Page 5 of Man of Lies (Vendetta Kings #2)

Chapter Five

MASON

I felt like I'd been steamrolled and left to bake in the Louisiana heat. The morning run was supposed to clear my head, but all it did was turn my legs to jelly and leave my lungs burning with every breath. But that was the point, wasn't it? Punishment, pure and simple. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but add a sleepless night to the mix, and I was primed to crawl through the rest of the day fueled solely by caffeine and spite.

Mostly spite.

Now, crammed behind my desk in a cold metal chair, glasses sliding down my nose and shirt sticking to my back, I was starting to think I'd overdone it. Not that I'd ever admit it.

The office wasn't doing much for morale. For more than a year, the task force had operated out of a repurposed warehouse, a relic from when Devil's Garden still had industries that didn't revolve around farming or bribery. The place was all exposed brick, grimy, steel-framed windows, and a ceiling that leaked when it rained. With the AG funding our efforts to untangle decades of corruption, we should've rated a building that wasn't held together with duct tape. But maybe that was intentional. The rough edges had a way of keeping our cadre of cops and attorneys focused on what mattered.

The hum of efficiency was my meditation. The clacking keyboards and whining printers might've been almost soothing if not for the dull throb behind my eyes. No one cared if I was half-dead in this environment, as long as I delivered results.

My kind of place.

My eyes burned from the blue light of my laptop, so I shifted focus to the case files stacked at my elbow. The dog-eared manila folders felt like a relic in the age of cloud storage, but everything in Devil's Garden was stuck in the past.

I'd have worked off Sanskrit tablets if it meant getting closer to what mattered: tearing down the corrupt machine that had already stolen five years of my brother's life. Money and connections ruled this town, but that didn't make the officials who buried the evidence untouchable.

They'd gotten away with it for too long, and I wouldn't stop until every piece of their rot was exposed.

I breathed deep and forced my attention back where it belonged. My stomach growled, and I glanced at the clock. I hadn't eaten since… yesterday, probably. By now, my body's signals were easy to ignore. I just wanted to finish combing through this stack of old warrant requests.

"Jesus, Mason."

I glanced up, irritated. Colton Langford was leaning against my desk, arms crossed, watching me with a look that bordered on amusement. We'd known each other since college, when we were both juggling a double course-load to fast-track our law degrees. We'd never set out to be friends; he had the kind of privileged childhood and easy confidence that made me want to punch him on principle. But apart from my brothers, he was my only friend these days.

Befriending Colt turned out to be the best decision I'd ever made. When he became the lead investigator for the AG, he'd pushed for me to join the special task force. He'd found the weapon that exonerated Ben and got him out of prison. Now, he was the one keeping Ben on conditional release in his own apartment. I owed him. But every time I thought about it, the shame was so intense I wanted to puke. Every step of the way, Colt had been the one saving Ben. Not me.

I sat back, removed my glasses, and gave him my undivided attention.

Because subtlety was never his strong suit, he said, "You look like hell."

Just like that, my attention was lost.

"Thanks," I said dryly, returning to my file and flipping a page, hoping he'd take the hint.

Colt, being Colt, didn't take the hint. He dragged a chair over, sprawling out like he owned the place. Blond and handsome in that polished, GQ-magazine way, he looked like he'd stepped out of a country club and accidentally landed in a government office. His sense of style had rubbed off on me over the years, whether I liked it or not, but I still couldn't pull it off the way he did.

"You been here all morning?" he asked, tipping the chair back on two legs and looking around curiously, as if he hadn't been in the office for so long he'd forgotten what it looked like.

"Just like every morning," I said, not bothering to look up as I dragged a highlighter across a line item that caught my eye. "You should try it."

He rolled his eyes. "Look, I get it. You're on a mission, but you're not a machine. You haven't taken a day off in months. You're pushing too hard."

"Noted," I said flatly, still focused on the file.

"Yeah, I'll bet." He tilted his head, giving me that no-nonsense look he used to rattle witnesses. "You're done. Take a break."

I hated that tone—the senior investigator tone. He didn't use it often, but when he did, it always pissed me off. I paused, the highlighter bleeding into a single spot on the page, and glanced at him. "I'm busy."

"You're always busy," he said, unperturbed. Before I could respond, he stood, grabbed my elbow, and hauled me out of the chair with the strength of a guy who'd once been an All-American quarterback. "Time to get busy eating. Let's go."

I yanked my arm free and gave him a light shove. "You really get off on bossing people around."

"Works, doesn't it?" He smirked and straightened his tie. "Now, move your ass. And because I'm a considerate friend, I'll even treat."

I opened my mouth to argue, but his look stopped me cold. It wasn't pity; Colt knew better than to try that. It was more like he'd already hit his limit for bullshit this morning and pushing would only make it worse.

"Fine," I muttered, slamming my laptop shut with a sharp click and grabbing my attaché case. "But make it quick."

Colt grinned, already heading for the door. "You're the one who spends forty minutes deciding between a burger and a salad, Beaufort."

After hours in the cold, sterile office, the humidity hit me like a slap. It felt like being cuddled by a wet mop. Thankfully, the diner was only half a block away, and still, we were forced to peel off our suit jackets by the time we reached our table.

Devil's Garden wasn't exactly a tourist hotspot, and Lucille's sure as hell wasn't a place found in any guidebook. But it was better than a Michelin-starred restaurant. The squat, unassuming building and sagging awning promised nothing special, and the hand-painted sign out front read simply: Breakfast, Lunch, Supper. No gimmicks.

Inside, it was even less impressive. The vinyl floors were scuffed by decades of footsteps, and the walls were crowded with mismatched art: local prints, family photos, and signs bearing slogans like laissez les bons temps rouler and tipping isn't a city in China . The tables smelled faintly of bleach water and always felt just a little sticky, and the chairs wobbled enough to make sitting down a calculated risk. But it was worth it for the fried catfish, po'boys dripping with gravy, and collard greens seasoned to perfection.

The wiry woman behind the counter yelled in a cigarette rasp, "émile, I told you not to burn my roux! You do it again, and you're out!"

Through the pass-through, émile didn't flinch; he kept stirring his giant pot with an even bigger wooden spoon.

She noticed us lurking at the entrance and flapped a towel at the crowded room. "Pick any open spot, baby. I'll be right with you."

Colt beelined through a crowd of blue-collar men in grease-stained coveralls, old couples nursing half-empty cups of coffee, and a kid in a football jersey stuffing his face with barbecue ribs. Warm and lively and noisy, too loud for my crowded head, but I followed anyway.

"You'll feel better after a dive into cholesterol," Colt said, propping his elbows on the table and studying the laminated menu we'd both memorized months ago.

I didn't bother answering, scanning the words swimming on the menu, but they refused to stick. The last thing I wanted was small talk and fry grease. My stomach churned at the thought, but I was running on fumes, and I knew it.

A waitress in a ponytail and Saints jersey sauntered over with a pitcher of ice water. "What can I get y'all?"

"Sweet tea and a shrimp po'boy for me," Colton said, decisive as always. He always ordered the same thing, and the smirk he slid my way when I added a grilled chicken salad told me I was just as predictable.

The girl arched a brow, clearly unimpressed with my choice. "You sure, sugar? We don't do iceberg lettuce and ranch here."

"Sweetheart, it's the only thing I'm sure of these days," I said, handing over our menus.

She shrugged like she'd seen worse choices, jotted it down, and left me to deal with a chuckling Colton.

"Coffee and grilled chicken," he said, settling back and sipping his ice water. "God, you're fun, Beaufort."

"Says the man whose idea of branching out is spicy mayo on his po'boy," I shot back.

He grinned, completely unashamed. One of his most annoying qualities was his total indifference to other people's opinions. "Hey, I know what I like. You, on the other hand, act like food's a necessary evil. It's honestly a little sad."

I took a long pull from my coffee when it landed on the table, scalding the back of my tongue. It hit my stomach like straight vinegar, and I dug into my pocket for a roll of antacids. "Yeah, well, I'm not here to enjoy myself."

"No kidding," he said, his grin slipping into something more like a grimace. "You're lucky I like you, or I'd have ditched your ass back in college."

"You'd have failed macroeconomics without me."

He laughed, hooking one arm over the back of his chair, straining the buttons of his crisp dress shirt. It looked like something he'd ripped off a department store mannequin. His eyes were pale and shrewd as they studied me. "So, how's it going with Sheriff Vanderhoff's warrant history? Any leads on why every judge in this parish rubber stamps his no-knock warrants?"

Just like that, my mood soured. "It's like slamming my head against a brick wall."

He nodded, taking a sip of his tea. "Keep at it. Guy's slippery as an eel, but he can't wriggle out of the net forever."

Vanderhoff was a thorn in every Beaufort's side. He and Boone had hated each other in that quiet, genteel way of old Southern families—cold smiles at Sunday service, daggers at the country club. But when Boone adopted us, his disdain boiled over. He made it his personal mission to keep us in line, throwing every petty charge he could at us as kids: vandalism, disorderly conduct, even a bogus theft charge that cost me a summer in court when I was sixteen.

When Ben accidentally snapped the neck of Gage's old man, Vanderhoff seized his chance. He handed the murder case to the DA, Preston Vaughn, on a silver platter. And for reasons I still couldn't understand, Boone hadn't fought back—not like we wanted him to. He'd thrown money at Ben's defense, hired the best lawyers, but it wasn't enough.

Now, Boone was dead, and the wounds were still fresh. We didn't forget. We didn't forgive. I'd tear through every warrant, informant, and case Vanderhoff had ever touched until I found anything I could use against him.

As if reading my mind, Colt said quietly, "You haven't asked how Ben's doing."

There it was; the topic we'd been circling around. Colt always knew how to push the one button I was trying to avoid. For a man so self-centered, he could be annoyingly perceptive when it came to Ben.

My fingers spasmed around my coffee cup, and I carefully set it down before I snapped off the handle. "You tell me," I said tonelessly. "He's barely spoken to me since he got out."

Colt didn't reply. One of his talents was provoking people to talk without saying much. I recognized the trick, and still, I found myself adding in a rough voice, "He's completely shutting me out."

"Maybe he is," Colt said, watching me sympathetically. "But that doesn't mean it's your fault. He doesn't blame you for not getting him out sooner. You know that."

"Yeah?" My tone was so sharp that I startled the woman at the table across the aisle. I gritted my teeth and lowered my voice. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because that's not the kind of guy he is." Colt took a swallow of sweet tea and furrowed his brow. "I think he just needs time. He's fine physically, but emotionally… it can't be easy, you know? He doesn't sleep well. Locks every door in the apartment. Jumps if I walk up on him too fast. He can't let his guard down. Not with Vanderhoff and the DA breathing down his neck, ready to punish him for embarrassing them."

"Sounds like you know him better than me these days," I said bitterly.

Colton studied me, pale eyes flicking across my face like he was weighing my words. He wasn't big on coddling emotions, so he kept it simple. "Help me take down Vanderhoff. Once he's behind bars, Ben will have room to breathe. Then you can deal with whatever's going on between you two."

The waitress chose that moment to set down our plates. "Y'all need anything else?"

"No, ma'am," Colton said smoothly, flashing a grin that had her twinkling back at him.

While I chased a cherry tomato around my plate with my fork, Colton dove into his sandwich like a man who hadn't spent the day marinating in frustration. When he finished, he dropped his napkin onto his empty plate and patted his stomach with a satisfied sigh.

"Back to the grind," he said. "I'm heading to the Dead End to dig into some leads."

My head shot up in surprise. "The biker bar?"

"I guess." Colt shrugged apathetically. "The guy who took over running it—McKenna? He's courting trouble. The place is a hotspot for lowlifes. Word is the sheriff and his deputies look the other way whenever something goes down, and I want to know why."

My blood pressure spiked, and my fingers spasmed around my fork. I forced myself to set it down before it clattered. Colt was too busy watching a woman on the sidewalk to clock my reaction, but I still felt cornered. He'd see right through me the second he took a closer look.

His next question snapped me back to the present. "You know anything about McKenna? He's not exactly your type of company, but you both ride bikes. I figured word gets around."

I knew plenty. I knew the smoky rasp of Silas's voice, the scent of leather and whiskey that clung to his skin, the way my body responded to a single cut from his dark, laughing eyes. But that was my dirty little secret.

I shook my head, pushing the memory down. "Nothing worth mentioning."

"That a fact?" he murmured, his pale eyes studying me with that cold, calculating look he always had when sizing up a problem.

I met his gaze head-on, holding my ground and bluffing my way through it. After a moment, he just shrugged, an almost imperceptible shift in his posture that said he wasn't buying it, but he didn't care enough to push.

"Keep your ears open, anyway," he said coolly. "Maybe stop by the place on your bike and unofficially check it out for me. I've got a feeling that place is hiding something big."

"Sure," I said faintly.

Silas was exactly the kind of man who belonged in Colt's crosshairs. Not the type who should even know my name—let alone say it the way he did. The fact that he did left me feeling exposed, like I'd stepped out of the role I was supposed to be playing and into something dangerous.

If Colt ever found out…God help me.