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“Not yet,” he said finally, his voice barely audible over the racket. “Let’s see how this plays out.”
Javier’s forehead wrinkled, confusion written all over his baby face. “But if she keeps poking around …”
“Then we’ll deal with it. For now, she’s spinning her wheels. No way she can touch us without backup.”
Understanding lit up Javier’s eyes, a slow grin spreading across his mug. “And if she tries, she crashes and burns.”
Ghost nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Javier was young and impulsive, but he caught on quick. That’s why Ghost kept him close, shaping him into the kind of loyal dog his operation needed. The kind of dog he used to be, before he fought his way to the top.
“But for real, what if she don’t quit?” Javier asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ghost’s smile vanished, his face hardening. “Then we’ll make it look like she ate her own gun. Wouldn’t be the first time a fed cracked under pressure.”
Javier let out a low whistle, his eyes flashing with a mix of fear and respect. “You’re hardcore.”
“Don’t forget it,” Ghost agreed, his gaze drifting back to the video.
Agent Ellis was a wild card, unpredictable and driven. She could be a valuable asset, a pawn to manipulate and toss aside when she’d outlived her usefulness. Just like the sucker who thought they were equal partners in this venture.
What Ghost wouldn’t do was underestimate her. He was too much like her to make that rookie mistake. He’d watch and wait, letting her do her thing. And when the time was right, he’d make his move.
One way or another, Agent Ellis would learn what happened when you crossed him. But not today. Today, she still had a role to play in the game he’d set in motion.
And Ghost played to win.
5
A few minutes past seven,Mason pushed through the doors of the Triple T Steakhouse, his guard up the second he stepped into the dim interior. The soles of his boots stuck to the dried beer splattering the faded linoleum, the twangy wail of country music blasting from the blown-out speakers against the back wall. Definitely more of a dive bar than a restaurant, despite the name.
Fantastic.
The overpowering stench of cheap booze, stale fry grease, and charred meat hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. He scanned the room for his brother, worry gnawing at him.
Please, Lord, don’t let Paul be back on the sauce.
The kid had kicked his budding alcohol problem years ago. As far as Mason knew, he’d been stone-cold sober for over three years. But then again, it’s not like they’d been exchanging Christmas cards.
He shoved the pointless thoughts aside and kept scanning the joint. Three of the ten high-backed booths along the wall were occupied by couples in office attire, probably just off the clock. No threat there.
Over at the pool tables, a crew of meatheads were focused on their game, beers in hand. Two sported facial scars—brawlers for sure. The others moved with the loose aggression of guys who could take a punch as well as they could throw one. They sized Mason up for a second before going back to their shots. He filed them under potential threats. Too slow and too untrained to give him any real trouble, but too tough to write off completely.
Still no sign of Paul. Mason wove through the mostly empty tables, his senses on high alert. Whatever mess his brother had landed in this time, Mason could only pray it didn’t involve the bottle or a bookie. Some things even he couldn’t fix.
He swallowed hard, the knot in his gut tightening. This whole situation had bad news written all over it.
He just needed to find Paul and get him safely out of here. Then he could start digging into what kind of trouble his wayward brother had fallen into this time. Rescuing Paul was his responsibility, just as it had been since they were kids. However much it cost him. At least he no longer had to worry about hiding the details from their mom. Given her place in Heaven, she’d know everything anyway.
A quick laugh from the corner of the bar farthest from the door made him start. Paul’s laugh. He swung his head in that direction. Yup. His brother sat, elbows on the bar, his attention focused on the pretty woman occupying the stool next to him. Mason snorted, feeling something south of disgust but north of full-blown anxiety. Things couldn’t be too bad if Paul was making eyes at a pretty girl.
Oh, who was he kidding? This was Paul he was talking about. The kid had the common sense of a tire iron.
Mason wove through the tables toward the bar, keeping his brother in his sights. Relief washed over him. Paul looked okay—tired and stressed, but at least he hadn’t been skipping meals. The perpetual knot in Mason’s chest loosened a notch. He hadn’t seen his brother looking this healthy in ages.
At the bar, a clear soda sat at Paul’s elbow. Another point in Paul’s favor. Looked like he had his booze problem under control. But who was the woman with him?
She was a looker—smooth dark skin and thick, glossy hair. More concerning was the way she hung on Paul’s every word. She was way out of his league. Which could only mean one thing—trouble.
It looked like they were flirting. Mason’s steps faltered, irritation spiking. Now? Really?