“She’s a great shot,” I say, lifting us both from the stool. “I can attest to that.” I give Beau a high brow, and her lips fall into a straight line. Any other man wouldn’t have stood a chance. Lucky for me, I’m a fast ducker. Plus, she wasn’t on true form, her broken wrist hampering her aim. On that thought, I check her now bare arm. She’s constantly clenching her fist, always circling her wrist, as per Doc’s instructions, trying to get some strength and movement back.
“You tried to shoot him?” Rose asks over a gasp. “You have to teach me.” She looks down at the gun again. “The last time I fired a gun, I aimed at a forehead and took out an eye socket.” Rose stills, frowning at her weapon for a few moments. “Ladies’ lunch?” she breathes, looking up a little dazed. I catch Beau’s curiousness. I bet that’s a story about to be told. Good. I’ll take all the distractions.
“Go get ready,” I say, patting Beau’s arse. “Check in every hour and be nice to your personal protection officer.”
“Who’s my personal protection officer?” she asks my back as I walk away.
“They’ll meet you in the foyer in half an hour.” Could be longer. Goldie and Otto are still arguing over who gets the pleasure.
When I get back to Danny’s office, I find what I knew I would. Goldie snarling at Otto. “I want to speak to HR,” she mutters. “This is discrimination.” As if to prove her point, she takes her gun from behind her back fast, disengages the safety faster, and has it aimed at Otto’s head even faster than that.
He backs up, hands in the air. “Will someone put a fucking leash on it?” he asks, exasperated. One of Danny’s men, Ringo, chuckles across the room. He pays for it, Goldie’s aim quickly moving to his chest.
“Pardon?” she asks, her head tilting, daring him to mock her again.
“Didn’t say a word.” He waves a hand indifferently, taking a seat on the couch next to Nolan and Brad.
“Well, I’m out,” Brad says. “I have a nightclub to run.”
I take a seat, getting comfortable, feeling we might be here a while.
“Who the fuck’s watching Rose and Beau?” Danny asks, his face displaying all the tiredness he’s feeling. “Because they’re getting ready to leave, and they’re going to be pretty pissed off if we”—his finger waves between his chest and mine—“are forced to go back on our word.”
Ringo sighs, moving into the middle of the room, just as Goldie does too. “I’ll do it,” they say in unison, throwing shocked looks each other’s way. I don’t give them a moment to reconsider or start bickering.
“Fine.” I stand, motioning to Otto. “I’ve got a few things to do.”
“Like?” Danny asks, interested.
“Like clear out my old wardrobe.”
“Brad’s arranged for me to meet someone to run the boatyard,” he says. “I thought you might like to join us.”
“You mean that derelict piece of waste land?” I ask.
He grins. “Not for long.”
“I’ll leave you to do the interviewing. See you later.” I pace to the door, eyeing Goldie and Ringo as I pass. I don’t need to say a word. They see the look in my eye, the one that tells them I won’t hesitate to kill if they let me down. They both nod. I don’t know why the fuck everyone was arguing over it. They should have jumped at the chance to take the most important role going at the moment.
“Meet me at the club later,” Danny calls, and I hold up my hand in acknowledgment, turning my attention to Otto. His beard has doubled in size since I left for St. Lucia. “You lost your razor?” I ask.
“Yeah, actually,” he mutters, feeling at his chin on a frown. “What’s the plan?”
“We need guns until Danny’s contact delivers.”
“If he delivers.”
“He’ll deliver,” I answer, certain of that. “I’ll drive.”
* * *
The conversation isn’t exactly flowing on our way across town to my building, but it’s comfortable. “The safety deposit box,” Otto says casually, turning the air con up.
“What about it?”
“When did he empty it and how did he manage that?” He’s not asking me per se, more voicing his thoughts, so I remain quiet, letting him continue. “How long has he known your true identity?”
“You’re assuming we’re right in our assumptions that there was information held in it,” I point out, although we both suspect that box at some point had some contents, and the flick of Otto’s tired eyes my way confirms it. Jaz Hayley was smart, and she outright told me she was keeping the information on me as security. Along with some other interesting information. So if they got into it, how the fuck did they manage that without a key? “I guess we’ll find out when Brad tracks down the bank manager.”
“Don’t you find it amusing that he had the face of the man hunting him all that time in the footage Dexter removed from the scene of Beau’s mother’s death?”
“Fucking hilarious,” I mutter. And if he really did get to that safety deposit box and my name really was in it, quite frankly, I’d be pissed off I didn’t get to see his face when he realized The Enigma, the man who tried to save Jaz Hayley, is the son of Spencer James. Really fucking pissed off, but along with accepting that I’d fallen in love with Beau Hayley, I accepted I couldn’t keep her as well as my secret. I’m still The Enigma. But no longer an enigma.
We turn into the street and a heaviness descends, the silence shifting to a wary quiet, my eyes darting high and low, as do Otto’s. I abandon the underground parking garage and continue down the street. “See anything?” I ask, swinging into a space.
“Nothing.”
We both get out and round the Range Rover, meeting at the trunk, opening it and arming ourselves. I know Otto has constantly scanned the CCTV over the weeks, but these days I’m living by the motto that you can never be too careful. We lock and load, tucking our weapons into the backs of our jeans as we pace to the main doors of the building—shiny new doors after Butler ramraided the place. Otto pulls up CCTV as I unlock them, looking through the glass.
“Every floor clear,” he murmurs, pulling out his gun.
I follow suit and step inside, listening. The whirring of the electric supply is all I can hear, the bank of surveillance screens on the desk the source. We pass them and Otto punches in the code to call the elevator, and the distant sound of the mechanisms kick in. I turn a questioning look onto Otto. I don’t need to speak. He’s thinking what I’m thinking. The elevator should still be on the first floor after we exited it weeks ago.
“When you came back to assist the guys replacing the doors?” I ask quietly.
“The elevator was here.”
It requires a code, so how the fuck did anyone use the elevator? In perfect unison, we each move to either side, pressing our backs to the wall, guns poised. My eyes on Otto, his on mine, the sound of the elevator gets louder until it eventually pings its arrival. The doors slide open. We wait.
Nothing.