Page 140 of Secondhand Smoke

The women shared a look, then turned back to him after some silent communication. “You need an accomplice for a super-secret rescue mission,” Maggie said. “I know who I’d pick.”

“Me too,” Ava said. “Though I do wish you’d let Merc help you. He loves Tango and he’d do this off the record, without Dad’s approval.”

Aidan dipped his head in acquiescence. “I appreciate that, yeah. But this needs to be a slim operation.”

Ava shrugged. Together, she and Maggie said, “Fox.”

“Fox?”

“He’s Walsh without the allegiance,” Maggie said.

“And a slippery trigger finger,” Ava added. “I bet you money he’d get on board and keep his mouth shut.”

“He’s still in town?” Maggie asked.

“Yeah, but…”

“Then Godspeed, Aidan Teague,” his stepmother said with a grin. “Godspeed.”

~*~

Bell Bar was full of its usual crowd: part-committed drinkers, part-college kids, mostly regular joes. At the Dogs’ usual high top table, Fox helped himself to more Michelob from the pitcher and said, “So let me get this straight, chaps. You want me to go against your president’s wishes and help you form a rescue party?”

Walsh’s younger brother had that same cool, blue-eyed severity, expressions bland to the point of harsh, manner disinterested in the extreme.

“Yeah,” Aidan said. “Help us, and don’t say anything to anybody.”

This could go so poorly, it wasn’t even funny.

Fox studied his pint glass, swiping a finger up the side of it. “What’s in it for me?”

“You get to kill people. Probably.” Aidan said.

The Englishman thought about it a long moment. Then nodded. “Always a good reason. I’m in.”

~*~

Aidan and Carter took stools at the table and beer was traded for a round of Fireball.

“God, I hate that shit,” Fox said, setting his glass aside with a grimace.

Carter choked on his. That cinnamon was an unwelcome kick at the end. “Then why’d you order it?”

“Clears my head.” The Englishman pushed a hand through his dark hair. “Okay. So.” His shrewd eyes moved between them. “We’re going to do this intelligently, boys, which means doing it my way. We need a where” –he started ticking the points off on his fingers– “we need a when, and we need a how. Supplies,” he continued, “alibis, a location, a plan of attack, and a way in. Which means we need intel.” He lifted his brows. “Ideas?”

Aidan nodded grimly. “You got anything against working with one of your own?”

~*~

The next morning, the sun played through the sleek auburn lengths of Ian’s hair as he spun his desk chair in lazy circles. Downstairs in the funeral parlor part of his operation, the staff had seemed to be expecting them, a lackey in a suit leading them up to the office straightaway.

Ian stopped spinning, face turned toward the window, giving them a glimpse of his profile. It was theatric, the way he folded his hands together and brought the fingertips up to the end of his nose. Drama queen. Literally. “Am I to understand,” he said, “that you’re defying your father’s orders and going against him to stage a secret rescue operation?”

“If you wanna say it all fancy like that, sure. That’s what I’m doing.”

He inhaled, shoulders lifting and then falling. His eyes flicked over. Large eyes, bright with emotion. “He’ll kick you out of the club for this, you know.”

“Give a shit,” Aidan said, holding steady eye contact, wanting his sincerity to translate. “If he lets my best friend get killed, that’s not a club I want to be a part of.”

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