Page 16 of Code Name: Harbor

Marcus leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. “I see a man who has spent almost ten years keeping his life in two buckets and now he’s about to put a federal agent in one of them.”

“She’s not a federal agent.”

“She’s closer to being a cop than she is to being a smuggler.”

He’s not wrong. It’s a risk to even go sniffing around Josie McAdams.

“Acknowledged,” I finally say. It would be smartest to let it go.

My security system chimes again on my phone. That would be Connie, my second-in-command after Marcus. She sometimes handles small runs with her own crew, and this is our weekly get-together to look at future jobs.

She doesn’t come through the house the way Marcus did but rather around the side yard. “Figured you boys would be out here enjoying the sunset.”

I’ve known Connie Modesto since my days living on the street and boosting cars to make a living. She came from the same school of hard knocks that I did, except she’s managed to avoid prison, unlike me.

She’s wearing an old, beat-up leather jacket that she’s had since I first met her. Her dark hair is loose rather than the rope braid she wears while on the water.

She drops into the chair opposite Marcus and kicks her booted feet onto the table. I don’t bother to correct her because manners aren’t all that important to me.

“Everything set for tonight?” she asks.

I nod. “Yeah… we have a midnight meet time.”

“I can do it for you,” she says.

“I know you can, but I need to go. He’s insisting on me.”

This new proprietor of illegally moved fine art will look to acquire more, and he wants to check me out. Which is fine.

“I can go with you,” she offers, crossing one ankle over the other. “Keep you company.”

“No thanks.” I have a few reasons for declining the offer, the most important of which is the danger involved. A close but secondary reason is to keep a bit of arm’s length with Connie. She can sometimes get clingy with me and while she’s one of my oldest friends, I’m not into her that way.

“Why?” she asks and Marcus shifts uncomfortably.

“Because I said so,” I reply, my jaw set in a hard line.

She considers that, shifting a glance at Marcus before shrugging nonchalantly. “Fine.”

The sun has almost fully dipped now, and the patio heaters keep us comfortable.

“Finn sent the woman we fished out of the drink flowers today,” Marcus says casually, and my head whips his way. I shoot him a death glare but he pretends not to notice.

Connie sits up straight, boots slapping on the patio. “You sent her flowers, Finn?”

“None of your business, Connie,” I warn.

But she’s not put off in the slightest. She leans toward me, slapping my knee and not in a playful way. “You pulled a federal asset out of the water—”

“She’s not a federal agent,” I grumble.

“You send flowers to a woman looking to take down smugglers—which is what we do, by the way—and you don’t think this is a problem?”

“Connie—”

“No,” she snaps, standing up and looming over me. “You shot at one of Voronin’s men while you were pulling this woman out of the water, which put you, Marcus, The Quartermaster, the painting in our hold, and our entire operation in danger. And then you sent her flowers, which invites a relationship. Did I miss anything?”

“That’s about the gist of it,” I say dryly.