Page 6 of Sloth
After dumping her bag on her desk, she pulled her sweaty, curly black hair into a top knot and fanned her face with a hand. Despite the heat, she still wore smart business attire. Bailey believed you had to dress for respect. Black tailored pants hugged her hips, and a classic white button-down shirt complimented her brown skin.
Once, he’d made the mistake of suggesting the woman relax a little and dress down. Her response had been to purchase them all matching navy wool jackets with the Nightingale Securities emblem on the breast pocket. It made them look like a bunch of pansy-assed Prep boys rather than the rugged ex-soldiers they were. The tailored piece was itchy and as uncomfortable as hell. It was also currently hanging in his locker, waiting precariously for the day Bailey decided they should all “dress up” again.
He shivered involuntarily.
He’d stick to his fatigues, T-shirts and bomber jackets, thanks.
Admittedly, right then, he felt like a half-naked oaf next to her slick style, but she barely spared a second glance at his lack of shirt. Already her head was shaking as she thought back to the question Max had asked.
She peeked inside her handbag, searching for something. Found a compact mirror and took it out before landing her chocolate eyes on him. “Would have been a lot easier if it weren’t for the damned clowns needing an escort. Remind me again why we took that job?”
Because they needed the money. He retrieved her firearm and went to the weapons cage on the wall. “You’d rather go back to the CIA?”
The tendons in her jaw flexed. “What crawled up your butt?”
He sighed, unlocked the cage and put her gun inside before locking it back up. He flicked his gaze back to his desk and the screen where he’d caught the CCTV video footage mixed up earlier. It must have been Sloan messing with him. She thought he had no clue about her meddling in his life, but he knew her style. He wouldn’t be surprised if the intolerable heat in this office was her doing. Sarcasm dripped from his tone. “Maybe you’d rather join the Lazarus Babysitters Club.”
She jerked back, eyes widening. “You sassing me now? Because a gig like this is what you get when you’re dishonorably discharged. Wasn’t me who made you come here.”
“Whyareyou here?”
“You know I have my reasons. Now, you got any more lip for me, or can I leave for the day? There’s a Cosmo with my name on it waiting for me.”
“Boys will be back soon. You don’t want to wait?”
“No. Any other jobs?”
“Nah, mate, I’m good. You can go. Thanks for your work.”
The look she gave him said “Damn, straight I can go” but the actual words out of her mouth were, “All right then. See you tomorrow, sunshine.”
“Prop the door open on your way out, will you?”
After she left, he sat down at his sweaty desk chair and opened the Lazarus family dossier he’d created for the team. As far as the Nightingale crew knew, the Lazarus family were rich, spoiled brats and their women in need of protection. Even though Daymo and Tom-Tom had served with three of the Lazarus brood: Parker, Wyatt and Tony in the Australian Army, neither Daymo nor Tom-Tom knew about the Deadly Seven. Neither did Bailey. They didn’t need to know. The only reason Max knew was because Sloan let her secret slip before… well, before his life went to shit.
The Lazarus secret was what brought Max across oceans to Cardinal City. He was done with the military and their brand of by-the-book justice. He wanted a brand of justice a little more effective, especially after Gale.
Unable to stop himself, his gaze tracked to the large service photograph on the wall under the Nightingale Securities sign. Four of them dressed in army fatigues, desert behind them, dirt in their faces, squinting at the sun. Smiling. Max, Tom-Tom, Daymo and Gale. Only three were left. None were smiling now.
Half his life—that’s how long Max had spent with those men. It was more with Gale.
As if conjured by his thoughts, the sound of two men conversing filtered in from the back door. Max looked over in time to see them come in. Daymo, the big bearded man, and Tom-Tom—the smaller, tattooed man with a shaved head—shouldered through the door, still armed and wearing their Nightingale Securities black ball hat and uniform: black fatigues and a black T-shirt with a logo.
“Man, if it were any hotter out there—” Tom-Tom started, paused and looked to them all for effect. Picking up the cue, all three of them finished with: “I’d be roasting.”
They all shared a moment of silence, reflecting on their absent friend who would say that exact phrase every morning they’d wake up sweltering in the Middle Eastern desert. Max’s eyes drifted to the service picture on the wall again.
“Boss?” Daymo took off his hat and dumped it on his desk. He scratched his red-tinged beard and then scrubbed his dark hair.
Tom-Tom unclipped his firearm from his holster and plonked it on his desk. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Max replied. “Waiting for you two slow pokes to get your shit together.” He gave a pointed look to where Tom-Tom had laid his gun. “That needs to be in the cage. You too, Daymo. Put your things where they belong.”
Not one, but both men, rolled their eyes at Max.
Daymo grumbled, “Yes, mum.” But he did it with a smile.
Max ignored them. He was used to it. He was the boss and had a responsibility to make sure these fuckers kept safe. The last thing he needed was an accidental firearm discharge... or worse.
