Page 155 of Savage Hearts
“It’s just that this is a fascinating yarn you’re spinning. Please, continue.”
He mutters something in Gaelic. “As I was saying. We’re all working undercover in some capacity, masquerading as Mob kings, corrupt politicians, shady business tycoons, you name it.”
“Uh-huh. And the point of all this masquerading?”
“Saving the world.”
Unbelievably, he says that with no trace of self-consciousness or awareness of how ridiculous he sounds. His hubris is staggering.
I decide to play along with his insanity. “What do you call yourselves? The Avengers?”
“The Thirteen.”
I snort. “Sounds like a boy band.”
“Fuck you.”
“Let me guess—you came up with that winner?”
He glares at me, and now I find myself having fun. “And I suppose you’re Number One, right?”
“You know, I liked you better when you were only making a Broadway production out of pouring yourself a bloody coffee.”
“Who’s Number Two? Because that’s all sorts of awkward. Does everybody giggle during meetings when his name is called?”
I can tell he’s debating whether or not he should go ahead and kill me, and I can’t help but smile.
From across the store, Alina calls my name. “Your order’s ready!”
“That’s my cue, Number One. You realize you’ve nicknamed yourself piss, right? You’re the head urinator.”
“They only say that in the U.S.”
“No, everybody knows it.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yes, they do.”
He grinds his teeth for a while, then stands. He shoves his sunglasses back onto his face and props his hands on his hips.
“Obviously, we’re not interested in you for your personality, because it’s shite. You’ve got skills we can use. Weaponry, technology, languages, disguises, critical thinking. It took me a long time to find you, which never happens, so you’re an expert at covering your tracks. You can pilot a plane. You can operate drones. You’re proficient with ingress and egress of locked spaces.”
“You could just say getting in and out. You don’t have to be so pretentious about it.”
The breath he exhales is slow and controlled. I’m making him mad.
My grin could be described as shit-eating.
He decides the pleasantries are finished and pronounces, “If you refuse to join us, you die.”
I lift my brows. “Not exactly a rousing recruiting slogan, is it?”
“That’s not an idle threat.”
“Yes, I can see you’re very serious. Your dimple is winking at me.”
After a pause, he says sourly, “You’re an arrogant prick.”
