Page 33 of The Ghost Assassin

“I’ll handle it. You need to stay out of this.” I disconnect and call Lucas.

He answers with, “I’m working on it. I know you want info on Adams. It’s his time overseas I’m trying to get pinned down. There’s some chatter on the net about him I can’t decipher.”

“I heard it, too. I need details. Tell Tic Tac to text me what he has. Now.” I disconnect and ignore the judgment in Kit’s and Jay’s eyes. Rich isn’t our enemy. Director Adams could be another story, and that’s all that can matter right now, in this moment, when I’m about to sit down across from my new boss.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I don’t actually like the diner I picked for me and the new director to meet, but it’s a short walk and easy to get to. As a bonus, it sends a message to the interim director—there will be no sucking up on my end. If he wants to suck up to me, feel free.

As for why the diner sucks, the service is horrible, the coffee darker than my soul, which is pretty fucking dark, and the crowds illogically big for as crappy a place. Today though, Adams has taken a page from Ellis’ book, and there are two FBI agents at the door turning people away.

I know they’re FBI agents because Feds are pretty easy to recognize.

They look like people you want to hate.

Take, for instance, the two framing the door of the diner. They’re in suits, hair buzz cut—they must go to the same stylist—standing stiff, hands at their sides, ready to draw weapons. They want to shoot someone. That’s just not a likable quality unless it’s me—because I always want to shoot someone—but at least I tell jokes and openly judge people before I just go for my firearm.

I wave off my team. “You’re not getting in. Hold up the wall or something.”

They listen because the badges involved say they have no choice.

I walk toward the agents, and my cellphone buzzes with a text message and I glance down to find something from Tic Tac that reads: Adams is ex-Special Forces, well decorated, FBI for ten years. Followed quickly by a text from Jack: I found out there are rumors about Adams. I’m trying to weed through it all but just know, he could be a bad guy.

There are rumors about me, too, I think. I’m a teller of great jokes, a lover of strawberry pie, Cheetos, and chocolate. And I could be, most likely am, a killer, like my kingpin husband. And I still get my job done, so we’ll see where this leads with Adams. I step in front of the two guys, stupid déjà vu from yesterday. Stupid because this is just stupid. It’s a damn diner, where people are trying to eat. If the director wanted to be protected, he should have chosen the FBI offices.

“I’m The Chosen One,” I announce. “I get to go inside and have bad coffee.”

“Bug off,” one of them says. “Come back later.”

“Bug off,” I say. “Is that the same as fuck off? Because I’ll happily do that. Tell Adams Lilah said he can bug off, too. I kind of like that. It sounds so polite and yet it’s so vulgar.” I start to turn, and the second agent jumps in.

“Agent Love—”

“Mendez,” I correct. “I’m feeling gangsta today.”

“If I could just view your badge, we’ll get you right in the door.”

I point at the other guy. “But he told me to bug off. And his hand is twitchy. He might try to shoot me and then I’ll have to stab him. Or the assassin that killed Murphy could shoot me right here where I stand. Think how bad that will look for Interim Director Adams, being new on the job and all.” I hold out my badge anyway. I’m going inside.

The bug off dude opens the door for me. “Please step inside, Agent Mendez.”

“Open door service,” I murmur. “How polite.”

I step inside the diner, which is mostly dingy white as a theme, which is somehow more noticeable without a ton of bodies crammed into the place. A pretty, young blonde waitress greets me. “Good morning. So happy you can join us.”

She clearly missed the “be a bitch and give bad service” class. This place might be improving.

She points me toward Calvin Adams, the only guest in the place, and I head in that direction.

Speaking of young, my new boss is younger than I expected, maybe thirty-eight, with sandy-brown wavy hair that is most likely curly but refuses to straighten. He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt he compliments with cowboy boots. You can put a badge on a cop, but you can’t put new footwear on a Texan. I slide into the seat across from him and shrug out of my coat, which is restrictive and will limit my ability to shoot him.

“You’re so stereotypical,” I say. “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t say y’all and fixin’ a few times in this conversation. Do you drive an F-150?”

He grins. “I did in high school and college.”

“And now?”

“Whatever the agency gives me to drive. I was fixin’ to order some coffee. How about you?”

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