Page 38 of Sins of Arrogance (Syndicate Sins #1)

MICK

I'm still in a piss-poor mood when I make it into the lab two days later.

For two nights, my wife has kept me at a physical distance. She allows herself to snuggle into me after she goes to sleep, but when I wake her to make love, she pulls away.

Feckin' Darakov.

Feckin' Dierdre.

They are both fucking with my marital peace and the thought of killing one, or both of them, is growing more attractive by the day.

They bleedin' deserve each other. That's for sure and certain.

Even the prospect of test firing the working prototype of the whisper gun doesn't penetrate my dark mood. I don't want to be here in the lab.

I want to be with Kara and I want her to look at me like she can't get enough. Not like she can't get away from me fast enough.

The air in the Bunker is filtered, but sometimes the scent of our DNA killing cleaner lingers in Interrogation. And the shooting range smells of spent powder and gun oil.

But the lab?

It doesn't smell like anything.

Hex doesn't use gun oil on the new weapon, only synthetic lubricant and thermal paste. Which can have a slight odor when heated, but right now, the air in the lab is as sterile as the workbenches.

The weapons engineer stands across from me, a steel gun case on the lab bench between us.

Her dark curls are pulled back in a messy twist, pencil jammed through the center like she forgot what century she’s in. The coat she wears is supposed to be crisp and white, but it's rumpled and the lapel’s smeared with graphite.

Arms crossed, expression somewhere between triumphant and exhausted, she nods toward the gun case.

But I don't pick it up. "Did something go wrong with the last prototype?"

"That's the same prototype."

"Why this?" I wave at her appearance.

"I'm working on a modular rail system compatible with pistols, rifles, and SMGs. The idea is a built-in nanocoating which slowly releases synthetic lubricant when internal friction increases."

"Sounds promising." I knew I got the right weapons engineer to head our research lab.

She grins tiredly. "It's pure soldier self-care, but I'm stuck on devising a mechanism that signals when it's time to dismantle and clean the weapon."

"Like the heat indicator on the whisper gun?" I can think of some soldiers who would benefit from the reminder.

Not on the crews under me. My men establish a weapons care routine that they learn never to deviate from.

Punishment for doing so is severe. I've never had a soldier forget more than once.

"Exactly like that. Everything I come up with is flawed though. I've barely slept in three days."

That explains the graphite.

Dr. Ximena Morales does all her drafting with graphite pencils on inch graph paper. Old school and un-hackable.

"After we fire the test rounds, you'll go home and change that. The whisper gun is a priority, but that big brain needs rest to keep coming up with brilliant breakthroughs."

"You don't have to tell me twice."

Which tells me that by barely slept, she means she hasn't slept at all.

Hex nods toward the gun case. "No interruptions during this test firing, boss."

Like she's the boss. Hex has got balls, I'll give her that.

I flip the latches and open the lid.

The whisper gun looks exactly like it did the day before yesterday. Sleek. Matte black. An elegant, if ordinary weapon.

Or so it would seem. I reach for it.

"Seven shots," she reminds me. "Before it needs a passive cool-down cycle."

I test the heft of the weapon in my hand. Not as heavy as a regular handgun, but more powerful than the smaller guns with a similar weight.

"What are we calling it?" I ask.

"Vanta." Hex pushes her glasses up with her forefinger.

I narrow my eyes. "What the fuck does that mean?"

Hex smirks like a kid with a matchbook. "Vantablack. Darkest material ever engineered. Absorbs ninety-nine-point-something percent of light. You don’t see it. You don’t hear it. Just disappears into the dark. Like this beauty."

I sight down the range, a small grin pulling at the corner of my mouth. "It fits."

"Yes." She smirks. "It's a hell of a lot better than calling it the whisper gun like some dumbass nickname from a Jason Bourne knockoff."

I take the dig without comment, my sour mood finally lifting as I sight down the barrel at the target.

The trigger pull is soft. No recoil. Barely any sound.

The slug punches through the steel target with no more drama than a whisper through a confessional.

Nothing but displaced air to mark its passing. This weapon is exactly as advertised. A whisper gun.

Vanta.

My heart gives a kick in my chest. We did it.

The second and third shots fly just as clean. Then I shift and aim at the layered ballistic gel and Vanta's bullet goes through it like it’s air. Twice.

I pivot slightly, targeting a reinforced plexiglass dummy like the ones we use for training scenarios.

Final two shots…same result.

The handle is slightly warm, but no warmer than steel after being held in your hand.

I lower the weapon and glance back at Hex. "You’ve outdone yourself, Morales. Expect a hefty bonus for job well done in your next payment deposit."

"Thank you."

We will briefly discuss the next phase. Production of a cadre of weapons we can provide to handpicked soldiers to test in the field.

We're weeks, if not months, off from mass production.

And I'm sure as hell not ready for a Vanta to end up in the hands of a competitor for an attempt at back-engineering.

Brogan and I discussed this. We won't offer the weapons for sale to allies until we are on the cusp of mass production.

Now, it's time to test out another weapon.

Wraith stands in the center of his holding cell, sweat darkening the collar of his T-shirt, his breathing just starting to even out.

Brice nods to me. "He did good."

My lieutenant put our new recruit through his paces with his crew.

Weights, calisthenics, and hand-to-hand combat training. Nothing new for a man who was an Army Ranger.

"Hey, Kieran." I step inside the small room leaving the door open behind me. "How did you like training with strong Irish soldiers?"

His head jerks up.

"Besnik told me your legal name when I agreed to give him his nephew back in exchange for forgetting you exist."

Kieran Llesh's eyebrows raise and his mouth twists cynically.

"And a half-a-million dollar fine for being stupid enough to take a job that meant trespassing on our property." I sit down in the only chair in the room and wave toward the bed for him to do the same.

Sparse, but clean, these holding cells aren't for intimidation. But for a man who spent ten years in the Army, two of them working for the shadowy agencies connected to it?

It's a decent space.

Not that he'll stay here if things go the way I plan.

A barely-there smile flicks across Wraith's features. "Darakov only paid The Albanian Boys two-hundred grand for the job, and half was due upon successful completion."

"You know what they say. You get what you pay for. If he'd hired you directly, things might have gone differently the day before yesterday."

Wraith's jaw clenches, but he doesn't answer. Shifting into the classic military at ease position, feet shoulder-width apart, thumbs interlaced behind his back, he doesn't sit down either.

I can work with that.

"Your grandmother is Irish." Though we found no mob affiliations in her family. I was right about something else too. "Ranger Rick fits better than I thought, doesn't it?"

Our blackgloves did a deep dive on Wraith yesterday and nothing I learned has changed my mind about recruiting this man into the mob.

He'll be a good soldier.

"I prefer Wraith."

I nod. "Alright, Wraith. I can do that."

My new recruit relaxes infinitesimally. He really doesn't want to be called Ranger Rick.

Interesting.

"Besnik is pretty broken up over Luan's death," I say.

"No doubt. Luan was a better soldier than Gjon ever will be."

"I got that impression." Not that I regret letting Wraith kill the Albanian.

Wraith sighs. "He was also an asshole. My mother is not a slut."

"The Albanian Boys have some backward views on women."

"And the illegitimate children they give birth to." It doesn't sound like those views bother Wraith, but he's bleedin' good at hiding his thoughts so I can't be sure.

"Is that why you never joined the gang?"

"I was never invited."

"Did you want to be?"

"No." The disgust imbued in that single word isn't hard to read at all.

"And the Cosa Nostra? Your father didn't want you to get made?"

Wraith scowls. "My sperm donor can choke to death on his handmade Italian loafers."

"He abandoned your mother when she found out she was pregnant?" I ask, wondering if he'll tell me the truth.

"They were never together. She worked as a maid in his house. The one time they had sex was not consensual."

And because he was connected, no rape charges would have been filed.

I pull a knife sheath stamped with the Shaughnessy coat-of-arms from my inner breast pocket and offer it to Wraith, hilt first. The skean inside is ceremonial, but that doesn’t make it any less lethal.

His gaze flicks from the knife to the open door, drawing the correct conclusion. I'm showing him trust.

What he doesn't know is that no matter how good he is, he's not as deadly as I am. He doesn't have his kit, but I'm wearing mine, including a knife in a spring-loaded sheath at my wrist. I will have it out and piercing his heart before he can finish taking a threatening step toward me.

But the illusion of trust is necessary at this stage and if my recruitment strategy works, that trust will be as real as it needs to be for him to be inducted into our mob by the end of the year.

His face a blank slate, he stares down at the skean .

I jut my chin toward him. "Take it."

He does, sliding the knife from the sheath. The Irish dagger is the same as the first one given by the first Shaughnessy Mob boss over a hundred years ago to his soldiers.