Page 120 of Prodigal Son

That look told Raven everything she needed to know: no one had expected Ryan Anders to show up tonight, whether or not this was her collection, and her models. Someone had meant to kill or capture her before then.

“Ryan!” he said, jerking upright. “You – you–” A forced smile. “You made it! How lovely. And who is–” His gaze shifted over to Raven, and then his eyes positively bugged.

The two of them charged forward as a unit. Ryan had a knife, a slim little switchblade, and it caught the light as she flicked it open and lunged over Howard Grafton’s desk to press it to his throat.

“Boys–” Raven started, but Chef was already shutting the door, and locking it.

“Now, Howard,” Ryan said, “there’s no need for this to get unpleasant. All we need is your ID card.”

~*~

Fox pulled his visor down low over his eyes and adjusted the stepladder on his shoulder. Devin, Abe, and Morgan trailed behind him, all of them dressed similarly – as a lighting crew, with walkie-talkies, and plastic equipment cases, and laminated badges that looked real. Ryan had been able to supply them with company names, so they looked as legit as possible. Amidst the hustle and bustle of workers going in and out of the service entrance, the security goons gave them only a cursory once-over before waving them through.

And they were in.

Someone with a clipboard waved them along, and they headed that way until they reached the massive, soaring ballroom where the fashion show was to take place. Here it was controlled chaos: lots of shouting, both across the vast room and into headsets; lots of waving, and directing, and dozens of lackeys in black turtlenecks and trousers aligning chairs and making sure the stage was level.

Fox looked back over his shoulder to make sure his crew was still all together and all in place. Morgan was scanning the room with a critical gaze…but one that was detached, as well. In fact, all three of them wore a certain blank expression.

Reminiscing? Flashbacks? Or just the natural glazing-over that came with the job?

Fox turned around and kept moving. They knew what their orders were, and even if he didn’t trust them in a personal sense, they did know how to finish a job like this.

They skirted the stage, moving back around behind it, dropped the case they needed to, and there, just as Ryan had promised, waited the mouth of a hallway that was currently being unguarded. It led back to the staging area, she said, and wasn’t a spot they’d deem necessary for security.

It seemed far too easy. In Fox’s experience, that was the way things always seemed right before they blew up in his face.

~*~

“Put your pants on.”

“Just…right here in front of…everyone?”

“Yes,” Ian said. His tone was getting more and more brittle, and Mercy wasn’t sure how much of it was for show, for any listening ears, and how much of it was actual frustration. He suspected the staging area, with its taped-down cords, and undressing young men, and lighted makeup mirrors, was bringing back some very dark memories for Ian. “In front of everyone, just like every model and showgirl and dancer and performer has since the dawn of civilization.”

But Evan, Mercy had learned, was an idiot. Bless his heart.

“But…” he started.

Ian plucked the pants up off the back of Evan’s chair and brandished them like a weapon – Mercy hadn’t known pants could look as threatening as a knife, but here he was, learning something new. “Take off the pants you’re wearing,” Ian said through clenched teeth, “and put these other bloody pants on, or I’ll have Felix and Bruce do some very creative things with those brushes.” He stabbed a hand toward the big glass jar of them on the table.

“So generous,” Mercy said. “Always volunteering other people’s violence.”

“Pants,” Ian told Evan. “Now.”

Mercy went to the next table over to check on Reese. The kid was staring at his own reflection in the mirror, and with the bulbs lit up on every side, it bathed his face in pure light, no shadows to dip his chin down in and hide. Not that he was the sort who hid; he was the most unselfconscious person Mercy had ever met. But even with the makeup, the light showcased how very young he was. It was so easy, given his demeanor, his profession, his…doglike personality…to forget there was a real boy locked in there somewhere behind that expressionless face. One denied a chance at a real life.

Mercy laid a hand on his shoulder, slow, making sure that Reese’s gaze caught the movement in the mirror. “Still doing okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You remember the plan?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mercy wasn’t one to feel awkward – and he didn’t truly feel awkward now. But he also wasn’t quite sure what to say to draw a little life out of the boy. He’d told Ghost and Walsh not to worry about that. “If he comes around, it’ll take time, and if he doesn’t, who cares?” But for Reese’s own sake, he hoped he would eventually learn to smile; to understand jokes, and feel some camaraderie with the club. Whatever happened with Kristin and Roman – literally the world’s slowest car crash – Mercy had a feeling the siblings would be tied to the Dogs indefinitely. He didn’t think there was anywhere else on earth better suited for them.

Mercy patted his shoulder and pulled his hand away. “Thanks for coming over here and helping us with this. I appreciate it, and I know Phillip’s crew does, too.”

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