Page 27 of Pretty Threats

War and I enter the clearing that’s the site of the meeting. On one side, there’s an unlit fire pit and some equipment. On the opposite side, there are a couple of outdoor couches made of that plastic wicker stuff. The outdoor furniture, with its square black cushions, kind of looks like the living room furniture at our house.

C and Scott Patrick, aka Trick, sit on either end of one couch. Trick is Jamie’s cousin, and he looks a lot like him, except Trick’s got brown hair and is about a decade older than us. The years have taken the right amount of smoothness off the shine. Unlike with Jamie, no one would call Trick a pretty boy now. Not that anyone smart would’ve to his face in the past, either, I’d imagine. Trick’s a stone-cold killer. All the C Crue founders are.

C and Trick stand and shake our hands before we all sit. War and I are at either end of the black couch facing theirs. War leans back into his corner while I sit forward with my forearms on my thighs.

Trick takes the burn phone from me and casually pops its SIM card out. No personal cell phones are allowed at a meeting site ever. Not theirs and not ours. Trick’s got a jammer too and some other tech set up on a tree stump near their couch. Even though this place is off grid, they’re cautious. It’s how they’ve amassed a multi-billion-dollar fortune without any of them doing a stint in jail.

I was “the doer” last night, so they want to hear from me first. I tell them about the hit, including that Wilson mistook me for someone else and then changed his mind and called me out by name.

“You had your mask on the whole time?” C asks.

“Yeah, from before we left the vehicle.”

Despite the lack of fire in the pit, a smoky smell lingers in the air. It’s infiltrated the cushions, so each time I move, I catch a whiff. It doesn’t bother me. I’ve always liked the smell of smoke.

C glances at Trick.

“Moran’s got the Sullivan green eyes,” Trick says. “The target might have noticed Killian doesn’t.”

Sullivan, of course. That’s how I know the name Shane Moran. He’s the grandson of Joe Sullivan, head of the Irish Mob in Boston.

“As to how he knows there’s a Callahan on campus, we’ll have to do some digging,” Trick says. “Your brothers have had a beef with people from Boston to New York, but all our kind of people. No one with ties to a prestigious university like Granthorpe.”

“Are the Dark Knights an Irish gang?” I ask.

“No,” C says. “Maybe a campus club. We’ll look into that, too.” C glances at Trick. “What do you think? Leave him or pull him?”

My muscles go rigid. I’ve long suspected our little cell is at GU for more than just business classes. The last thing I want is to be pulled out. Number one, because they hand-picked me for this job, and I want in on it. And second, because Raine’s at GU and it’s easier for me to keep an eye on things if I’m there, too.

“Leave him,” Trick says.

C thinks for a beat and nods. “All right, bonus time.”

War clears his throat and turns his big shoulders so he’s looking at me, rather than them. “You gonna tell them? Or am I?”

C’s hand is almost on a plastic-covered bundle of cash when it pulls back. Their laser focus returns to us.

“Something go wrong that you didn’t mention?” C says.

“Not at the job site,” I say. “During disposal of the materials, my stepsister showed up at the house. She was there because I sent a text with a typo. She thought I wanted her to come by, when I meant I’d go to see her later.”

It’s nothing but crickets and death stares. I know Trick’s armed. With one signaling look from C, he’ll end me with a single bullet. A lot of professionals do a double tap, but Trick doesn’t need to. His aim is always dead on. One and done.

“When did you send the text?” C asks.

“When we got back to the house.”

I know where he’s going with that question, and a second later, he gets there.

“You sent a text between the op and evidence destruction? Did you stop to eat a burger and some fries, too?” His gaze cuts to War who remains silent. “Did you catch it?”

War doesn’t answer.

“So, you saw him go in for his phone?”

I’m tempted to jump in, but the question isn’t for me, so I keep my mouth shut. What War says next and how he spins it will make or break me.

War leans forward, resting his forearms on his tree-trunk thighs. “Our phones were on a window ledge. O’Rourke brought them out while we were stripping out of the op clothes. Callahan was in nothing but shorts when he went to the ledge. Gloves, suit, mask, all in the barrel. He went while I was pouring the lighter fluid. By the time I stepped away from the barrel for O’Rourke to light it up, Callahan was already headed to the boat.”

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