Page 2 of Kept in the Dark
“I have a life,” I mutter defensively.
“Sharpening knives and going to bed at 10 PM isn’t what Mac means. You live like a monk,”Wesley returns evenly. His British accent rounds his vowels and drops his R’s, yet somehow sounds very close to James’s Southern drawl to my ears.
“Mudak,”I mutter, knowing they know this one in Russian. I find myself using it often.
“I know I’m an idiot, but all I’m sayin’ is… Wouldn’t kill you to get your dick wet.”
I make a dismissive noise and spin the beer bottle in my hand. “Women are a distraction.”
“You want to turn up the volume on Big D’s mic, Wes? I can barely hear him. There’s some idiot playing guitar in the apartment below me.”
“You know, you’d hear much better if you ever stopped talking.”
“You can’t see it, so just know that I’m flipping you the bird right now.”
I know it is an idiom, but I also know that James is on a rooftop somewhere nearby and has access to pigeons, so I will not guess what he means. English sayings are ridiculous. And what makes it worse is that even though it is the primary language of both Wesley and James’s home countries, sometimes even they do not understand one another.
Every time we are together, it strikes me as the setup of one of those jokes with a punchline that is a pun. Though ours would not have a funny or witty end.
An American, an Englishman, and a Russian walk into a bar… and kill everyone inside.
However, I have no intention of killing anyone tonight. Tonight is simply an exchange of goods for services. Such a simple transaction would hardly justify the presence of my entire team, if not for the fact that I am meeting one of James’s contacts, Felix—who, according to James, is “a bitof a loose cannon.”
At times, I almost forget what my life used to be like before. I used to walk into situations like this blind, with my senses sharp and the taste of bitter adrenaline in the back of my throat. Now, I have Wesley hacking traffic cameras and monitoring the streets and James watching my back from 500 meters away through the scope of his rifle.
I much prefer the way we do things now. I have not been shot in several months.
We are a good team because we each play to our strengths. Wesley spends little time in the thick of the violence; his weapons are a computer mouse and keyboard. James occasionally steps out from behind his gun, but he is best suited as our backup from a distance. Conversely, I am not able to hack security cameras or make a kill shot with a ranged weapon—my place is as the man on the ground, dealing more closely and directly with targets. This is why I prefer knives.
“Harsh,” the male bartender remarks, eyeing the small, brunette woman walking away with curiosity as he wipes the glass in his hand with a cloth. “But fair, I ‘spose. You’ve got a ‘don’t fuck with me’ thing going for you.”
I ignore his judgment and lift my warm, half-empty beer. “I will take a fresh one.” It serves a dual purpose: to drive up my bill so he will leave me alone, and it renews my reason for being here.
I feel the glares of female solidarity boring holes into my back as the woman rejoins her group. She needs something else to focus on; the sooner she gets over this slight, the better. They are attracting attention, and consequently, so am I.
In a practiced motion, he swaps my drink for a newly opened bottle. When he straightens, I see that he is a good-looking man. He is tall—though half a foot shorter than me, that still puts him over six feet—with dark hair and eyes that are set in a brown complexion. He is Hispanic, given the shape of his features. The same desire for dangerthat attracted the brunette woman to me will be satisfied by the tattoos on display beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves.
“You should give her your phone number,” I encourage.
“You think?” His eyes cut down the length of the bar, assessing. “Nah, not really my type.Flaca.”
I quirk a brow.
“Too skinny,” he explains, flashing a grin that reveals a gold tooth in the back of his mouth. “I’ve always said, I like my women like I like my cars—sleek curves. Redheaded, too, if I can get ‘em.”
At that, I scoff. “Women should have curves,da, but cars should have headroom. And trunk space.”
I do not expect the hoot of laughter, so when he tilts back his head to put his whole body into it, it surprises me. He whips the white towel off his shoulder and slaps it against the edge of the bar.
“I’m stealing that one.” He crosses his arms and leans back against the table behind him, holding all the unused, clean beer glasses. “Russian, am I right?”
I incline my head.
“I heard talk of a Russian a few months back involved in some shit with that asshole Rossi who got offed. Big fucker, they said he was, like you. Deadly, too. Good with knives. Goes bythe Ghost. Know him?”
The ease of a casual, friendly conversation falls away in an instant, and my whole body tenses. I narrow my eyes at him. “Felix.”
“One and only,” he confirms. His eyes shine with the mirth of a trickster—pleased by my surprised reaction to a well-executed ruse.
