Page 3 of The Bounty
“No. That’s for the current job. You complete it, bring back the runner, and we’ll discuss annual pay and benefits.”
He sipped his tea, eyes glued to the six-figure amount that was more than any annual salary he’d ever been paid. And for only one job. If he did it well, there would be more, including benefits. All while working for the good guys, unlike the folks back…not home.
He folded the paper and lifted his gaze, meeting the sparkling brown one across from him. She knew she had him. No sense pretending otherwise. “What do you need me to do?”
Three
Only one job.
That one job was going on twenty-eight days now and had included stops clear across Europe, all to end up in the most horribly predictable place possible.
Vienna.
At one of Wags’s favorite pubs, no less.
He should have just parked his arse here to start and waited for the bounty to come to him. He’d put out the call to his connections, bartenders included, and Ernie, who owned this particular pub near Vienna’s city center, had called him yesterday about a person fitting his bounty’s description. Sure enough, as Wags slid onto the stool behind a waiting seltzer and lime, he spied his target in the adjoining game room, shooting pool with a couple of guys, tourists if the maroon West Ham kits they wore were any indication.
Wags had to hand it to the kid. He’d covered his tracks well, using his forgery skills and stash of cryptocurrency to stay a step ahead of Wags and the other law enforcement agencies—and criminals—after him. So why risk exposure now? Did he think himself far enough ahead? Granted, he’d used fake papers to enter the country, but neither he nor exhaustion had changed his appearance much. Long, dark top strands that fell over the shaved sides of his head, kohl-lined eyes, a scruffy beard, and painted nails. Even shy of six feet, he stood out, and Austria was the second most likely place where someone would recognize Blaine Anthony.
He was the son of a once powerful US congressman, Stewart Anthony, who’d been a presidential hopeful and surrogate son to the late Charles Sanders, an Austrian trafficker in philanthropist’s clothing and the head of the criminal organization Wags had helped Marsh and Levi take down. With Blaine’s help. Blaine was supposed to be in protective custody pending the conclusion of his father’s prolonged circus of a trial and pending his own sentencing for fraud and digital forgery, but he’d slipped his leash a month ago.
“That your boy?” Ernie asked, his Aussie brogue thick, as he slid a steaming-hot Scotch egg and basket of golden-brown chips in front of him.
He dipped one of the crinkle-cut potatoes into the ramekin of ranch—bless the Americans, and bless Ernie for his Aussie, British, American mashup of a pub—and popped it into his mouth. “That’s him. He showed up yesterday?”
Ernie nodded. “Hustled a couple of regulars last night. Targeting the tourists tonight,” he said, the good humor fading from his brogue. He rested his forearms on the bar top, leaning closer and lowering his voice. “Would appreciate you getting him outta here before more serious trouble follows.”
Meaning Ernie knew exactly who he was, even if the tourists didn’t.
Wags picked up one half of the egg. “Let me just savor this taste of ho?—”
Raised voices in a dialect he knew well carried from the game room, the tourists tossing their cues onto the pool table and crowding into Blaine’s space, reaching for the wad of bills Blaine had snatched off the rail. Wags cursed. The last thing any of them needed was for Blaine to draw more attention. Regretfully surrendering the piping-hot egg, Wags snagged another chip from the basket before sliding off his stool. He skirted the edge of the dance floor, then weaved through the audience gathering to witness a potential brawl.
Wags couldn’t let that happen.
Taking a gamble and channeling every bit of Marsh he could muster, he covered his Cockney with a Texas drawl and sidled beside Blaine, throwing an arm over his shoulders and eyeing the two Hammer fans. “There a problem here?”
“Your son hustled us,” the more brutish of the two East Londoners spat.
Wags opened his mouth to try and deescalate the situation, but Blaine swerved in a different direction, snaking an arm around his waist and nestling closer against his side. “Not my dad.”
The implication was clear, and the shock that painted the tourists’ faces was priceless. Would have made Wags laugh in any other circumstance. Almost made him cheer in this case when the two strangers took a step back. Wanting another of those, Wags kissed the side of Blaine’s head, playing along with his ruse. “Did you hustle them, baby?”
Blaine’s shrug was pure rich-kid insolence, and the brutish one’s fist clenched. Wags needed to end this now.
He kept an arm around Blaine but dropped the fake accent, unfurling his real one. “I’d think a couple of guys from the East End would know better.”
The brutish one blanched, but the tall, skinny one lifted his chin. “Doesn’t change the fact that he hustled us.”
“For how much?”
“Five hundred euros.”
Wags caught the nice job that was on the tip of his tongue, opting instead for diplomacy. “You should have known better,” he reiterated to the Hammers, then to Blaine, “And you shouldn’t have gone so high. Give ’em back two-fifty.”
Neither party looked happy, but they’d avoided a brawl. Blaine handed back half the money, and the onlookers dispersed. With his arm still over Blaine’s shoulders, Wags directed him toward the back exit. “Let’s get out of here.”
Once they were in the alley behind the pub, the door slamming shut behind them, Blaine surprised him again, maneuvering around to his front and dropping his voice several octaves. “So what do I owe you for that?” He gazed up at him with dark, bloodshot eyes. “A little hand action? A blowjob?”
