Page 4 of Jonas (Silver Team #4)

CHAPTER THREE

After narrowly avoiding death on the highway seventy-two times in the last hour and a half, I did not welcome a call from Derrika telling me she was being followed.

The fuck of it was, she’d almost sounded excited.

“The license plate’s fake,” Kira said through the Escalade’s speakers. Beside me, Cash gripped the steering wheel harder.

“Fake?” I asked.

“Yep. Stolen, or it’s a fake. I can’t tell from the picture if it’s a reprint or not. Either way, that plate number belongs to a black Honda Civic.”

“Reprint?” Cash asked.

“Dude, where have you been?” Kira shot back. “Do you not peruse The Zon? Replica plates are readily available.”

“Some of us spent the last ten years dead, KK. A decade ago, you couldn’t one-click a fake plate.”

I didn’t miss my friend’s wistful tone. I wondered if, like me, he missed being a ghost. Ten years ago, when Cash, Smith, Easton, Theo, and I signed our lives away to Patheon, none of us knew if we’d be coming home.

And that was more than alright with me. It wasn’t that I’d had a death wish.

It was more that my job was my life. I had no blood family.

Cash, Smith, Easton, and Garrett were my brothers.

Then Garrett bailed—he had his reasons, but that didn’t mean his shit wasn’t a blow to the gut.

Then Layla brought on Theo and he became a brother.

None of us knew how long we’d be dark. We had no set area of operation.

Patheon’s only mission was to follow the money and stop terrorists.

Warlords, drug cartels, human and gun traffickers.

The longer we were dead, the deeper we submerged into the underbelly of civilization until civility was nonexistent and all that was left was the dregs.

The place where evil reigned. There were no rules of engagement.

There was no oversight. Patheon had been the definition of black ops.

A team of men who took out the worst of the worst, who if caught would not have the support of the United States.

“Just on paper, Cash,” she reminded him.

“What about the guy?” I inquired.

“Running him now.” I could hear Kira pounding on her keyboard when another call came in.

“Gotta take this, KK. I’ll call you back.”

I switched the call and asked, “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Derrika sighed. “I lost him. He stayed on twenty-eight when I exited for the toll on two-sixty-seven.”

Smart.

“Did you get anything from the plate?” she asked.

“Nope. Kira said it belonged to a Honda Civic.”

“Should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy,” she mumbled disgruntledly. “Whatever happened to the good old days when the bad guys actually had to work at being bad? Now, anyone can get their hands on a fake plate.”

The woman wasn’t old enough to know about the ‘good old days.’ By the time she’d entered the game, there were already traffic cameras at most intersections and facial recognition had become readily available. But she did seem to know how easy it was to buy a fake plate off the internet.

“Kira’s working on identifying the man speaking to your co-worker.”

“Great. Thanks. Traffic opened up. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I glanced out the window at the luxury white and gray high rise apartment building with the name Hemingway proudly displayed in big shiny silver letters and felt my frown deepen.

“I don’t know how you’ve survived six months in this…” I trailed off, not sure what adjectives to use to describe the monstrous building on a busy street with other equally tall complexes bracketing the Hemingway.

Tysons, Virginia wasn’t New York City, but damn if it wasn’t crowded.

Her deep, throaty chuckle filling the SUV had me shifting in my seat to relieve the tightening behind my zipper.

Damn.

What the hell was that?

“I know, right?” she said through her laughter.

“Twenty-eight floors of claustrophobia. It’s more of a hotel than an apartment building.

Lounge with workstations, game room, fitness center, outdoor kitchen, and of course a pool.

Sometimes I walk into the lobby and I pray this job gets done so I can get the hell out before I turn into a Hemingway Barbie.

I’m hoping the condition isn’t airborne or contagious, but seeing as all the women dress the same and the men do too, I fear it might be. ”

I smiled, but before I could fire back a retort to her ‘Hemingway Barbie’ comment she rushed on, “Sometimes a girl just wants to run errands and not have to dress for the occasion. Which is how I feel when I walk through the lobby and see all the Barbies dressed in yoga gear when you know they’re not going to work out with a face full of makeup.

The get-up is nothing more than a fashion statement.

And don’t get me started on the men and their perfectly crafted physiques, which have nothing to do with wanting a powerful body, and everything to do with wanting the V at their hips, and sixpack abs to show off on their social media profiles. ”

“Seems like you’ve paid a fair amount of attention to those physiques,” Cash teased, but I frowned.

“Cash?”

“The one and only,” he returned, and I rolled my eyes.

Derrika made a sound that was somewhere between a puff of air and a snicker.

“I see the ego is strong with that one. The conceit is noted.” She snorted, then went on, “The Ken Doll hard bodies are hard to miss when they prance around shirtless in the common areas around the gym. So, it’s not so much I’m paying attention as it’s in my face.”

“It’s not ego?—”

Derrika smoothly interrupted Cash, “If it’s true. For the record, that’s what all egomaniacs say.”

Cash snapped his fingers and jerked his head in the direction of the sidewalk in front of the Hemingway. The man Cash had gestured toward was hard to miss seeing as it was late spring in Virginia and he was wearing a leather jacket. There was something about him that screamed ‘out of place.’

“Do any of those men you’ve seen around the apartment building include a Steven Seagal lookalike circa nineteen-ninety?” I asked.

“Steven Seagal?”

“Yeah, the actor who?—”

“Dude, I’d have to turn in my action flick aficionado card if I didn’t know who Steven Seagal is.”

Action flick aficionado card.

Now was not the time to test her action flick knowledge, though I tucked that away for later.

“Well? Anyone who looks like Jack Cole roaming around?”

“Seriously? The Glimmer Man, that’s the Seagal movie you went with? Huh. I don’t know how I feel about you.”

I smiled as I kept an eye on the guy across the street as he walked toward the complex’s parking garage—both the loading and underground parking doors were open.

“We can discuss that tonight while Cash takes his bubble bath to relax and after we go over your reports. But right now we’re watching a guy who looks like he doesn’t belong, but he’s getting ready to dip into the underground parking garage and I need to know if I’m calling Kira to watch him or if Cash and I are following him. ”

“I have so many questions,” she returned.

“But to answer your question, no, I’ve never seen anyone who looks like Seagal, and I’ve tapped into the Hemingway’s security system and watch the feeds every night.

So when I say I haven’t seen him, I mean in the six months I’ve lived here, Steven Seagal has never paid the Hemingway a visit. ”

The guy stopped, reached into his jacket pocket, and lifted his hand to his ear. A moment later he ended the call, turned away from the garage, and walked in the opposite direction. Before he got to the corner, a black Mercedes slid to a stop and idled at the curb.

“What the fuck,” Cash said from beside me, his phone already in his hand recording.

Not that we’d need his cellphone footage. Kira—or from the sound of it, Derrika—would provide better images from the apartment’s security, but he still kept his phone pointed at the Merc as the guy in the leather jacket yanked open the back door and disappeared inside.

“What’s happening?” Derrika asked.

“You said the black Mercedes didn’t follow you to the toll road,” I reminded her. “Is there a shorter route here?”

“Yeah, the toll road is the long way. Why?”

“Because the Merc is in front of your building and Seagal just got into it.”

Cash’s hand went to the gear shifter at the same time I tagged my phone out of the cup holder, using my free hand to open the door. As soon as I was out of the Escalade, I switched my cell from the car’s Bluetooth to the device and jogged across the street.

“Cash is gonna follow them,” I told Derrika. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“I’m exiting the highway now. I’ll be there in five.”

“See you then.”

I disconnected and continued making my way to the entrance of the Hemingway.

I didn’t have to step foot into the building to see the opulence of the lobby through the wall of glass.

Jesus, there was even a long black reception desk reminiscent of a hotel check-in.

When I entered I was hit with a wave of perfumed air.

The place even smelled like an upscale, luxury hotel.

“Hello. Welcome to the Hemingway,” a blonde woman with a severe updo and a crisp white shirt greeted from behind the desk. “How may I help you today?”

I didn’t miss the tightness in her voice or the way her lips turned down.

One look at me and she knew as well as I did, I didn’t belong in a place like this.

Although her assumption had led her astray—she assumed I couldn’t afford the rent.

Not that I would live in a place like this long term if someone paid me.

It was bad enough I was being paid to live here temporarily.

“I’m just meeting my girlfriend,” I lied.

The blonde didn’t hide her full-body scan, taking in my jeans, boots, and plain black t-shirt that had come in a five-pack from Target, nor did she hide her disbelief and disgust. I should’ve switched places with Cash.

He was better at this than I was—charming women was his specialty.

I had neither the inclination nor desire to play nice.

If this bitch wanted to stare me down and judge my worth by my clothes, that was her prerogative.

I couldn’t give two fucks what she thought of me.

The blonde had no idea I could rent three units and still live comfortably.

It’s amazing how little money a man needs when he’s dead, and I had a bank account to prove it.

I’d rather live in a van in the woods than suffer through this shit.

I dismissed the woman before I said something regrettable and turned to the sitting area. Two leather couches, each with a table in front of them, magazines artfully arranged on their surfaces. I was positive the area was meant to be inviting, however, it was sterile and staged.

Fuck. I hope Derrika doesn’t hit more traffic.

My ass hit the leather and I felt the blonde’s censure from across the lobby.

Definitely should’ve switched places with Cash.

He would’ve turned on the swagger and flirted with the woman until she was eating out of his hand, ready to spill Hemingway residents’ secrets.

I pulled out my phone in an effort to ignore the woman’s sneer and sent Kira an update.

Unsurprisingly, she responded immediately: Cash sent his crappy cell video. I already hacked the Hemingway’s cameras. The guy outside is Daryl Barnes. I’ll email you his specifics in a few minutes. Still no idea on the driver or passenger.

Daryl Barnes. The name didn’t ring a bell. I’d have to ask Derrika if she knew the name.

“Good afternoon, Amy. Welcome home,” I heard the blonde coo.

Jesus.

A welcome home.

Yeah, no, this was not the place for me.

“Thanks, Brenda.”

At the sound of Derrika’s voice, my attention shot up from my phone.

Amy . Right. That was her cover.

I took in Derrika’s fake-as-fuck smile beaming in Brenda’s direction and hid my own.

Then I took in the rest of her. Today she was in a pair of jeans that suited her more than the dress she’d been wearing for our meeting.

And not just because she looked at ease but also the denim did wonders for her long, lean legs.

A chunky, open-knit sweater over a tight, white tank top covered her upper body.

No jewelry—that didn’t surprise me and she didn’t need any.

The woman was stunning without any add-ons.

But it was her big blue eyes that held my examination.

Interesting blue eyes that were full of mischief and intelligence.

It was that mischief that snared my attention.

Life was nothing but a game. A series of moves and counterplays until the winner was declared. Derrika Layne’s sparkling blue eyes told the tale. Stated plainly, she not only liked the game but gave it her all to come out victorious. I bet she was a shitty loser. I liked that more than I should’ve.

Derrika’s gaze landed on me. Her fake-as-fuck smile vanished and in its place was one that could only be described as diabolical. No, that wasn’t the right description—sexy as all hell was more like it. Sexy with a hint of trouble.

Just how I liked my women.

Down boy, you’re on the job.