him a brandy – served in a proper brandy snifter – and he held it in one elegant, long-fingered, pale hand and swirled it just beneath his nose, inhaling appreciatively. He had a cigar in the other hand; its mate was hooked in the corner of Phil’s mouth; a host gift, Ian had explained. They were Cubans – Fox could smell them.

“So,” the dealer said, looking the picture of ease with legs crossed, relaxed back in his chair with an elbow propped on the arm of it. His blue eyes were slitted and sparkling like a predator’s, though. He liked this, the thrill of it. Ghost rubbing off on him. “It seems as if you’re all well and truly fucked.”

“Pretty much,” Phillip said. He lifted a glance up over the dealer’s head to make eye contact with Mercy, who stood a few paces back, arms folded, shoulder braced against a tall armoire.

“Ian’s got lots of high-up connections with the moneyed crowd,” Mercy explained. “Ghost thought that might be useful.”

“My name opens doors, you might say,” Ian said. “And I assure.” A smile that was all teeth. “I’m here of my own volition, and Felix is not my handler.”

Phil nodded, accepted the dig for what it was: well-earned. “Yeah. Ghost says we have you to thank for the increase in club-wide profits over the last couple of years.”

Ian tipped his head, little smile tweaking the corners of his mouth, quietly delighted.

Phil said, “What do you suggest we do, then?”

“If I’ve heard the story correctly” – invitation with a lift of his brows – “then I do think, beg your pardon, that you’re all overcomplicating this a little bit.” When several moved to protest, he held up his snifter and said, “Yes, yes, there are secret government agents, and business conglomerates, and cover-ups, and assassins, and a whole lot of very real businesses making this more difficult. But. There’s only one reason anyone would go to this much trouble. Two reasons, actually, but the two are inextricable. Money, and power. And, as we all know, so often money is the means of attainting and keeping power. Someone is orchestrating this in order to be more powerful. Butwhy? What is it that they want the powerfor?”

Silence for a beat.

Ian looked triumphant.

“Jesus,” Mercy said, “don’t gloat. You think they haven’t thought of that?”

Ian chuckled into his brandy. “I think they’re all thinking like outlaws, police officers, and tacticians. They’re not thinking likeelites. Just offering a different viewpoint.”

Phil sought Fox’s gaze – his own deadpan, weary, like a long into-the-camera stare onThe Office. Fox shrugged in response.

“No, hang on,” Morgan said. “That’s…right, okay.” His gaze was distant, drawn inward as he thought. He got up to pace the width of the office, absently waving through a cloud of cigar smoke. “From everything I found, the original Project was disbanded due to lack of funding, and a risk of exposure. They’re obviously better funded now, and the business provides a good cover. But why, thirty years later, was there a need to revive it?”

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