Page 4 of Dirty Love

Not my fault I’ve got real shit to do the rest of the time.

There’s no real parking back here in the alley, but Mack Evans owns the building I’m in front of, a few doors down from the legendary Dupont Circle watering hole. A place where people come to have important conversations. Close to international embassies and offices of lobbyists. Fixers, too, like The Horus Group.

Jason Evans, Cole Parker, Tag Browning and me. Wilson Carter. Funded at first by Jason’s half-brother, Mack, a New York billionaire, and now…well, we’re doing okay on our own, because we’re the best at what we do. Crisis management, security.

Fighting like pit bulls, figuratively and literally.

And that’s why I’m here tonight.

We have it on good authority there will be a meeting here tomorrow night. A popular white nationalist leader, Spencer Rook, will be holding court—that’s not a secret. He’s blogged about it and is practically taunting the media to come and cover him drinking whiskey and spouting bullshit in the same wingback chairs senators and lobbyists relax in.

But in a private room upstairs, there will be another meeting. One he’ll either duck into after he holds court, or maybe be a part of beforehand.

A shadowy international organization—that at one point hired our firm before we told them to fuck right off—has an interest in Rook. They’ll be using him, or working with him, to make plans.

We need to know what those plans will be.

My job tonight is to get in and out of every private meeting space in the building and leave it bugged in an undetectable way.

I have everything I need stashed in the pockets of my leather jacket. Micro transmitters, filament sound recorders, impossibly small fish-eye cameras. I fucking love tech. Wiring a space used to be complicated. Now I can do it in as much time as it takes to fake a sneeze and tap my hand against the wall.

Inside, I move like a man looking for someone. A date, maybe, or more likely a business acquaintance. I want everyone who sees me to recognize my movements as ordinary and forgettable. I want to be seen and forgotten. The mind’s ability to erase ordinary data is my biggest advantage. Even men who know me will see me approach Deacon Webb at the bar and have a drink with him, and assume we’re old friends catching up.

Operating inside expectations is an excellent way to disguise unexpected behavior.

Friends isn’t exactly how I’d describe my relationship with the secret service agent. Acquaintances with a shared mission at times is more like it. But nobody knows that. More to the point, nobody cares.

“You’re back in town,” I say, sliding on to the barstool next to him.

He gives me a sideways glance. “I’ve been recalled from the Los Angeles office. The service is going to have to bloat up for six months, remember?”

I make a face and he laughs. I hate politics. “Is it an election year?”

“Fuck off.” He grins and waves over the bartender. “You here to meet someone?”

“Just finished a meeting,” I lie. “I’ve got time for a drink.”

I met Deacon at the CIA. He wasn’t there long. The Secret Service detail is more his speed, and he doesn’t know most of the levels on which I operated. He’s not dense—not at all. He knew me first as Branch, but accepts my new Wilson identity with ease. Nobody does that without some context. But he’s a genuinely good guy, driven by a noble sense of purpose.

We offered Deacon a job when we started up. He just laughed. He likes Homeland Security, although he’s never been a fan of the presidential security part of the role. Financial crimes are his specialty.

“How long do you think you’ll be around?” I take a long, slow sip of a top-shelf vodka. I’d gotten used to having him in the L.A. office. It had been helpful for my purposes.

“Just up until the election.” His jaw flexes and I run down the list of candidates declared for both political parties that might need Secret Service protection at this point. I hate politics—that doesn’t mean I don’t follow them closely. His reaction and the timeline point to one strong possibility.

Deacon’s going to be on the security detail for billionaire Victor Best.

Fucking hell. This is better than him being in the financial crimes office. I take another slow sip.

“Spit it out,” Deacon growls under his breath.

“He’s got interesting friends.” Friends I’ve investigated. Friends I’ve set up and taken down.

“We’re aware.”

“Isn’t he going to be deposed in the Gerome Lively case?” Sex crimes, human trafficking, kidnapping…the list of crimes that Lively’s going to be pinned with is lengthy. Cole and Hailey had a lot to do with nailing that bastard to the wall.

“Not if his lawyers have anything to say about it.” Deacon’s voice is tight, clipped. “Nothing changes our responsibility to keep him safe as a potential candidate for the highest office in the land.”

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