Page 119 of Prodigal Son

Evan glanced through the tinted window and wet his lips for the dozenth time.

“Stop doing that,” Ian said. “You’ll ruin the gloss.”

The boy dropped his head between his knees and groaned, reaching up to rake his hands through his hair. He froze, though, when Ian cleared his throat, and picked his head back up. “Right. Hair,” he murmured. Then straightened and flopped back against the seat. “I just don’t get why…” His gaze slid over to Reese, and Mercy could see the shudder he failed to suppress. “Ihad to do this.” Then he looked at Ian, half-imploring, half-accusing. “I mean, I’m just–”

“Kid,” Mercy said. “Stop digging the hole.”

“Well,” Ian said, unperturbed. “You are, after all, just a scruffy no-account boy with a poor skincare routine. But you are slender, and you have a certain bone structure that, when seen from the right angle, and with cosmetic help, lends you a certain level of…watchability.”

“Watchability?” He looked stricken.

“Your job – our job – is to provide a distraction. And, let me assure you, should worse come to worse, I will be using you as a human shield. Felix and I are both important members of the Lean Dogs family, with spouses and homes to return to. You, on the other hand.” He smiled again, and Mercy bit back a laugh. “Well, every good plan needs an expendable party, wouldn’t you agree?”

Evan swallowed with an audible gulp, and the limo rolled forward again.

Mercy turned his attention to Reese, who sat statue-still – he didn’t even rock when the car did, but remained frozen, like a bird balanced on a perch – hands folded together in his lap. Raven had used heavy blacks and deep blues around his eyes, which sharpened the natural color. The show had a military theme, so he looked like he was wearing artful grease paint, curled up in a dozen little points at the edges, like a feathered Mardi Gras mask. With his hair gelled back severely, he looked every inch an angel of death.

“You okay?” Mercy asked him.

“Yes, sir.”

“You know the plan?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ian leaned in close, shielded his mouth behind his hand, and whispered, “He does blink, doesn’t he?”

“Sometimes.”

The limo rolled again, and glided to a stop. “We’re here,” Bruce said.

Ian hitched upright in his seat. “Excellent.”

Mercy felt a little thrum of excitement in his belly. This was nothing like a typical job – the hair, the suit, the glittering building that awaited, and a world he’d never explored – but a job was still a job, after all, and his pulse accelerated beneath the silk of his shirt, and the tattoo of Ava’s teeth on his chest.

The door opened, and Bruce climbed out first, ushering the attendant back and reaching in to assist his boss. Ian first, then Mercy shooed out the two boys, and then he followed.

The limo had let them out beneath the awning, and rain pattered against it, competing with the din of voices, those beneath the awning, and beyond the open doors, in a glass atrium boiling with humanity. Employees in black tuxes flanked a black carpet that led inside, and one of them stepped forward to approach their party, as another went to the trunk of the limo to take their bags.

Bruce took point, an arm held out protectively across his boss, a barrier between Ian and the approaching staff member.

“Welcome,” the employee said, all BBC and disinterested subservience. “Your name, sir?”

Ian put on a flawless French accent. “Francois de Leon. Special guest of Miss Anders. We should be on the list,oui?”

Mercy knew a moment of nerves, faint, but distinct, as the man scanned the clipboard in his hands. But then he nodded, and waved. “Right this way.” And they were in.

~*~

“Miss Anders,” the man at the door said, dipping his head, and scanned them through with his security pass.

Ryan was a few inches shorter, so Raven shortened her stride and matched her pace; both of them walked with heads up, spines straight, high heels clicking across the marble floors. Behind them, Shallie and Chef walked in all-black, not trying to look like anything other than the bodyguards that they were. Raven carried a small red clutch purse, just big enough to hold a gun, and its weight in her hand seemed a small comfort this deep into enemy territory.

They progressed down a narrow, elegant, if plain, hallway lined with black doors, some open, some affording views of suit-clad staff. This was the beating heart of tonight’s show, the place where security and the heads of sound, and lighting, and the director all had offices, gophers scurrying back and forth, important heads of things bent over computers.

Raven heard Ryan take a short, sharp breath just before she rapped on an open doorjamb, and Raven did the same.

They stepped into an office devoid of any comforts. A black desk, a sequence of computer monitors, and the standard office chairs that always gave Raven a backache. The man behind the desk was sharply dressed, but fleshy-faced and harried-looking. He lifted his head at the sound of Ryan’s knock. “Be with you in a…” And trailed off when he saw them. “Moment,” he finished faintly, eyes widening.

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