CHAPTER 27
Cruise control. Shane was definitely on cruise control. Not a state that was completely unfamiliar, and in fact, he did some of his best work after completely blanking out his emotions. So it really was going to be okay. It was going to be how it should be.
He had no choice but to head back to the Armory after a few days working out of the hotel. Dex was going over his blueprint with Missy in her office when he came to pick up his own.
Shane waited in the hall until Dex came out. He’d never gotten a response to the e-mail he’d sent describing how he and Cecily had unexpectedly rendezvoused with James, so he didn’t know what to expect.
Dex calmly took his measure of Shane and said, “You look like shit,” which was somehow a big fucking relief given what he might have said.
And Dex was right. Shane hadn’t slept a whole hell of a lot the last couple of nights, and it didn’t look like that was going to change now that he was subbing for Romeo on top of his other work.
“Feel like shit,” Shane said. “Listen, Dex.” He hesitated a moment and then came out with it. “Told you what went down with James. Doesn’t matter that Cecily and I got no future. When the team’s done with James, I’m gonna find and deliver the full message I didn’t get a chance to deliver. I’m gonna look out for our girl and make sure he doesn’t bother her again.”
Dex stared at the floor for a good while and then said, “When that time comes, looks like I got plans to join you.” With a curt nod, he was on his way.
Missy held out Shane’s blueprint and pushed a box across the desk, looking like she was waiting for him to start a conversation he was certain he was never going to start. Which is why she started it for them. “Can I give you a piece of advice for future reference?” Missy asked, filling the box as Shane began systematically checking that she’d included everything he needed: ear wire, a chauffeur’s cap, a solid black necktie, and a gun.
“No.”
“I think you’ll appreciate what I have to say,” Missy told him.
Shane gave her a look that said he doubted it.
“It’s a good idea that when you finally fuck a girl you like, you maybe do something nice after. Like a phone call. A note is fine too. Something that says, you know, ‘Hi, I’m aware you’re not a blow-up doll. Have a nice day.’ No matter what you read in those men’s magazines, breaking up with someone right after fucking them for the first time does not belong in the ‘something nice’ column.”
Shane did not need this shit. It had taken him days to get himself back in Hudson Kings headspace after breaking things off with Cecily, and now that he was in the zone, he intended to stay there. “Gonna pretend you did not say at least three unbelievably ridiculous things just now. Holster, please.”
Missy made a disgruntled sound but shut up and tossed exactly the kind of holster he liked into the box.
Twenty minutes later he met with Roth and Flynn and Chase, who were doing the break-in portion of the job. Shane would rather trespass and burglarize a Russian mobster’s girlfriend’s house than sub for Romeo’s gig, but at least he got to be in a car. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d argued with one of Rothgar’s assignments. This didn’t rate to be the first.
After the meeting, he headed to the garage to check out a piece of shit from the latest rotation of disposable cars. He got into one he didn’t remember ever driving and headed to Kimper’s, reviewing the rest of the to-dos as he drove. Address to, address from, backstory, the stall in which the prepped limo was parked at Kimper’s, Anya Gorchakov’s very sexy picture, which looked like something from a boudoir shoot of questionable taste, and the rundown of his story line. Officially, he didn’t know anything about anything except that the car service had called him as a sub; he was an out-of-work construction worker moonlighting as an Uber Luxury driver who also subbed for Patricia Kimper’s Upper East Side car service.
Gussied up, ear wire tested, and story absorbed, Shane parked his own ride in the back and then headed into Patty’s stable. She was at the desk exactly as he remembered her from a few other gigs in the last couple of years: two yellow Dixon Ticonderoga No. 2s propping up a mess of dark curls and her eyeglass-framed face nearly pressed down to the green-lined ledger she was writing in.
“Hey, Romeo,” she grunted more than said, not looking up. Then it must have hit her: the different cadence of his walk or his smell or something. Because her hand reached slowly under the desk, stopping only when he said, “It’s Shane. Sorry to scare you. Roth put me on sub.”
Her eyebrow arched, and a laugh slowly erupted. “Really.” Just really. And then she aimed the car keys at his bicep instead of his hand and said, “No offense, but I really try to talk as little to you guys as possible. Ciao, bello.”
Fuck, thirty years old and she can barely fucking see. He almost asked if Roth had someone watching over her. But Roth had someone watching over everyone who mattered. “Ciao, bella,” he said gently and went to retrieve the limo.
With the earpiece on, Shane listened to Hudson Kings chatter as the rest of the team prepped for the break-in. Everything seemed to be going according to plan. At the time specified, he parked in front of the skyscraper housing Vlad Sokolov’s real estate development company and several floors of incredibly expensive condominiums, called his position in to HQ, and waited.
Anya was early, and Shane was a little surprised to see she was escorted out the door by her boyfriend this time, as the logs from their surveillance had never suggested that was his MO. He called that bit of information in too.
The boyfriend must have weighed three hundred pounds and looked less like the successful—if crooked—financier he actually was and more like he’d been holed up replaying Bobby Fischer’s greatest moves, without a decent shower or a vegetable side dish to be found.
Shane took a deep breath and tried to inhabit his role, making an effort to look stupid and unremarkable if anyone happened to glance a little closer. This didn’t stop him from observing the way Anya held her body away from Vlad’s and quickly bussed both of his cheeks, the idea apparently to let as little of him touch her as possible. Her distinctive purple handbag with brass knuckle handles was strategically placed between them, and the flyaway fur on the collar of her coat seemed to be shedding into his mouth.
Shane got out of the car and went around to open the door.
Anya gave no sign she recognized him from any of his surveillance activities. She paused as her boyfriend disappeared back into the lobby and Shane held the door. “You’re new,” she said. Thick Russian accent. Smoky, appraising eyes. Her black hair was slicked down, and her hot-pink lipstick was perfectly applied, almost angular in its application.
Her eyes flicked back to the skyscraper door, which had already swung shut, and then ran the length of Shane’s body. She was hot just eating a salad, and Shane was discovering that when you actually had her full attention, she was even hotter. But she wasn’t close to what he wanted. Funny, he never thought of himself as a guy with a type until Cecily. Glitter T-shirts molded to her tits, jeans and sneakers, that gorgeous hair and those perfect legs, tight little ass and a thousand-watt smile. A hot little piece and a big warm heart.
Fuck. Don’t think about Cecily. Just the job.
“Just a sub,” he said with a shrug, forcing a polite smile, staring at her mouth. It would be more suspicious to pretend he didn’t appreciate her looks. He just wished the effect wasn’t comparing how much more he wished she were Cecily.
He settled Anya into the car and got them moving. “On our way,” he said for the benefit of both Anya and Rothgar on the other side of his earpiece.
“Shane, it’s HQ. Snag. We need more time.”
“There’s not much traffic,” Shane said casually. “I’ll have you there in no time.”
“Find some traffic,” Rothgar said into his ear. “You know what we discussed.”
Yeah, Shane knew what they’d discussed. But that kinda shit was Plan B. His mind was full of a bunch of questions he could not verbalize with Anya in the car. Questions like “Come on, guys, what the fuck is taking you so long to get the goods?” and, oh, maybe “What the hell is going on?”
“I’m not in any rush,” Anya said, watching his eyes in the rearview mirror just like Cecily had.
Shane silently requested a slew of red lights and then had to ask himself why he was making this a big deal. He dealt with the unexpected all the time. That was part of his job. Why was he letting the thought of Cecily get in his way if he’d already given her up?
Shane hit another green light. “We’ll be there soon.”
“Find some traffic, Shane. You know what she likes,” Rothgar repeated, his voice edged with tension.
“I’d really like a drink, but there’s something wrong with the minibar. Could you pull over and have a look, please?” Anya asked. Shane glanced in the mirror; Anya had not actually tried to get anything out of the minibar.
Cecily is not your girlfriend. She is not your girlfriend, and you’ve already confirmed that you don’t make sense. Do not fuck up a job for an idea that doesn’t have legs.
Speaking of legs. The rearview mirror revealed Anya had gone commando. “Driver?” she asked.
“Solve this,” Rothgar said coldly into his ear.
Shane turned into a cul-de-sac and eased the car to a stop.
He paused for a moment, staring through the windshield, knowing that if it came to it, he could make his body betray him just the way Rothgar wanted him to.
Close your eyes and think of oranges. And then go home and rip Romeo a new one.