Page 23 of Splintered Security
I do, making myself as comfortable as possible. I’ve worked for Barone for two years. I’m one of his personal security team, manage Barone Hospitality security, and even handled his household for a while.
We’ve been through some shit—his wife’s shit most recently. It doesn’t make us friends, but it has made him trust me.
More importantly, it’s given me access. My hours weren’t standard. My methods weren’t kind. My work, though, was stellar.
“Tell me what you know about Wednesday night.”
“I’ve had personal business to attend to and haven’t had the time to dig into it as much as I would like. But, at nine fifty-four, the club received a call from an anonymous number. A computer-altered voice stated, ‘There’s a bomb in the building.’ It mentioned a personal vendetta and that it would detonate at ten ten.”
I don’t mention the personal vendetta indicated a female subject. Barone is feral about his wife—and that wasbefore. Since her ordeal, he’s feral and rabid. And unfocused. I need him level-headed and on point right now.
“I had the team clear the building and, from what I can tell, that was almost entirely successful.”
“Almost. We have two dead chefs and one member of your team who didn’t survive. And I have a sommelier who is hospitalized with two broken legs.”
“Who on my team?”
It’s David. I’m sure of it. He never checked in.
“Rosen.”
Shit. David. I drop my head and give my man the respect of my silence before Barone’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Security cameras have Rosen leaving the building just before nine forty and lighting up a joint in the alley—” He turns his scowl on me as if he’s disappointed in me, as if I provided the blunt to my employee or forced him to smoke it. “Six minutes later, key card access has him returning. Cameras picked up Rosen and another gentleman who I haven’t been able to identify walking through the back hall, carrying a duffel. The man is dark blond with a scraggly beard and heavily tatted. He slipped out the kitchen exit within a minute or two.”
“And Rosen?
Christian studies me. “According to the footage, Rosen went to the mechanical room, dropped the duffel and opened it, was doing something on his phone when the notification went out to clear the building. He seemed to waiver between getting downstairs and staring at that bag. He ended up not leaving.”
“What was in the bag?”
“According to DPD? The explosives.”
I clench my eyes shut. I hired David. I liked him as an employee. We didn’t hang out and drink beer on Sundays—I don’t do that with anyone—but I thought he was decent.
“The mechanical room was fortuitous as it turns out. Allowed for the building to almost implode instead of taking out surrounding buildings.” He doesn’t finish the thought.
He owns the block. One building destroyed is merely a setback when someone has as much money and clout as he and his wife do. A city block in Denver, however, would be costly in every way, most especially in PR.
And Barone isn’t about PR except in the sense that he controls the narrative and doesn’t ever need image assistance. He’s the charity gala type, not the image rehabilitation type.
I nod. Not in agreement, but simply in acknowledgment.
“Suicide bomber doesn’t stand up to his history or resume. Was it a set up? What are we missing?”
“That’s for you to find out. In the meantime—” He points a remote over my head to a wall of screens that run security camera footage. “Here’s the guy we’re looking for. He’s on DPD’s radar, but with only two business days since the explosion, they haven’t brought the results I’m used to.”
Pressing both my hands into the armrests, I twist to look over my shoulder at the screen and straight at the face of Troy Smith. Son of a bitch!
I fight to keep my body from showing any reaction. Any connection to me could make me liable, and that’s a no go. I don’t have any problem taking Barone down, but that’ll be me, not the Lost Mountain Rebels or some punk from the periphery.
I turn and lock my gaze with his. “On it.” It’s all I say as I push up from the chair to leave.
“Ren?”
I turn when I get to the door. “Yeah?”
He nods to my left hand. “Personal business?”
