McEvoy nods slowly. “And I still never have. Told you, never will.”
Satra drops her gaze to the water’s edge. “There’s an expression on my island, Erwin. That the simplest answer, the simplest solution, is often the right one.” She glances back up at McEvoy. “So when the Shaws pay for a twenty-gallon obi shipment with magic counterfeit, when the shipment is signed by the Boss of the Shaws himself? The simplest answer is that the Boss authorized it. That you tried to get away with a free shipment before cutting ties.” She takes a step forward. “And yet, you appear before me, ready to convince me different.”
My thoughts race to follow, to make sense of Satra’s accusations—
So the Shaws used magic counterfeit to pay for an obi shipment?
Magically manipulating money by replicating the real thing—the practice is only used by gang loan sharks, who flip conjured loans to gamblers and junkies in such hot water, and so desperate for any form of cash, that they don’t think through the consequences of using magic counterfeit. But outside of that bunch of sad sacks, magic money has no real market, for the reasons Satra’s implying. Sure, it looks like the real deal—but any underworld goon knows that sorcered cash disappears after a day, like all pure magic. So trying to pay a smuggler in magic counterfeit? Business-ending. And pulling a trick like that on Satra James? Suicidal.
“There’s apparently a fuckup within my organization,” McEvoy says with a forced smile. “As soon as I get to the bottom of it, the mistake will be taken care of.” He cracks his fingers, like a tic. “Expect payment in full, plus five percent considering our history, for the annoyance.”
“You really expect me to believe that this was all the mistake of some low-level gofer?” Satra takes another step forward. “You want to end our alliance? Be a man, say it to my face.”
“I told you, I knew nothing about it!” McEvoy finally snaps. Then he quickly straightens his coat in an attempt to collect himself. Because that admission—that the Boss of the Shaws doesn’t know what’s happening within his ranks—isn’t quite comforting either.
“Time to find out the truth.” Satra nods, signaling to the two female sorcerers behind her. I take an instinctive step forward, to protect him, but McEvoy raises his hand, tells me to stand down.
The sorcerer behind Satra’s left raises her hand slowly, almost solemnly, and then McEvoy sputters, coughs, and his head snaps back unnaturally.
“Sir—” I start.
“He’s fine,” Satra barks.
McEvoy’s head starts lolling around, his eyes fly back in his head. And then Satra’s other sorcerer takes a careful step toward him, as if her feet barely touch the dock. She approaches McEvoy like a mother approaching a sick child, lays her hand right over McEvoy’s head. McEvoy’s entire body quivers at her touch.
I’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s like they have him in some kind of possessive spell, like they’re ravaging his mind, digging into its corners and pillaging its pockets for the truth. This is obviously why they needed to see McEvoy in person.
Despite my charge to protect the man, like a reflex I take a small step back.
There’s no way in hell they can get their magic hooks into me.
“He’s telling the truth,” the sorcerer says. She releases her hand from McEvoy’s forehead, and her partner drops her hand behind Satra. McEvoy is released, starts hacking, doubling over next to me on the dock. I fall to his side, offer him my hand to stand.
“Sorry to doubt you.” Satra waves her sorcerers back to their boat. “But considering the circumstances, Erwin, you understand why I needed to hear it this way.” McEvoy is a big man, built of steel and broad shoulders, but Satra is intimidating in another, subtler way. Tall, thin, beautiful, she eclipses McEvoy like a shadow. And I’d be damned if McEvoy’s not sweating under his fifty-dollar coat.
“Some advice, friend. If the simplest answer is often right,” Satra whispers, “things don’t bode well for you.” She lets her warning fall over us as she steps onto the hull of her boat. “I’ll expect that payment by the end of the month, plus the promised premium.” She nods once more as she settles into her cutter. “Take care of yourself, Erwin.”
*
McEvoy and I walk back to the car briskly, without a word. McEvoy opens his passenger-side door and slides inside. He’s honest-to-God shaking. I’ve never seen the man rattled, and it petrifies me.
“Goddamn it,” he whispers.
I get in behind the wheel. And even though my pulse is still pounding and the cold has stolen my breath, all I can think is that Agent Frain and I are onto something. There’s a shift inside the Shaws, and someone has McEvoy’s number. Someone’s tampering with his operation, slowly but methodically, one aspect at a time.
“Sir,” I try, “why did you keep it to just me and you tonight?”
“I need a hit, Alex.”
“Sir—”