Page 42

A Favor

Jameson

Fuck.

Jameson paced along the terrace of the inner-city safehouse, running a hand through his hair as he watched Rumi being dragged to the prison house by a bunch of Black Coats.

Fuck!

Where the fuck was Cal? He was supposed to stay with the girl, the dumb oaf.

“What is it?”

A voice called from inside.

An older man sat with a pipe held in his teeth and a calligraphy pen in hand.

Jameson watched as he traced each letter with care, ensuring he emulated the papers exactly.

Callum had been clear about forgoing the forged immigration papers and marriage agreement, but in Jameson’s experience, things rarely worked out the way you thought they would.

So he had requested Weston start the process.

Best to be prepared. Turns out he was right. Again.

“Sullivan is here,”

Jameson said, returning to the room and sitting in the chair.

“Aye, we knew he’d be comin’,”

Weston said around his pipe, not looking up from his work.

“He got the girl.”

At this, Weston’s glacier-blue eyes pinned Jameson like a butterfly to a board.

“You assured me the colonel would keep her safe.”

“Yeah, well, I expected he would,”

Jameson grumbled.

“This is not good.”

“I know.”

Weston stroked his chin before exhaling a cloud of white smoke.

Then he returned to his writing, each measured stroke perfectly practiced.

When he finished, he sprinkled the page with pounce, then he poured the warmed wax on the bottom corner and pressed a heavy seal into the red glob.

“I have a friend who works in the prison,”

he said slowly, steepling his fingers.

“If I can give you an opening, can you get her out?”

“Yes, no doubt about it.”

Jameson nodded his head, standing quickly.

“Just to be clear, normally at this point the cost would be tripled.”

Jameson sighed, rubbing his forehead.

“Naturally.”

“But in this case…I want a favor.”

Jameson paused and looked over at the older man, his eyebrows furrowing.

“A favor? What kind of favor?”

Weston shrugged and leaned back in his chair.

“You know, I’m not sure right now.

Just a favor in the future.

You’ve got skills, and I’m sure they’ll come in handy eventually.”

Weston smirked and tipped his head.

“Do you even know who she is?” he asked.

“The Arryvian? I imagine she’s someone of importance, if all this was done to get her on Yetoben sand.”

Weston only nodded.

“Who is she?”

Jameson asked.

Weston gave him a pointed look, exhaling smoke through his nostrils like the prairie lizards do on cool nights.

The silence filled the room along with the cigarette smoke, until Jameson wasn’t sure Weston was going to tell him.

“She is the head of trade for the Arryivans, spokesperson for the people.

She has contacts in Corsin and High Terysahd.

She is betrothed to the leader of the strongest clan in the southern tribes, and…”

he paused for effect, dragging a deep puff from the pipe.

His exhale swirled through the air with the gravity of his words.

“She is the heir of the great Aba.”

Jameson sucked his teeth.

He had no idea she was so important.

Everyone knew the aba, the Arryvian king, all but controlled the exportation of blue oritium and that the Arryvians were the only ones who could navigate through the great forests of Gallilion to find the precious resource.

“Why does Sullivan want her? The notes in his journal and the interrogation—of the girl and of you and your men—made it seem like he doesn’t know who she is.”

“That, I don’t know.”

He jerked his head to the side, motioning for Jameson to go.

“Watch for my signal, boy, then get her out.”

Jameson stood for a moment, then said quietly, “I appreciate what you’re doing here, as well as what you’re doing for me and mine.

Just remember, as much as I respect you, I’m not your lackey.”

Weston smiled, smoke curling around his face.

He had a quiet menace about him, like a grey-streaked razorcat lounging in the sun.

“I hear you, son.

I hear you.”

Jameson nodded and paced back to the terrace, staring out at the horizon.

What an utter mess.

When he’d met Weston at Melba’s house under Sullivan’s orders, he never would have guessed it would land him here.

Weston had connections, knowledge that made him a formidable opponent and a resourceful ally.

When the others had left Weston’s homestead after the interrogation, Weston pulled him aside and made Jameson an offer.

Find Rumi, and he would ensure Jameson’s family was cared for if he left the military.

He could go anywhere, be anything.

Mostly, he would be out from under Sullivan and his twisted ways, thereby severing any ties with whomever Sullivan was answering to.

The offer was a godsend.

Now he owed Weston a favor.

No wonder Weston was held in such high regard.

He had operated his syndicate practically unnoticed and navigated his freedom so carefully.

The moment he’d sensed Jameson’s hesitancy about the Arryvian, he’d exploited it.

A true vigilante.

A criminal mastermind.

And now Jameson was snagged in his web.

“Why are you helping them, Weston?”

Jameson murmured, scanning the street.

His eyes flicked to the older man, who didn’t look up.

“The money, the safehouse, the forgeries…What do they have that you want?”

Weston flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette, then took a deep drag, the glow reflected in his eyes.

“Never you mind that, kid.”

Jameson waited for more, but the old man was silent.

Jameson was about to press the subject when he spotted a familiar figure.

Fuck.

There was Cal, strolling up the road, whistling.

The fool was actually whistling.

Jameson squinted, trying to see more clearly the bundle Cal carried in his arms.

“I’ve gotta go,”

Jameson said, grabbing his coat from the chair.

“Watch for my signal,”

Weston reminded.