Page 7 of The Biker's Brother

Brand looked at the car, then looked Dyson over.

“No. Really. You didn’t need to work so hard at trying to impress me.”

Dyson was mildly amused. When they were both in the car and pulling away, he glanced at Brandon and said, “We haven’t been able to hide in a sea of dark suits and white shirts since the sixties. The only way we can stay inconspicuous is to look near-homeless. People don’t ogle folks who are down and out.”

Brandon nodded. “Makes sense.”

Dyson eyed Brandon’s search through the bags.

“Trackable devices.”

“I checked already.” Dyson sounded a tad indignant.

“Good. If we both check and find nothing, then we stand double the chance of being right.”

Dyson seemed to relax with that explanation, hearing that it wasn’t a commentary on his performance or a lack of belief in his competency.

“There’s a room over there.” He nodded toward a back corner. “It’s got a bed, a TV, a refrigerator, microwave. We have you as go-time tomorrow at ten. You’ll need to leave here at nine fifteen to be in position. Here’s your cover.”

He handed Brandon a black windbreaker with the Con Ed emblem on the left breast, where a pocket might be if there was one.

“Thanks.” Brand took the jacket.

“Need anything else?”

Brand looked around. “Food in the fridge?”

“Yeah. More than you can eat.”

“Then no. I’m good.”

“Alrighty then. See you in the a.m.”

Brandon had just polished off two microwavable ham and cheese breakfast biscuits and downed eight ounces of orange juice when he heard one of the warehouse bay doors opening. He glanced at the clock on the microwave. Nine o’clock.

He slipped the Con Ed jacket on. Tucked his toiletries into his dopp kit, zipped the kit up inside his leather bag, and pulled the strap over his shoulder. He looked around the room one more time to be sure he hadn’t left anything. It was force of habit. He’d left a Sig Heuer watch in a hotel room once. Needless to say, it didn’t turn up in lost and found.

Sure. He could afford to buy the Sig Heuer company without even affecting his bank account, but even rich people don’t like to waste money.

When he reached the Con Ed truck, Dyson was standing next to it. “Have a good night?” he asked cheerfully.

“I’ve had worse.”

“No doubt. You need directions?”

Brandon let himself smirk since his back was turned putting his bag into the back next to the Carmichael girl’s. He was as New York as it came and could have found his way around in his sleep.

“No. I studied up.”

“You sure?”

“Positive, but thanks.”

“Okay. The package is in play and on schedule. See you back here,” Dyson looked at his watch, “before ten thirty.”

Brandon nodded as he opened the van door and settled in behind the wheel.

When Cami Carmichael left her building she spotted the three bodyguards her family had hired to make sure she was delivered safely into the hands of the SSMC. They were dressed randomly, one in a suit, one in jeans and a hoodie, one in athletic wear. One was across the street and two were on either side of the door to her building, spaced a few yards apart. Her gaze deliberately passed over them so that no one would notice that they drew her attention. She went inside the Starbucks that was on the street level of her Boston condo building.

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