Page 125 of Prodigal Son

“Albie,” Axelle said. “He’s the reason you’re not in a cell right now.”

“Yeah, and I want to know what he’s getting out of that.”

“Jesus,” Simon said. “Is your whole family this cynical, or is it just you?” Before Albie could respond, he sat upright, and set his glass down, frowning. “I helped you for Eden. And because these Pseudonym people are powerful monsters who need to be stopped. If keeping the Lean Dogs out of jail accomplishes that, then so be it. Sometimes, people do things because it’s the right thing to do, and not for some sinister ulterior motive.”

“Albie,” Axelle said before he could respond, leaning in close to speak right against his ear. Even through the pain, and the determination, the feeling of her lips and warm breath left him suppressing a shiver. “Since the second I’ve met you, you’ve been trying to convince me that there actually are some decent people in the world who want to do the right thing. Maybe give this guy a break, huh?”

He turned his head so he could look at her – mourning the loss of her voice and face that close – and she lifted her brows.

“I think he’s kind of a shmuck,” she clarified.

“Beg pardon?” Cavendish said.

“But the whole world’s not in league with Pseudonym.” She tipped her chin down, gaze pointed. “Just like all Lean Dogs aren’t father-killers, right?”

How could he argue with that?

He nodded, and turned back to Simon. Grudgingly: “Is there anything you can tell us that might be helpful?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Well, it seems as if I’ve already been rather helpful. But sure. What’s a little more?”

~*~

Everything Mercy did reinforced Reese’s assertion that he’d chosen the correct commanding officer to submit to. Ghost was technically the CO – and was for his entire club – but Reese liked reporting to Mercy. Mercy didn’t seem to think that there was anything wrong with him. He didn’t give him those strange, sideways looks that the others did, or speak as if he wasn’t standing right there and could hear them. Mercy always gave clear orders, and he outlined the ops for him, and didn’t try to tell him how to do his job – only that it was something he needed to do. For the club. For the people who’d taken him in. For his sister. Everyone else made his head hurt, so he tended to tune them out, and let Mercy deliver all the details.

Tonight, the plan was more complex than some of the simple – frankly insulting – errands Ghost had sent him on in Knoxville. Reese had the impression the Lean Dogs president wanted to keep him busy, but didn’t have much use for him. Tonight, though, he could be very useful, as part of a risky plot with little chance for success.

The plan wasn’t bad. But it could be better.

He wore tight pants made of a thin, unarmored material that limited flexibility and offered nothing in the way of protection – from impacts, or weapons. But his shirt, something gauzy and floating that Walsh’s sister had selected for him, hid the flak vest he wore underneath it well enough. His combat boots were his own, only polished a little. The makeup was smooth and stylized, but it resembled grease paint well enough.

Mercy handed him the ID card that he was supposed to hand off.

And an AK-47.

The models around them all carried prop guns, because the show, Raven had explained, was military-themed, proceeds supposed to go to veterans’ charities.

“You good?” Mercy asked, gaze very serious, but not stern – never stern.

“Yes, sir.”

Mercy clapped his shoulder, and Reese turned around and fell into the line of models waiting to take the stage.

He sensed Evan looking at him.

Evan, he’d decided, was stupid. And possibly useless. He’d claimed to be a sniper, but he seemed too nervous to be. And he was worried about his pants – not because of their tactical drawbacks, but because of the way he looked in them.

Reese didn’t understand that. A person either looked weak, or capable. What did any of the rest of it matter?

The music throbbed, low and deep, but fast; meant to match the long strides of the models. Much faster than his own heart, beating steady in his chest.

A woman with wild eyes, a headset, and a clipboard waved models toward the gap in the curtain, clutching at their shoulders a moment, holding them still, and then shooing them on with a “go, go.”

Evan stood in front of Reese, and he gripped his own gun with white knuckles; Reese could hear him breathing, just barely, over the music, quick in-and-out puffs through his mouth.

He was a liability.

He’d told Mercy so, earlier, while Ian was telling Evan to get dressed. (Ian was a whole other creature; Reese could read the anxiety pouring off of him, but he smiled, and said smooth things the way movie characters did, and for all the teeth he showed when he grinned, he wasn’t actually unkind. Reese approved of his leadership even if he didn’t understand him.) “He’s going to ruin the whole thing,” Reese had told Mercy, and Mercy had nodded, grim-faced.

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