Page 97 of Prodigal Son

“And Ryan, seeing as how she was fleeing into the night, afraid for her life, is probably really glad to be around her local notorious outlaws, isn’t she?” She felt her smile go sharp, that weaponized grin she’d practiced in the mirror for years.

Ryan sipped her tea. A little slipped down her chin because she was trembling so badly, and she dashed it away with the back of her hand. Without lipstick, her mouth looked thin, and flat, and pinched. “I, uh, I actually thought that gangs…clubs,” she amended quickly, “like the Lean Dogs were urban legends.”

“Hear that?” Tommy said. “We’re urban legends.”

Phil reached the end of his limited patience; there was no mistaking that expression. “Why did you bring her here?” he asked Raven. “If she has answers, let’s get them, otherwise I don’t need any bloody civilians in my clubhouse.”

“Ryan’s the one who hooked me up with Clive,” Raven said. “I for one would like an explanation, because I’ve known her a long time, and I’d like to think she wouldn’t intentionally try to get me killed.”

Ryan ducked her head over her tea cup.

“Isn’t that right?” Raven pressed.

The fashion mogul let out a thin, wavering breath and lifted her head again. She looked between the two siblings, pleading. “I didn’t understand what was happening at first – the day Clive came to the office and introduced himself. It was months and months ago. And he was…” Discreet spots of color bloomed in her cheeks.

“Why does everyone think he’s so damn handsome?” Axelle said. “He’s not that good looking.”

Ryan’s blush deepened. “He was so personable, and mannerly. So correct. I had no reason to suspect at the time that he was some sort of government agent.”

Raven’s breath caught.

The fire crackled.

Collectively: “What?”

~*~

Miles’s eye strain was so terrible at this point he could barely read. His laptop screen looked covered in wavering hieroglyphics at this point, smudging and blurring every time he blinked. He was long since used to looking things up, digging up dirt, hacking into websites that should have been secure as bank vaults, and learning things not meant to be seen by young outlaw boys with too much free time. It had become his official role within the club, and most times he loved it. It kept him from having to shoot people while serving a valuable purpose.

But with this case, there was justso much.

He’d mined all through the Pseudonym sites, going down endless rabbit holes, looking into Gleaux and dozens of other Pseudonym-owned companies. He’d been trying, since Fox’s call earlier, to figure out if the CEO, Fenwick, was this Morris person – though it had become immediately apparent that the man running some crazy assassin experience wouldn’t exactly be listed in a registry somewhere.

He thought, given the sheer volume of web pages he’d searched, and the aforementioned eye strain, the migraine it was threatening to give him, it was excusable that he’d only just now noticed it.

Something was wrong with Clive Mahoney’s birth certificate. The watermark, the signature – it was a clever job, but it was a forgery.

“Shit.” Miles scrabbled off his bed, kicking candy wrappers and an empty energy drink can out of his way, heart pounding. Calling as he went, “Guys! Phil!”

~*~

They’d used plastic riot cuffs to link his wrists behind his back, and then pushed him down in a corner and told him to get comfy. One guy – massive, with a pair of brass knuckles – had been left to guard him, and was currently scrolling through something on his pone and grinning to himself.

A reasonable method of containment for a reasonably incompetent civilian.

Only, he wasn’t that.

Clive folded his hands together – you had to get the angle just right – and set about the business of working out of his cuffs.

~*~

Fox parked the van behind Baskerville Hall feeling, not exactly better, but at least more focused. Centered in a way that he hadn’t been the last few days. Knowing that Cass had been taken would have been crippling for a lot of people, but for Fox, it helped him clear out all the useless, cluttering emotions that prevented him from doing his job.

His hate of Devin, his weird worry about Eden – that could wait until later. Until after the job was done.

The others piled out of the van and fell into a cluster behind him, tired and complaining of stiffness from the drive.

His hand was on the handle of the pub door when he heard the shouting.

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