Nevertheless, I’m pissed as hell that she was here, and I snag my phone from my pocket, and dial Royce. “Kara was just here. What the fuck happened to contained?” I’ve barely issued the question when the woman Kara had followed exits the bathroom, her cleavage indeed deep, her features harder and darker than Myla’s, but none of these things matter. What matters is the way she pauses, looking at me like she expects me to walk her back in the bathroom and fuck her here and now.
She points and says, “I…I’ll see you back at the table.” She rushes past me, but not before I spy a certain familiar mix of fear and desperation in her eyes that has me flashing back to the past. To the moment when a helicopter that was supposed to have Myla inside exploded, and Kara had let out a blood-curdling scream at the loss of her sister. Then to a moment later that night when I’d watched the security footage of Myla just before she walked to the rooftop where the incident had taken place. She’d passed a camera and looked right into the lens, and there was no mistaking the fear and desperation in her eyes that spoke to me. I wanted to save her. I needed to save her, and then the damn helicopter had blown up, leaving her dead in everyone’s mind but mine for some reason.
“Kyle,” Royce snaps. “Are you there? Is your cover blown? Are you in danger?”
Shaking off the memory, I return to the present. “No and no,” I reply. “I have to get back to my meeting. I’ll call you when I can and no sooner, but no more fucking surprises.” I end the connection and clear the record of the communication, already walking as I do.
Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I re-enter the bar, and make my way to Juan and the woman who now sits across from him, in the spot that would be mine, obviously meant to force me to choose to sit by one of the two of them. Not about to be forced into anything, I grab a chair from a nearby table and place it at the end of the booth, effectively putting me between them both.
Juan arches a brow. “You have a problem sitting with us?”
“I prefer a workable distance.” I eye the woman and then him. “Is she my new assignment?”
“She’s my sister,” he says, the announcement shifting my gaze back to him.
A sister who hates her life and wants to be saved. He’s a bigger bastard than I imagined. “You want me to protect your sister?”
“I protect my sister,” he corrects.
“Then why’s she here?”
“To see how easily you’re distracted,” he says, confirming she was a test.
“I’m not. Now what?”
“You’re very white in the midst of a Mexican operation,” he comments, the change of topic obviously meant to rattle me. It doesn’t work.
“For an extra million I’ll get a tan,” I promise dryly.
“You stand out,” he says, as if I haven’t spoken. “You draw attention to us we don’t need and I don’t like that you’re ex-FBI.”
“And here I thought you enjoyed turning law enforcement against its own. If I make you nervous-”
“Not nervous,” he snaps. “Suspicious and yes. We like corrupting the supposedly incorruptible, but this is too close to comfort for me.”
“And yet we’re on meeting number three.”
“The closer you are, the easier to put a bullet in your head,” he counters.
My lips quirk. “Had I known we were going to talk dirty tonight, I’d have had a drink first.” I don’t give him time to reply. “Why am I here?”
“Because the powers that be think this is a good idea,” he says, no doubt referencing Alvarez.
“Does he win this conflict, or do you?”
“He always wins, but I influence him.” He pauses. “Strongly.”
My eyes narrow, finding a bluff in his call. “Time is money. Two free meetings is all you get, and this is number three.” I repeat and I start to stand.
“Wait,” he says, stopping me midway to my feet. “You’re hired.”
I hesitate several beats for effect, then slowly ease back into my chair. “I thought I was a sore thumb FBI agent?”
He ignores the remark. “A million dollars for eight weeks of work.”
It’s double the named price, which tells me the person I’m mean to protect is closer to Alvarez than I’d thought. “Who am I guarding?”
“Does it matter? You’re making a million fucking dollars.”
“Do you want the person protected or not?”
His eyes glint hard and he reaches into his pocket, handing me an envelope. I accept it and open it, finding a contract for the money discussed with the terms for which I will perform my duties. The jest. No one gets killed, captured, or wounded, or I pay the money back times two, while further consequences will be considered.
“I need to meet the person in question before I sign this.”
“We’ll be in touch.” He stands and so does the woman, whose name I don’t even know at this point, and they leave.
Standing, I follow in their footsteps, dialing Royce as I do, and stating, “Where do you want to meet?”
“Your buddy’s bar,” he says, naming a spot downtown, which one of my ex-FBI pals now runs. It’s also a place I know I’ve been followed to many times, making a trip there expected rather than suspicious. A perfect place to have a one-on-one with the ever hard-headed men of Walker Security.
***