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Things are gonna get interesting real fast.
“Malone?”
I glance over at Jones at the bar in the depths of the Obsidian Knights’ headquarters, the lowest level where there aren’t sex slaves who are there for pleasure and money. Sex shows, women, or even men if that’s your thing, are reserved for the higher floors where the secret, private playrooms are situated. And then there’s O Ring, where the most exclusive and elite play.
“I’m in.” I lean against the bar. “We’re all good.”
“In. You mean with the girl? Scarlett?”
“Look, I know what I’m doing,” I say, not liking the faint tones of disapproval and wariness in his voice. I play with my Laphroaig single malt, avoiding his hard stare.
It’s probably a thirty-year. I’m not sure. But it’s what I need right now.
I’m more of a Japanese whiskey fan, but JM isn’t. And when I drink single malt, this is my preference. Not the most expensive, but the best.
“Unless, of course, you think you could do the job better.” My words are soft, laced with a challenge, and he doesn’t miss them.
“That,” says Jones, “isn’t what I’m saying.”
In one corner, Orion and Mercer sit huddled at a table, talking about something in hushed tones. Obviously, something personal and not work-related.
At the other end of the bar, the Black Widow and Smith are in deep conversation. I don’t miss the pointed looks he throws me every few minutes, and I know that even though he’s focused on her, his mind is half on my job.
I’m good at reading people, and a quick look around at the others tells me they’re just here for drinks and probably the shows upstairs.
Jones is full of shit.
And I know I should play it carefully, or just by the fucking rules, but really, I don’t give a flying fuck about rules.
“So you don’t think you can do this better? You think I know what I’m doing?”
“I’m not your fucking boss.”
My lips lift into a smirk. “So there isn’t a hierarchy?”
“Watch your tongue, because I’d hate to have to cut it out.” Jones picks up his drink, then turns so his back is to the bar and he’s looking at everyone else. But his attention is completely on me. “I only give a damn about the list.”
“Why?” I ask.
“UR Fantasies wants details so they can take out their competition.”
“Not what I asked, and half the time what clients say they want isn’t the full truth. And I don’t give a damn either way.” I want this done so I can kill that motherfucker Hanlon. The job is a means to an end. “The daughter’s my key. You know it. But you still haven’t told me what you’re really after. No bullshit, Jones.”
He shifts against the bar, his eyes scouting the rest of the space. “The list and the information it might unlock.”
Might means will. And to be honest, it isn’t my business. I’m only responsible for completing the job. But I cast him a look. He doesn’t usually poke into my process. Actually, he never does that. So whatever isn’t my business is big. Or at least has the potential to be.
The Obsidian Knights do a lot of different things, and we manipulate and control much of the darker parts of the world. Sometimes it takes bad to take out evil. Like the worst kind of trafficking.
That’s when it hits me.
UR Fantasies traffics, but in a morally gray area. The girls they bring here know what they’re getting into. When it comes to bringing down people in the dark arena of the sex trade, UR Fantasies are the “better” guys. But there’s someone on their books, or on the hidden client list, who has nothing to do with UR Fantasies. And everything to do with something much, much darker. Something the higher-ups of the Knights want.
A network, maybe? Does it even fucking matter to me?
Apart, of course, from idle curiosity.
“So,” I say, “I do the job and get you the client list and the past-dated schedules.”
