Page 147 of The Wild Charge

“Dude, you told me about this place!”

Jensen frowned.

“It’s sweet!” With an inner cringe, he dropped down into the empty spot on the sofa beside Jensen. Jensen looked affronted – a few members of the entourage looked like they thought he was about to get punched – until he added, “What are we drinking? Next round’s on me.”

~*~

Sunlight flashed through the tinted windows of the Suburban, warm against Tenny’s closed eyelids. The hum of the engine, the light bounce of the SUV each time they hit a pothole – he could have been in any city, any country, any car. He’d done this more times than he could count; had started at thirteen, a prop in someone else’s operation. He’d been flying solo at fifteen; indispensable at eighteen. At some point, there was always a car full of handlers, and he’d always done this. Everything faded; he was only the steady breaths filling and leaving his lungs, his slow, regular heartbeat. He lifted each finger individually and tapped it back down on his thigh. Tensed and then relaxed each muscle, a cascade of tension that rippled from his jaw down, leaving him humming and loose afterward. He didn’t have a knife or gun on him, but this was his greatest weapon: his body. His reflexes, his muscle memory, his years of training. Nothing else mattered so long as he had this. Had himself.

The Suburban slowed, and then stopped.

Tenny opened his eyes, and the light seemed electric, colors oversaturated.

The driver – a New York Dog named Topino – twisted around in the seat to look at him. “I’d go in with you if I could,” he said, expression apologetic.

“Not necessary.”

“Right. Well. You’ve got these guys.”

Through the windshield, he watched Ian’s security team exit the lead car and take up posts on the sidewalk. The guard in the passenger seat of his own car climbed out and moved toward the rear door.

Topino frowned. “You sure you got this? This is…a lot.”

Between one breath and the next, Tenny tugged on his newly-acquired Ian mask. Donned his posture, and the tilt of his head, and the quirk of his lips. “Clearly,” he said in his Ian-voice, “there’s a shortage of true skill in New York.”

Topino’s eyes widened. “Damn.” He grinned. “Good luck, then,Mr. Shaman.”

Tenny allowed himself one true, feral grin – the real him, according to Reese – and then resettled in his Ian suit and climbed out onto the sidewalk as his detail opened the door. It had been more than a year since he’d worked a proper op, as someone undercover, someone posing as someone else, and for a while there, back at the hotel, he’d worried he’d be rusty. But now, clothed and ready, he found it was no effort at all to stand as Ian would stand; to button his suit jacket and glance up at the restaurant’s marquee with superior indifference.

Sal Moretti was the part-owner of a dozen restaurants across the city, but his son, Matt, had two that were his babies: Bella and Clara Luna, where Tenny now stood as his security detail flocked around him like so many blackbirds.

One guard opened the door, and the rest fell into place in front of and behind him. Tenny had never had an entourage; it was a bit of a power trip, to be honest.

Inside, the restaurant was of the type that felt like nighttime no matter the hour. Dark wood paneling and low lighting; small round tables with wine-colored cloths and candles in glass lamps. Decoration was sparse, a few potted palms in the corners and some somber, framed portraits on the wall. The place reeked of money: its clientele expected prompt service, small portions, and exclusivity. Tenny was already familiar with the layout thanks to Topino’s sketches back at the hotel. He knew where the kitchen was, and all the exits. Already had his escape route planned.

A hostess hurried to meet them, smile harried. “Mr. Shaman?”

“Yes.”

“If you’ll follow me?”

She led them to a private dining room in back, through a set of dark wood French doors. The table that waited was large enough to seat at least ten, and at the far end, there was Jack Waverly.

Tenny had never been one for pop culture – mostly because he’d never had the luxury. But he’d seen several of the many, many movies Waverly had produced at this point, and even the most basic Google search had pulled up countless photos of the man posing with starlets at events. He donated to an array of political candidates and charities; hosted a lavish auction each year, the benefits of which supposedly went to a children’s hospital.

He was exactly the sort of overfed, oily weasel Tenny had been sent to kill in his previous life. Not a handsome man to begin with, age and rich-living had turned him lumpy and bloated. Perpetual eyebags turned his already small eyes to buttons pressed into dough. He was in the middle of sipping red wine when Tenny walked in, and paused, glass hovering in front of his lips as his gaze roved Tenny with an intensity that tried hard to look like disinterest.

He lowered his glass and motioned to the man standing against the wall, who then stepped forward to intercept Tenny’s guards.

“Your men will have to wait outside.”

Tenny nodded. “That’s fine,” he said in his Ian voice. He held his arms out, as Waverly’s guard approached, and submitted to a quick, but thorough pat-down. He swallowed the impulse to elbow the man in the throat, and was grateful it was him here, and not Ian; that Ian, without Tenny’s years of training, didn’t have to walk unarmed and unarmored into enemy territory.

“All clear,” the guard said, and then pulled out a chair for him.

Tenny settled; unbuttoned his jacket and arranged its halves, tugged at his cuffs, smoothed his hair.

The guard turned over a clean glass and filled it with merlot, catching the drops at the rim of the bottle with a towel, smooth as any professional waiter.

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