Page 130 of Tapped

Brax shrugs as Rocco whistles and pulls out a chair like he’s settling in for a show. “Shit, I’m glad I stayed. I knew this was gonna be good.”

I look at Brax. “You told me my case bumped into another one. You didn’t tell me it was being puppeteered by the CIA.”

The man at the center of attention looks at Tim. “I told you he loves me.”

Cole Carson.

CIA Officer Cole fucking Carson.

He was the one who embedded Brax deep undercover with the Marino Cartel for two years.

Cole is arrogant, brazen, and ballsy.

He’s really fucking good at his job.

He also never stops talking.

The man needs an editor.

“I had so much fun playing with the DEA last time, that when a case came across my desk that was so intriguing it actually gave me a hard on, I said to myself, what the fuck, let’s do it again. I’m always down for a good time, and you special agents of the narcotic variety prove to be a shit ton of fun.” He looks around the room at his audience and exhales triumphantly. “And here we are. It’s good to be back.”

Point made.

My attention is pulled to the sullen, pissed-off man leaning against the wall at the side of the room. His hair is dark and shaggier than mine. He’s built more like Brax than me, but unlike my friend who looks like he could step off a fashion magazine at a moment’s notice, there’s nothing polished about this guy. His T-shirt dates the World Series more than eight years ago, and if his jeans are from this decade, then they’ve been through some stuff.

Just like him.

“Who are you?” I demand.

The guy glares at me.

If Cole is good for anything, it’s filling a void. “Micah, if you looked into a mirror and saw yourself in someone else, this would be it.”

I turn my glare on the CIA officer. “What does that even mean?”

“He’s said the same thing to me a hundred times now, and I have no fucking clue what it means,” the stranger bites. “All I know is your cash house was funding my case, but the funds dried up. Now my year-and-a-half mission in Panama was for nothing. That’s a long fucking time.”

Brax shrugs, unimpressed, and mutters, “Just saying, I did two years.”

The guy glares at Brax. “I know who you are.”

“Everyone knows who he is,” I interrupt. “But we don’t know who you are.”

“That’s not by accident,” he says.

Cole takes a step toward the middle of the room that could turn into a showdown at any moment and holds his hands out low. “I’m the common denominator here, per usual. Let me explain—”

I stop him right there. “I hope this explanation includes why you didn’t deconflict. I know I did, and my case didn’t tie into anything active.”

“Micah,” Cole drawls my name way too long. “We worked together the entire time Brax was under. You know I don’t do that.”

“Fucking CIA,” I hiss.

“We’re all a little irritable at the moment, but can we move past this and focus on what we can work with?” Cole keeps talking. “Everyone, this is Kingston Jennings. Or, as he likes to be called, King.”

I cross my arms, because this cannot be real. “King?”

“The one and only,” the self-proclaimed royalty confirms.

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