Page 67 of Prodigal Son

You Brits are weird as hell, she texted Albie.

“As I said,” Raven said, and whatever hesitancy she’d felt at first, whether it was attraction or nerves, had been purged from her voice now. “We don’t have much time for this meeting. Not on such short notice.”

“I see.” His smile slipped, and though still handsome, he was far less charming when he was straight-faced. “Well, we offer a selection of three different sample jars for gift baskets such as the one you’ve received before. I’ve taken the liberty of bringing them.” He reached for the little box off to his left and pulled out three small glass jars, their metallic screw-on tops all different colors. “For dry skin,” he said, tapping the blue top, “oily skin,” the green, “and mature skin,” he said of the red.

Raven’s smile could have cut diamonds. “For aging skin, you mean.”

“We don’t like to use that word in the beauty industry.” He unscrewed the tops and laid them all on the table, revealing white cream in each. “Care to try them?”

No, Axelle thought. God knew what was in that cream. She’d watched too many action movies, and her mind was throwing up crazy anthrax/acid/nerve agent theories.

Raven’s smile softened a fraction; it almost looked genuine. “I’ll take them with me, if that’s alright, but I’m already very familiar with the dry skin formula. In fact, I’ve used my own jar up entirely.” She laughed, low, almost sincere. “Are these the sample sizes themselves?”

Their conversation turned to specifics about face cream that Axelle didn’t care about. She tuned them out, and focused instead on watching Clive Mahoney as covertly as possible.

He wasn’t a fidgety man. Physically confident, and growing more relaxed as he slipped into professional speak. He’d wanted to observe some social niceties, and Axelle didn’t yet know if that was because he wanted to impress Raven, or if he was just the sort of stuffy old school type who thought getting straight to the point was crass.

He didn’t look like someone who performed any kind of physical labor: smooth hands, no calluses, buffed nails. But his face was tan, and his shoulders filled out his slim-cut suit jacket. He went to the gym, then. And he obviously spent plenty of time in front of the mirror styling his hair into artful disarray each morning.

As she studied him from beneath her lashes, he reached to smooth a hand through its glossy thickness, pushing his forelock back along his crown.

That was when she saw it.

With his hair out of the way, she could see a sheen at his temple. Sweat. He was sweating.

Axelle’s pulse leaped, and she tried to play it cool as she leaned back in her chair and angled her notebook a fraction, trying to capture that shiny spot. She snuck a glance behind Raven’s back and met Vivian’s gaze. The woman’s lips were drawn tight, and she slid a speaking glance toward Clive before returning her gaze to Axelle. She’d seen it too.

Axelle cleared her throat. “Um. Excuse me.” Her British accent was terrible. “Could you point me toward your rest- your washroom?”

Raven turned toward her, and though her face stayed neutral, her eyes flashed.What are you doing?They were supposed to stay together.

She didn’t want to see what Vivian’s eyes were doing right now.

“Of course,” Clive said smoothly, and the look he shot her was polite – but curious. “If you turn left out of the door, it will be three doors down on your right.”

“Yes, thank you. I’ll be right back.” She left the camera, took her purse, and slipped out before Raven could tell her not to go.

~*~

Albie was realistic. He knew he wasn’t a hulking, intimidating guy like Mercy, or Candy. He didn’t entertain fantasies of kicking in doors and storming palaces John Wick style. For him, effectiveness always boiled down to one thing: preparedness. He’d learned how to shoot, how to fight, how to kill. He wasn’t Fox – he didn’t possess that freakish penchant for hand-to-hand – but he’d become proficient. And on a day like today, working an op like this, he knew how to play to his strengths.

The building where he and Miles had set up shop was empty, a For Rent sign in its front windows. They’d made use of that. When he left the roof, he went back down through its vacant interior, to the nondescript office area where he’d left his bags of supplies.

He stripped out of his jeans, black shirt and boots. Traded them for a suit that, while not tailored, fit him well enough to allow him to pass for a businessman. Wingtips, and a tie, and a belt. And under it all, his flak vest, Velcroed tight, hidden by the wide cut of his jacket.

The jacket also hid his shoulder holster. And the holster tucked into his waistband, at the small of his back. The loose hems of the slacks hid the gun strapped just above his ankle.

Only handguns. He felt almost naked.

He went out the back way, and then walked around the block, so he could walk up to the Gleaux building from the business district.

A uniformed valet greeted him as he approached, expression apprehensive. “Sir?”

He couldn’t do the array of accents his brother could, but he could put on a little posh lilt, and did so now. “Yes, I’m having a meeting with Mr. Mahoney. I’m a bit early, I’m sorry. I work just around the corner.” He pointed over his shoulder toward the gleaming glass and steel office buildings that abutted this older, quieter business district. “Thought I’d walk over, since the weather’s so nice.”

“Of course,” the valet said, stepping back, motioning for Albie to head up the walk.

He did, and there was a doorman. He’d be harder to get past, but not impossible.

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