Page 133 of Nothing More

“We know she’s not the real target now.”

“Yeah? And if they were trying to draw me out, they wouldn’t target her some more?”

Maverick frowned. “With her escort doubled, and Miles putting up cameras everywhere, we think we can keep her safe. Murdering Nikolai and planting your hair was a shift in their strategy, moving away from drawing you out and toward outright framing you. Raven’s gotta be back burner, now, and all her social and business stuff is a way to drum up favor with the rich crowd, which we’re eventually gonna need if a full-scale underground war kicks off.”

Maverick’s penchant for thinking things through and acting rationally had been Toly’s favorite thing about him when he first gained his prospect patch, but right now he found it exhausting. He nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

Maverick’s tone shifted again – this time into dangerous territory. “Speaking of Raven…”

Toly’s stomach clenched. He’d never been ashamed or self-conscious about his sexual habits before – and wasn’t now, certainly not with a woman like Raven – but that was just it: a woman like Raven. Raven herself. The two of them together was unlikely from every angle, even his own.

“Are you and she really…?”

He almost saidno. It’s not a big thing. Old habit. He cringed internally when he thought of her hand that morning on the countertop, upturned and empty, waiting for him, reaching out in a way he hadn’t expected, given her previous coolness and superiority.

He said, “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

Maverick did baffled – for a second, before a grin plucked at his mouth. “You’re both adults. It’s none of my business…but you should see your face. Like you got caught in the backseat after prom.”

“Like what?”

Mav chuckled. “Nevermind.” He stood, wincing when his knees popped, and worked the kinks out of his shoulders. “I’ll call.” Back to business. “Just…try to be patient, okay? Watch HBO on Ian’s dime, enjoy the Posturepedic mattresses.” A gleam entered his gaze, just before he turned. “Maybe cook for your girlfriend.”

Toly frowned. “I have.”

“See? You’re already better at this whole romance thing than me.”

He waited an hour after Maverick left, then pulled on hat and jacket, and slipped out through the terrace trapdoor.

~*~

“There’s someone behind us,” Reese whispered out the side of his mouth, lips barely moving.

“Yeah,” Tenny agreed. He’d clocked the sound of footsteps keeping pace with their own a block back; the tread of thick-soled boots sounded nothing like the blend of snow boots, wingtips, and high heels that came and went around them. He didn’t look back, but he did unsnap the holster inside his jacket under the guise of checking his watch. A sideways glance proved that all of Reese’s long-and-getting-longer pale hair was still tucked neatly up into his beanie. The fake glasses broke up the sharp line of brow and cheekbones enough that he wouldn’t be instantly recognizable to someone who’d only seen him once, or on a bit of security footage.

Ahead, the glass door of the bodega that was their destination swung open, flashing an array of peeling ice cream stickers, emitting a hard-faced young man dressed as they were: military jacket, beanie, combat boots. He strode out without slowing, forcing them to pull up short, and his gaze raked over them, flat and assessing. Whether or not he was bratva was irrelevant: he’d come to this place for the same reason they had.

Tenny caught the handle before the door could close and ushered Reese in first with a gesture. As he did, he managed to sneak a glance toward their pursuers, and then inwardly cursed. It was the same three flashy goons from their trip to meet Nikolai. Young, and swaggering, walking three-abreast so that other pedestrians had to step aside or risk getting trampled.

Tenny ducked inside.

The place was grimy, the woman behind the counter tiny and wrinkled, and furious, when she turned her rheumy gaze toward them. She lifted a walking stick and slapped a sign with it that warned them security cameras were running.

“Don’t worry, Grandmother,” he called to her in Russian. “We don’t steal. Put anything we take on the Kozlov tab.”

Somehow, her expression grew even more furious, and terrified at the same time.

In front of him, Reese sighed.

Tenny jabbed him between the shoulders with a gloved fingertip. “That’s enough lip out of you.”

“That isn’t what you said last night,” Reese said, tonelessly, and Tenny swallowed a laugh. Had his face properly schooled by the time they reached the coolers, and the dirt-streaked door set between them.

He thought it was dirt. Could have been blood, he guessed.

Its hinges creaked, when Reese opened it, and the stink of a dozen varieties of mold rolled forward to greet them, undercut by stale beer and staler body odor. Lovely.

They drew up to the bar, but stayed standing. The woman working it had her dark hair piled up on her head, and despite the chill in the air, wore a tank top that showed off two full sleeves of tattoos. When he was still owned by the Brits, Tenny had been made to pore over a binder of laminated pages, each loaded with all the gang-affiliated tattoos that were known to Interpol. On the woman’s left bicep, nearly hidden by a nest of rose thorns, he spotted the tiny sparrow that was the mark of a woman who belonged to the Kozlov bratva. Wife, girlfriend, pass-around, it didn’t matter. She was affiliated.

---