Page 122 of Prodigal Son

“What?”

Devin hesitated.

“Dad,what?”

He smiled, then. Sudden, almost violent; it looked like he surprised himself, even. Voice rough: “Charlie, I just want you to know. Whatever happens. You’re my favorite.”

The stairwell, the others checking magazines and earpieces – everything faded away, and his world narrowed down to the sound of his own accelerating heartbeat in his ears, and his dad’s face across from his. For one dizzy moment, he felt eight again, on one of those painful visits at home, wondering why he wanted so desperately to please this man when he should have hated him.

Fox blinked, shook his head, and the weird vertigo vanished, the moment and the task at hand rushing back. His pulse stayed kicked up, though, noticeable where before it had been low and steady. “What the fuck? You can’t have favorites. Parents can’t have afavorite kid.”

Devin chuckled. “We can, and I do. And it’s you. Just wanted you to know that. In case–”

“We need to move,” Morgan said.

Fox looked away from Devin’s smile, his dancing blue eyes, same as his own. “Yeah,” he said, and pretended his voice wasn’t strained.

~*~

When Raven was gone, Mercy made a slow stroll over toward the backside of the stage, in the area that hummed with staff losing their minds at the last minute. He could hear the crowd gathering on the other side of the curtain, and the models were beginning to be queued up.

“You need to keep this area clear,” a woman with a headset snapped at him.

“Right, right, sorry.”

But he’d spotted his quarry: a black equipment case, set off to the side. It could have contained any number of things, but this one had a small red sticker on the side, and this was a case Fox’s group had dropped on their way past.

Mercy snatched it up and headed back to his post.

~*~

Phillip watched the numbers tick upward on the elevator and thought that he was getting too old for this.

He was pretty sure that was a movie line. Or at least part of one.

But he was tired. And he hated that here he was, riding up to meet the assholes who’d tried to kill his dad – hell, who’dmadehis dad – and who were holding his little sister captive, and stronger than the anger, the worry, the fear, the determination…was exhaustion.

He hadn’t founded the London chapter of the Dogs, but he’d built it up from the modest, mostly-legal entity it was to begin with. It had been an outlaw club from birth, yes, but back then, in the aftermath of WWII, the founders had wanted more than anything to make a statement. To shrug off the colors of a country that no longer had a place for them, and drape themselves in the colors of their choosing. There had been presidents before him, and would be presidents after, but Phillip Calloway was the one who’d decided to make a profit off outlawry.

But it had been a long time. And a lot of work. And a lot of dark, violent decisions that had kept him awake at night. He’d done some awful things – and some things that had felt awful, like sending his daughter to America…only to learn that she wasn’t safe there either. He’d raised his siblings, more or less, some more than others. Had tried to provide them with a haven, and with a shoulder to lean on, to cry on. And here he was, still, after all this time, with his family in danger, and the world falling down around him, and a plan held together with gum and hope and he…

He was tired.

In the chrome-walled elevator, Miles and Tommy flanked him, and Nicky and Shep flanked them, all of them touching and overlapping in the small space. Phil had told his younger brothers to stay behind – to stay safe – but they’d cheerfully told him to go fuck himself, and that they were coming along. They’d identified themselves to the security team downstairs, as instructed, and been waved into an elevator. The lack of an escort worried Phil; he figured someone would open fire on them the moment the doors opened.

But Cass was alive. And there was a reason for that.

So, when the car finally arrived with a shudder and a polite ding, Phillip didn’t duck down and prepare to shield himself. He would face this, whatever it was, head-on.

The doors slid open, and a knot of men in black suits awaited them.

Phil found he was surprised they weren’t in tac gear. But he supposed this was part of the charade.

He spoke first. “I’m Phillip Calloway. Where’s my sister?”

The lead man, the kind of big-shouldered, unremarkable muscle that no one could ever describe to the police, motioned them forward. “We need to pat you down.”

“Fine.”

---