Ten
Max
The SUV pulls up to a steel and glass monstrosity. It’s nothing like the quaint New Orleans architecture the city is famous for.
Part of the new, the skyscraper towers over the old, a grotesque testament to the ability of man to overcome and overshadow that which should be persevered and honored.
We exit the car and make our way inside. Knox and I check in at the massive reception desk on the first floor to announce our arrival.
I figure the receptionist will buzz some secretary upstairs who will approve us through. We’ll meet Deverough somewhere upstairs, but I’m wrong.
Carson Deverough waits on us. The moment I say our names, a man in a suit, sitting on a couch by the wall, stands and adjusts his tie. He hurries over to us, looking nervous as he glances around the crowded lobby.
Not the best move. I doubt Deverough ever greets clients himself, let alone in the lobby of his building. If he’s under surveillance, and I have no reason to believe he’s not, it’s a stupid move. It screams all kinds of not-my-usual-M.O.
“Mr. Sage? Mr. Alexander?” His hand shoots out for the obligatory meet and greet. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” With a sweeping gesture, he guides us to a bank of elevators in silence. “Please, come with me.”
Knox and I exchange a look after the awkward, formal but rushed greeting. We stand on either side of Carson Deverough, in complete silence, staring at the numbers counting down above the elevator cars.
I almost—almost—want to make a bet with Knox as to which of the twelve different elevator cars, six in front of us and the six behind, will win the race and open for us.
Mr. Sage and Mr. Alexander are our aliases. We aren’t taking a chance of being associated with anyone in law enforcement.
Kidnapping cases are traditionally the realm of the FBI, which we kind of look like with our Men-in-Black getups, all the way down to our dark sunglasses, but we also look like businessmen from out of town.
Okay, neither Knox, nor I, look like businessmen. We’re both well over six feet. We tower over those around us, and if not for our height, our brawn screams secret service or private security. Any way it’s measured, we’re formidable, and that attracts attention.
At Guardian HRS, our size, and bulk, means nothing. Every Guardian is built. Well, almost every Guardian. We do have two female Guardians. Members of Delta team, our unit that works with the FBI on domestic hostage rescue cases, Jenny, Delta-One, and Charlie, Delta-Six, are female. On first blush—not remarkable.
However, Jenny is tough as nails. She grew up in the slums of Brazil. Sam discovered her talents and recruited her to the Guardians. Charlie, aka Charlene, is a blonde-bombshell with perky double-Ds and a roundhouse kick that’s landed me on my back more than once. Feisty and wickedly smart, she’s a firecracker. Delta team is our only team with females, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t deadly. People underestimate them. It’s their first, and last, mistake.
As for Knox and myself, not many people wear full suits in the heat and humidity of New Orleans. That makes us stand out as out-of-towners. Which is totally okay. If people look into our company, all they’ll discover is a small start-up firm from New York interested in the import and export of Central American antiquities.
Following Deverough’s lead, we say nothing during the ride up to the fifty-fourth floor and nothing as he escorts us to his corner office.
His secretary glances up from whatever she’s doing and rises to greet us. “Gentlemen, welcome to Deverough Enterprises. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Tea? Whiskey?”
Whiskey?
I forget how southern businessmen conduct their affairs. It is after noon, but Knox and I are technically on duty. Not that it would stop us if we were undercover, which we are.
I smile at the woman. “Ice water would be great, and maybe a splash of that whiskey on top.” I say it tongue in cheek as if we’re getting away with something, but it’s just par for the course around here.
“I’ll have the same.” Knox gives me a wolfish grin. He likes my style.
“This way, gentlemen.” Mr. Deverough ushers us into his office, anxious to get us alone. Or maybe he doesn’t trust his staff? “Jenny, please hold all my calls.”
“Of course, Mr. Deverough.” Jenny departs to get our drinks while Knox and I take in Deverough’s spacious office.
Being a shipping mogul pays off: corner office, monstrous mahogany desk, leather of the finest grade in the couches and chairs, expensive art hanging on the walls, He knows how to make a statement.
“Thank you for coming all this way.” He unbuttons his suit jacket and sits behind his massive mahogany desk. Knox and I settle into the overstuffed leather chairs facing him and make ourselves comfortable.
Knox pulls out his phone and turns it on. It looks like he’s checking messages, but he’s really completing a scan of the room for bugs and other listening devices.
“Our pleasure.” I settle into the chair, kick a heel over my knee, and spread my arms out wide over the back of the chair. It’s a power move, not that I need it to intimidate Deverough.
He may be a powerful mogul in his world, but Knox and I physically outmatch him. Our very presence is sufficient to establish the pecking order. We’re trained killers, and we don’t hold our punches. It’s a powerful statement.
I’m actually enjoying the chill air piped through the air conditioning system. My balls are sweaty and my pits are damp from the sweltering summer heat outside. I’m just letting everything air out as I enjoy the cool office air.
“I don’t really know where to begin.” Deverough spreads his hands out wide over his desk.
Immediately, I read his body language. Dyslexia may have plagued me as a child, but I’ve always been able to read people. It’s why I’m such a great poker player—or was. I no longer gamble.
Deverough is scared. He feels out of control, which is why he’s grounding himself on the desk. That’s the center of his power, and he’s drawing what strength from it he can. He presses down on the wood, then pauses to look up at me. “How do we begin?”
My impression is he’s never had to ask that question in his life and shows how desperate the man is to bring his daughter home. Maybe he isn’t such a self-absorbed asshole after all?
I take a moment to read the rest of his body language, taking in every nuance. From the depths of his breaths to the pulse hammering in his neck, I read his facial expressions, the way he holds his body, and the subtle tells we all possess.
Still can’t believe he waited as long as he did to call in Guardian HRS. No matter the concern he displays today, I don’t trust the fucker.
“We have our tech team looking at the photos you sent earlier. Any other communication you have with the kidnappers we’ll need to see.” I broaden the spread of my knees, taking up more space, garnering more power. “Have you been contacted recently?”
Deverough may be our client, but he works for me now. Not the other way around.
“Just the last time. When they…” He swallows thickly. His Adam’s apple rises then lowers nice and slow, and his eyes close. They remain shut for a beat too long. Deverough clears his throat. “When they… when they asked for another ten million.”