Page 40 of Prodigal Son

“Charlie,” Phillip repeated. “This is a team effort at this point. The whole club is involved.”

“I work best alone,” he said, just to be contrary. And also, because – because terror kept unfurling new dark tendrils deep in the pit of his stomach. He did usually work alone, or with just a few others. He was the fixer, the assassin, the out of town guy called in for special cases. He didn’t work with – and by necessityrisk– entire chapters. “I’m fast, and I’m trained, and I can get in and out–”

“We don’t know nearly enough about this company,” Phillip countered, almost gently. There was sympathy in his gaze, and Fox looked away from him, jaw clenching. “Today bought us some time – hopefully more than we even expected; I’ll put in a call to the station and see what I can finagle.”

“Finagle?” Fox asked with a snort.

His brother ignored him. “In the meantime, we’re handling this threat as a club. I’m going to direct resources where they’ll be of best use.”

“Pulling rank on me, huh? That’s sweet, bro.”

“Try not to be a raging asshole for once in your life,” Albie suggested.

Fox flipped him the bird without looking. “Alright, boss,” he said to Phillip. “I’m a resource; direct me.” He sounded bitter, and that wasn’t something he could help.

Phillip, the bastard, didn’t even smile when he said, “You and Dad are going to find the other twelve, secure them, and get any intel they have.”

“Fuck.”

“It’s the secrets that can hurt us, and that we can use against Pseudonym. Miles is plugging what we already know into some kind – some kind of tech computer matrix shit, I don’t know, but we need more, and keeping Dad on the move seems like the best way to keep him alive for now.”

Fox sighed. “I hate you.”

Phillip finally smiled. “Think of it as a compliment. If anyone can keep the bastard breathing, it’s you.”

“Hey,” Devin protested.

~*~

Fox was not sulking. He was not forcefully shoving socks and t-shirts into his duffel, and he was not cursing under his breath, and he definitely didn’t have a tumbler of whiskey sitting on the dresser as he gathered his things. (He was definitely sneaking sips from it, though; there wasn’t enough coffee in the world to make this situation more tolerable.)

“You know,” an amused voice said from the doorway, “I used to think you never got angry, because I never saw it. Now I just know you’ve stored up all your anger so you can direct it at your dad.”

He chose to ignore the smattering of chill bumps that broke out down the back of his neck and didn’t turn to look at Eden.

She came into the room. Sat down on his bed like that was okay, like that was a thing they were doing now: sitting on each other’s beds. He was tempted to ask if she would allow him to do that in her borrowed room, and wisely kept his mouth shut.

“What’s that they say about glass houses and throwing stones?” he asked, adding a hoodie to the pile inside his duffel. “If I had your mum…” He trailed off, and glanced up to see her lean back and brace her hands on the coverlet, rolling her eyes.

“Fair point.” Her expression softened. “You’re leaving.”

“Are you asking? Or have you already talked to Phillip?”

“He said you and Devin were going hunting for the others from Project Emerald.”

“Probably gonna take the sniper kid, too.” In part because he didn’t think there was a way to keep him properly contained at the clubhouse for any length of time. And also, because if he could be taught, maybe hone his craft a little, he might prove an asset.

Eden took a deep breath and said, “I’m coming with you.”

He laughed.

When she didn’t say anything else, he lifted his head again, hands resting still on top of his folded clothes. She stared back at him without flinching. Unusually open, but firm.

He found he didn’t have the energy, or the will to fight with her. A part of him was still stinging from this morning’s fight in the kitchen – which now seemed weeks past, rather than hours.

He should have told her about the risks, about how it wasn’t safe to go with them to God knew where, to find twelve people who were lab experiments gone horribly rogue. That he couldn’t do what he was setting out to and look after her at the same time.

These were the things his lizard brain wanted to shout at her. The part of him that still clung, stupidly, to slow mornings with rain sliding down the window, warmth and weight under the blankets beside him. He was a man, and he had a man’s shortcomings: the urge to protect the people he cared about.

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