Page 2 of Only the Devil
It’s a far cry from the team I left behind. But I’m still kicking. In combat and in life, you take the hits and keep moving. That’s the game.
When I met Hudson, KOAN’s director, I wasn’t sure if I’d like the buzz-cut stiff, but like me, he’s former Spec-Ops, although he went the Army track. He hasn’t said what brought him back into civilian life, and I haven’t asked.
Whereas I’m more of a full beard, floppy hair, screw-the-dress-code type, he’s textbook military. I can see why he’s the top dog. He’ll be good with clients, and from what I can tell, he’s as level-headed as they come.
The most important factor though—the reason why I insisted on a face-to-face before I took this job—my gut says he’s trustworthy. Sure, a paycheck’s nice, but I’m not one of those pricks who will break laws and kill for a living. Yeah, sure, some would claim I’ve gone dark, and I suppose I have since our little outfit is privately funded and aims for projects authorities either can’t or won’t touch, but like I told Hudson, I’m not here to wag my tail for a paycheck. Any project has to pass my sniff test before I buy-in, and he seems fine with that—another reason why he’s OK in my book.
Hudson drops into the head chair, coaster twisting between his fingers. “Jake.” A quick nod.
“Quinn coming?” I ask, meaning our resident tech. Odd one—doesn’t even play Call of Duty. I thought every coder did.
“She’s busy.” He doesn’t elaborate. Typical.
I glance at Noah, still jawing with Gwen at the bar. Gwen’s here most days, always with a smile and her old black Lab underfoot. A wall of dog photos grins down on her—ugly mutts, handsome retrievers, all of them loved. She laughs at whatever Noah says, sliding two full pints his way.
“So. What’s our next gig?”
That had been one of my hesitations about joining what you could call a “start-up.” But they assured me we’re fully funded, and even if the work hits a dry period, we’ll get our paychecks.
“Let’s wait for Noah before I read you in.”
We both look his way—still chatting up Gwen.
“I’ll nudge him,” I say to Hudson.
My boots echo in the quiet as I cross to the bar.
“Where’s the music, Gwen?” Noah asks.
“Whatchu wanna listen to?”
“Anything but country,” Noah says, then looks to me. “You need another?”
“No. Came to get your hairy-ass moving. We’ve got shop talk.”
“Oh?” Noah’s gaze falls on Hudson and his ramrod straight posture, staring out the window at the rain, clearly waiting.
When Hudson suggested we meet at The Ugly Dog, we thought it was all for the ole “good job, pat on the back, here’s a beer,” but apparently not. And I’m down with that, on account of staying employed and all.
“Hey there, boss,” Noah says as we both slide on opposite benches, Noah facing the pub, me looking out on the rain.
Hudson holds his beer up for a toast. “Here’s to a job completed. Well done, both of you.”
Our glasses clink and I set mine down without taking a sip.
“What’s our next gig?”
I don’t need a recap of the past project. There’s no report to write.
“Ironically,” Hudson says, “Rhodes MacMillan has hired us.”
My brows lift. Our last op had been tailing MacMillan himself—only to learn the real snakes were his so-called friends. Rich people problems. “Corporate espionage?”
Hudson shakes his head and flips his phone around. A photo fills the screen: sharp brown eyes, earrings climbing her lobe, dark hair pulled into two bushy little puffs. Lips set like she’s about to tell the world where to shove it.
Daisy Jonas. Hard to forget.
I remember the heat of gunfire, the stink of cordite, and her zip-tied hands trembling not with fear, but fury. She’d been ready to fight with nothing but rage and a glare. Tiny but fierce didn’t cover it. Not my usual type—hell, not even close—but damn if I didn’t like her fire. That girl could’ve been born in combat boots.
