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June 2014 · AIIB Mission Month 1

I f Carrow had taken Leta’s bet, he surely would’ve lost money.

Dust found his way to Carrow’s bedroom just a few hours later.

It had been an honest mistake, of course. Wayles and Vashvi had delighted in showing him the pool, and Herron had arrived on the roof a few minutes after them, opening up a piece of slick cabinetry to reveal an outdoor bar. They were just retrieving a can of soda from the fridge, but at Wayles’ goading, Herron began mixing cocktails.

It came out over conversation that Herron was the unlikely best cook and bartender of The Company — ironic because they were both vegan and a teetotaler. The pepperoni recommendation had only been based on what Herron knew Wayles liked the most. They didn’t taste half of what they cooked or stirred up, but, Herron explained, they had a photographic memory that allowed for easy recall of innumerable cocktails and recipes. Vashvi didn’t drink either, which left Wayles and Dust to consume what they mixed up.

It was a bad plan to allow himself to be plied with alcohol on the first night there. But Dust felt as if he hadn’t let his guard down in years — maybe not in a decade. Maybe the last time had been with Gordon.

You didn’t make friends at the top of your class. Even Caroline Leiby had not been Dust’s friend. A confidante, a mentor — yes. But not someone who asked him questions about his personal life, not someone who shared stupid stories or loaned you his swim trunks.

Against all odds, Vashvi and Wayles acted like they wanted a friend in him. ( And, some half-forgotten part of his brain told him in the background of his consciousness, infiltrating The Company means gaining their acceptance as much as it does Carrow’s, Wright’s, and Dent’s. )

So he allowed himself to be swept in the current of the evening as midnight dissolved to the morning hours and Wayles outdid himself with stranger and stranger drink requests.

The scenery was intoxicating, too: the generous lap-pool washed in lights that cycled through colors, lilac to aqua to pale yellow, the breeze off the Pacific Ocean, the sounds of Las Abras at night barely reaching them at the 45th floor.

It was easy to feel invincible in the penthouse, looking down on the rest of the city. Dust could certainly see the appeal.

The night only began to wind down when Vashvi was yawning. Herron suggested that they all turn in. Dust dried off with a plush towel, following Wayles’ lead as the young man tossed his own towel down what Dust assume was a laundry shoot before padding barefoot to the stairwell.

He had paced himself and the ground only swelled a little bit as he walked. Too buzzed to drive, but not falling down drunk.

His face hurt from smiling so much.

They reached the penthouse proper, Vashvi and Herron breaking off and heading in the direction of the bedrooms.

“You’re not headed to bed?” Dust asked when Wayles turned to pad through the kitchen to the corridor where he assumed most of the storage and work rooms were housed.

“Not tired,” Wayles said. “Think I’m going to tap into the museum’s security cameras — see if there’s anything else interesting to steal. You wanna come with?”

Dust shook his head.

“Suit yourself. Sleep well.”

Dust turned towards the long hallway that housed the suites before realizing that he had no idea which room was his own.

Walking down between Vashvi and Wayles, trying to keep track of the conversation flying between the two of them, Dust had neglected to make much of a mental note as to which room was his own. At the time, most of the suite doors had been cracked or open completely — and so Dust hadn’t realized that the doors looked practically identical.

He tried to retrace his steps from earlier that evening. His brain was uncomfortably foggy. Maybe he had had more to drink than he realized.

Third on the left. That had to be it.

He opened the door and the room inside was pitch black. Dust fumbled along the wall, reaching for a light switch. Not finding one, he willed his eyes to adjust faster and sighed audibly. It was going to take him for goddamned ever to get his bearings in this place.

Several things happened at once, then, and Dust’s exhausted and liquor-addled mind failed to follow.

Someone grabbed him around the chest from behind — someone taller than him, wider — and he felt the unmistakable sensation of a knife’s edge against his throat.

He should have been scared, but in his haze, all he could think was “ God, I just wanted to go to sleep. ”

“What are you doing, Wrenshall?”

Carrow. Of course. He was breathing hard, his bare chest against Dust’s back.

“Wrong room,” he said quickly, the pieces falling together. “I got lost.”

Dust let his weight sag back against Carrow, as if to communicate that he meant no threat by the intrusion, as if the connection between their bodies could somehow reinforce the statement that it had been an innocent mistake.

“Wrong answer,” Carrow growled, pressing the blade harder against his throat.

Dust sighed.

I’m in your room because I’m an undercover federal agent who wasn’t actually trying to gather intelligence about California’s most wanted criminal but ended up stumbling into his bedroom anyway.

“Well, what’dya wanna hear, boss?” Dust said, frustrated. “You can slit my throat now but you’ll have to deal with Wayles crying about how it’s his fault since he plied me with drinks all night.”

Carrow drew a deep breath, maybe considering whether or not he believed the explanation. The situation was too ridiculous for Dust to even feel frightened. He was exhausted — and suddenly fighting against the temptation to enjoy their proximity. Carrow’s skin was warm and he could feel the man’s breath on his scalp.

Finally, Carrow let the blade droop away from his throat, reached into the dark somewhere on their right, and flicked on the lights. He stepped away from Dust and then in front of him.

Dust’s breath caught in his throat. Carrow had been sleeping — was dressed only in boxer briefs that, he’d wager, probably cost what Dust used to make in a month at AIIB. The reality of Carrow’s body was even better than the picture that Dust’s imagination had painted for him: his skin pale and smooth, chest wide and deep, muscles gone perfectly half-soft with age in a way that somehow suited him.

Dust righted himself. This wasn’t the moment to be ogling his target — especially not with the wicked, curved blade he was wielding.

“Jesus. Do you always sleep with a knife?” Dust asked, rubbing the front of his throat. Carrow ducked and leaned so close to his face that he almost held his breath again. For a moment, he thought the man was going to kiss him.

“Do you always stumble around strangers’ penthouses half naked?” Carrow growled.

“Do you always answer questions with questions?”

They were at an impasse, both out of smartass retorts and standing too close to resume any imitation of being casual.

A hundred smooth lines flashed through Carrow’s mind.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here at my bedroom door?”

“Now that you’re here, why don’t you stay awhile?”

“I think we both know that you’re not here by accident.”

A hundred protests followed them.

You just had a knife to his throat,you moron.

Christ, Carrow, you’ve barely known the kid for 24 hours.

Is this the type of precedent you want to set for someone who might be moving in here in a week?

But God was it tempting to try and convince Dust not to go quite yet. His body was beautiful and fascinating. He couldn’t help his eyes from straying to the deep V of Dust’s hips — and then lower, where the drying swim trunks clung to his thighs, his groin.

Dust caught him staring. How many times was Carrow going to allow that to happen ?

Carrow cleared his throat to break the tension and Dust raised an expectant eyebrow.

“Your room is the next door,” Carrow said. “I trust you’ll be able to find it without another mistake?”

Dust’s face fell. What did he think Carrow was about to say?

“Thanks. I got it.”

Carrow shut the door as soon as Dust was back in the hall, knowing that otherwise it would be too difficult to fight the impulse to watch him walk away.

Mornings apparently started slow with The Company — and after the night before, that was just fine with Dust. He didn’t hear anyone stirring outside of his cracked door until after 10. It was the smell of coffee that finally roused him.

When he emerged from his room, Carrow was the one making coffee. He was already dressed for the day in a nice suit, collar of his shirt hanging open. Dust froze at the entrance of the hallway, wondering if he should just leave the man alone after the night before.

“Come take a seat,” Carrow said. He hadn’t even looked over at Dust but he obviously had heard him walk up. “The coffee will be ready in a minute.”

Dust did as he was told, sitting down at the bar in the kitchen and watching Carrow’s back. He was preparing pour-over coffee in a pot that looked something like an hourglass with the top of one end removed — grounds in the top chamber and coffee dribbling slowly into the bottom. He poured steaming water slowly over the grounds.

It was vaguely hypnotic to watch the man work. His movements were steady and practiced and it looked as if he could’ve done the actions in his sleep .

Dust let his vigilance slip for a moment and he found himself thinking about the body under that suit. It was dangerous — the fact that he was now armed with so much information about what Carrow was like with his clothes off. He knew the memory would paint any fantasy, but he hadn’t thought about the fact that it would be so distracting to simply exist in the same space as Carrow.

It was impossible not to think about, though. He could imagine the thick muscles in Carrow’s back moving under the expensive broadcloth shirt. As Carrow shifted his weight, Dust considered his hips — the power there, how they might feel under Dust’s hands, how they might feel over Dust’s own hips…

“OK, I think we’re ready,” Carrow said, jolting him out of the fantasy.

As he turned to toss out the coffee grounds and retrieve mugs for them, a crooked smile slid over Carrow’s face. It was like he knew .

Well. At least he wasn’t mad about the night before.

Carrow poured them both a cup, leaving Dust’s out on the counter and taking his own. He didn’t leave the counter, though, turning and leaning back against it.

It was if he was daring Dust to get near him again.

Or… No, I’m overthinking it, Dust told himself.

He went to retrieve his coffee and was struck by an odd memory: Carrow’s pages in the AIIB folder that Leiby had given him. He couldn’t escape recalling the way that he had only been able to look at Carrow’s section first thing in the morning, when his mind was less protected… How he’d turn the pages, bleary eyed, as he drank coffee in his little kitchen back east. It felt so long ago. He was a different person then. Carrow had been different to him.

Was he an idiot for not being more afraid of the man ?

Was the man just like his pages: more alluring when Dust was sleepy, when his defenses were lower?

The thoughts only took a split second to flow through his mind. Still, he felt momentarily exposed there in the kitchen. There was too much to hold in his head at once — too much involved in even acknowledging that Charlie Judge had ever existed. He put the thoughts away. He was Dust Wrenshall. He had to live in the present moment only — and in the present moment, it might not be the worst thing in the world to enjoy sharing a space with A.R. Carrow.

“Thanks,” he said, finally retrieving his coffee. He took a step back and watched Carrow sip — his eyes on the man’s full lips. “I gotta ask you something, boss.”

Carrow raised an eyebrow, lowering his mug. Dust obviously had his full attention. Even his posture went a little straighter.

“Can’t guarantee I’ll answer, but there’s no harm in asking.”

Dust let the beat after Carrow’s statement stretch out in the air. He enjoyed being the center of this man’s attention.

“Is it rude to put cream and sugar in this?”

Carrow let out a soft laugh and shook his head. He’d really thought Dust was going to ask something profound.

“I mean,” Dust continued, smiling, “I don’t usually get coffee this nice. I don’t know what the protocol is surrounding a nice pour over someone actually spent time on.”

“You can put whatever you want in it,” Carrow said. “I’m not a purist.”

“Hm. But you take yours black?”

Carrow nodded.

“I’ll try it your way, I think.”

He stepped back and sipped the hot coffee. It was rich and mellow and not at all bitter. Carrow’s smile disappeared as he watched Dust. The chink in his armor was back: the man couldn’t seem to stop himself from raking his eyes down Dust’s body. At least his power hadn’t decreased with proximity.

“I’m sorry about last night,” Carrow said abruptly. ( My body made him think of that ? Dust wondered. Maybe he wasn’t the only one preoccupied with new knowledge of smooth skin and taut muscles).

He couldn’t believe the man was seriously apologizing to him. He looked genuinely sheepish, too — as if he’d been nervous about apologizing.

“Yeah — don’t worry about it, boss. It was my fault.”

“Well that sounds like juicy gossip,” Vashvi said, entering the kitchen and sidling up to Dust.

“Vi,” Carrow said with a good-natured warning in his voice. “It’s nothing.”

“It did involve me leaving your bedroom in an awfully big hurry,” Dust said, a smile tugging at his mouth. Was he pushing this too far?

“Hello, details ?” Vashvi said, lofting her eyebrows.

“It wasn’t anything,” Carrow said.

Oh my God, Dust thought. He’s blushing. A.R. fucking Carrow is blushing .

“Dust got lost after your swimming adventure last night.”

Vashvi looked incredulous, her smile growing wider.

“Oh he ‘got lost,’” she said, exaggerating the words and making air quotes. “And he just happened to end up in your bedroom.”

She hipped into Dust and he almost spilled his coffee.

“Real slick,” she said with a wink. “But between you and me, I think Carrow’s more of a slow burn, wine-and-dine type. But I’d say you earned an A for effort.”

Carrow covered a chuckle with another sip of coffee.

It was Dust’s turn to blush.

It wasn’t difficult to keep himself busy on the first full day with The Company.

Dust followed Carrow’s suggestion from the meeting, shadowing the other members of the crew as they went about their daily routines in preparation for the museum job.

He started with Vashvi, following her down a hallway after breakfast into a room that The Company used as an armory. Herron was already there (Dust wondered if they had even slept the night before) and together they walked him through their systematic check and inventory of the weapons and equipment at their disposal.

There was a vast array of guns, which didn’t surprise Dust in the least. There were exotic high caliber weapons, a huge assortment of assault rifles, specialized sniper rifles with ridiculous accessories for Vashvi… But there were also unexpected items: protective gear like the things a SWAT team might use, climbing gear that they’d used to scale buildings and descend from helicopters, seemingly endless coils of rope and nets and carabiners and hooks.

Herron showed him the surprisingly mundane paperwork they used to keep track of what weapons had been serviced when, what supplies needed mending, who had borrowed what… Herron seemed more librarian than warrior in that moment. Their bookkeeping was immaculate.

As Vashvi and Herron disassembled and cleaned the guns they’d be using for the museum job, they sat Dust down with a patch kit and a parachute.

Against all odds, his first contribution to The Company was sewing.

Wayles was next . His tech lab was connected to the armory, and he’d poked his head in a few times over the course of the morning to see what they’d been up to. When Dust finally joined him in the room, it took time for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Wayles kept the room dark, the only light source a huge array of computer monitors attached to one wall in front of his desk. Wayles’ desk was a sea of printouts, notebooks, empty cigarette boxes, pens, baubles, sunglasses, cracked cell phones, mugs, reference books, postcards…

The man instructed Dust to pull up a chair. He was excited to show Dust what he did during the day, walking him too quickly through all of the different streams of information he’d use to stay informed about the site of the next job. He’d gained access to the employee email system at the museum. He had several monitors dedicated to live feeds of the museum, including the employee break rooms and the parts of the museum not open to the public. He was also monitoring Las Abras Police Department chatter, making sure that they hadn’t somehow gotten wind of the job.

Dust didn’t know why they needed all of the information. He also didn’t question it. It was clear that if Wayles wanted to know something, he tended to find the information he needed, one way or another.

(Dust filed that away in an area of his memory dedicated to self-preservation. It would be important that he never give Wayles a reason to dig into his past. Sitting there beside the man, he felt a wave of anxiety. Clearly Carrow hadn’t asked Wayles to vet him very deeply. If he had, he probably wouldn’t be sitting here. He’d be more likely to be dead in a ditch somewhere on the outskirts of town.)

Wayles seemed to run out of steam after explaining the museum-related pieces of his observation. There were still a dozen screens that he hadn’t explained to Dust — and he turned to those after a few minutes, his attention moving from screen to screen at a pace so quick that Dust couldn’t keep up.

He was like a hummingbird, Dust thought. He smiled. He really did like Wayles.

“Are you peckish, or…?” Wayles asked. Dust hadn’t been paying attention to how late it was.

“I’m always hungry,” Dust admitted. “What time is it, even?”

“Lunch time.”

Wayles convinced him to leave the penthouse for lunch. They’d go to Kamarra, he offered, and put lunch on The Company’s tab. The offer reminded him of life back in Georgia, when well-meaning neighbors would take him and his parents to a meal at their country clubs. People were proud of the places where they were accepted and known, and Wayles was no exception. Dust agreed.

Leta was downstairs in the garage and she greeted them warmly after rolling out from under a jeep on a mechanic’s creeper. Her face was smeared with grease, but Wayles bent to kiss her hello anyway. Then he was off again, tugging Dust towards a gaudy sports car.

Most of The Company seemed nonplussed by the wealth at their fingertips, but it was clear from the goodnatured way Wayles showed off the car — in a way that said “ Can you believe we get to have things like this? ” more than “ Look at what I’ve got, ” Dust thought — that the young man still found novelty in luxury.

He drove them too fast to the restaurant, and Dust couldn’t bring himself to mind. Wayles’ enthusiasm for everyday life was infectious. He drove with gusto, ate with gusto, complimented everything around them and never seemed to get bored.

All in all, it was a disarmingly normal lunch. Wayles recommended the vegetarian mì xaò dòn. Their conversation flowed easily, just as it had the night before. Wayles wanted to talk about the job, but he also talked about the details of life in the penthouse — how they all worried that Carrow spent too much time indoors, how everyone had slowly been transitioning to vegan food because of Herron, the fact that they were due for spring cleaning but everyone kept putting it off. They ate until they couldn’t eat anymore and then they headed back.

Dust’s afternoon was spent with Leta. She had a system in place for maintaining The Company’s vehicles that was similar to the paperwork Herron kept in the armory. There were several clipboards on a wall near the entrance. One had the details of every vehicle: vin number, tag (and details about whether or not the tag was real), who it was registered to, how they’d acquired the vehicle (often just a name — the person they’d stolen it from), and a list of the maintenance that had been performed. Another clipboard was full of complaints and comments: “engine in orange hummer is sputtering when idling??” or “green Kawasaki needs new back tire.”

He was impressed with her vast mechanical knowledge — and of course it made sense. She could drive or pilot anything with an engine. It shouldn’t be surprising that she could take them all apart and put them back together again.

Dust admitted to knowing next to nothing about cars, so Leta had him follow her around the garage with a rolling toolbox. He handed her what she needed and put it back in its place when she was done.

“So what are your first impressions?” she asked, straining to be heard. She was on a creeper under a car, changing the oil on Carrow’s preferred sedan .

“About what?”

“Us — The Company, the penthouse. Still thinking you want to be a part of this?”

“Absolutely,” he said, not bothering to keep the enthusiasm out of his voice. “I’ve never seen a better organized crew.”

“And what about the household? You wouldn’t be opposed to being added to the chore wheel?”

Dust laughed.

“Do you really have a chore wheel?”

Leta laughed too, a sound he was beginning to love.

“No,” she admitted. “Though last year when Wayles said he had no idea where we kept the vacuum cleaner, there was a brief discussion of creating one.”

“It’s all a bit more… domestic than I’d anticipated. But it makes sense. I mean, you can’t hire a maid because of the security risk. It makes sense to live together if you’re going to work together. The place is like a fortress, but somebody has to maintain it.”

“Exactly,” she said. “That’s why Carrow wanted you to come see what it was like. Lots of people want the benefit of the protection and the money. Not everyone would want to go swimming at midnight with a bunch of criminal dorks, though.”

“I don’t see why not,” Dust said quickly through a smile.

“And that,” she said, rolling out from under the car, “is why I think you’re going to fit in.”

Early in the evening , there was a knock at Carrow’s office door. He was lounging on the sofa at the window with a paperback in his hands, trying not to think about the job ahead of them, trying not to wonder how Dust was doing with the rest of The Company, or to question the fact that he hadn’t spoken to the man since breakfast.

“Come in.”

Dust pushed the door open with a look of caution on his face.

Speak of the devil.

Carrow straightened up, taking his feet off the furniture and placing the book in his lap.

“Am I interrupting?” Dust asked.

“Not at all.”

He crossed the office space but didn’t approach Carrow yet.

“Can I ask what you’re reading?” Dust asked, pausing behind a chair across from the couch.

“ The Magus. ”

“Fowles?”

“The one and only,” Carrow said. Dust seemed to be waiting for permission to come closer or sit down. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

For a moment, Dust looked unsure. Should he take the chair or come to sit by Carrow on the sofa? He chose the chair. Carrow let the silence spread out between them, but Dust seemed content to take his time in voicing his reason for showing up.

“I’ve been working on my redundancy. But you never specified: should I try to learn what you do, too?”

Carrow honestly hadn’t thought about it. Leta tended to be his backup for every circumstance, and the rest of The Company had never expressed an interest in learning how he kept their business going. It might be a relief to have someone else to rely on when he needed to send a trustworthy party out into the world.

But it was still too early to tell whether or not Dust would be that trustworthy party .

“Not yet,” Carrow said, finally. “Maybe someday.”

“That’s fair,” Dust said, nodding. “Between the filing systems, learning how to change oil, and watching Wayles work, I’m on information overload at this point anyway.”

Carrow laughed at that.

“Leta made you learn how to change oil?”

“She didn’t make me,” Dust protested, smiling now that the tension was broken. “I hope you’re not judging me for the fact that I didn’t know how.”

“Civilians delegate things like that,” Carrow said. “No judgment here. I’m sure she was excited to have a willing pupil, since none of us likes to get grease on our hands.”

“I don’t think I retained much. I’m trying though. I can still barely find my way around this place. If you see me writing something on the back of my hand, just know that it’s a map back to my room.”

Carrow searched his face for any sign of anger about the night before — and why did they both keep returning to that moment? But no. Dust wasn’t angry. There was a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Unless you’d like me to get lost again?”

Carrow tried not to react to the words. He failed. He swallowed audibly and cursed himself for it, pressing his lips into a line.

Jesus, Ansel, have you forgotten how to deal with someone coming onto you?

Plenty of people had flirted with him — anyone with half a brain would consider making a pass at a billionaire. But something about the easy way Dust approached him, the slow flirtation — it made Carrow’s brain go goddamn haywire. He couldn’t even lob back a lame line.

“You’ll get your bearings soon enough, I’m sure,” he said, cursing himself, hating himself.

What the hell was holding him back? He wanted Dust and he could have him and there was nothing in his way but his idiot self.

The conversation was getting away from him. Dust didn’t seem deterred, and his smile hadn’t even faltered at Carrow’s stupid response. Carrow was a mess — a goddamn mess.

Dust got up from his chair and joined Carrow on the sofa. The length of their thighs pressed together as he sat down. It was like he’d read Carrow’s fucking mind. He was close and looking at Carrow expectantly.

“So,” Dust said with a casual shrug. “How do you like it?”

Holy hell, is this really going to happen?

Dust fanned out a hand, gesturing to Carrow’s lap.

Yes, apparently. This is really going to happen.

His heart thudded hard in his chest and he cursed himself for feeling like a nervous 16-year-old on his first date, crippled by his own anxiety, his own indecision.

“I always feel conflicted about Fowles. I don’t want to spoil anything, but I hated the end of that one.”

The fucking book. Dust was talking about the fucking book. Carrow let out the ragged breath that he’d been holding and hoped Dust didn’t notice.

“You’ve read it?” Carrow asked, stupidly. Of course he’d read the goddamn book.

“Twice. Once when I was a teenager and then again a few years ago.” He reached for the book and Carrow handed it over. “The first time, I really identified with the protagonist. But on the second read, he just seemed like a self-obsessed asshole.”

He flipped through the pages, letting more of his weight sink back on the overstuffed cushions, letting his leg press more against Carrow’s.

“You’re almost done,” Dust said, noting the page Carrow had the book opened to. “What do you think about him? ”

“The jury’s still out on whether or not I think he’s an asshole. But I do like Conchis.”

Dust puffed a soft laugh through his nose.

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” he admitted.

“Why’s that?”

Dust peeked at him over the edge of the book, maybe deciding whether or not he should tell the truth.

“A wealthy recluse surrounded by people he hand-picked, secluded on an island where he controls everything and pulls all the strings… Don’t tell me you’re not self-aware enough to see the parallels.”

Carrow rolled his eyes.

“You’re right, of course,” Carrow said. “But… recluse? Really?”

“An armored penthouse isn’t that much different from an obscure Greek island. I didn’t mean any harm by it,” Dust said, shaking his head. “I get it. It’s for protection.”

Dust went back to flipping through pages.

“Does it get old, seeing the same people every day?”

“Never,” Carrow answered quickly. “But it’s been… too quiet since we lost our demolitions man. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to add another body to the equation.”

Carrow bit down a frown at his own phrasing. That was a hell of a way to put it. To his credit, Dust didn’t miss a beat.

“In that case, I hope I’m the body you’re looking for.”

Carrow resisted the urge to close his eyes and will himself out of existence. He’d walked right into that one. Dust moved on quickly, but the smile stayed on his face.

“So there’s the armory, the garage, the tech lab… Could I bother you to give me directions to wherever your demo guy used to do his work?”

“The explosives lab. I’ll take you.”

Dust knew he was pushing his luck coming on so strong — but hell . Seeing Carrow respond to every little piece of flirting he did was beyond satisfying. Charlie Judge had never been a charmer, but it was delightful to find that Dust Wrenshall always seemed to have the right thing to say.

He followed Carrow out of his office, down the hall, across the living space, and back down towards the armory and tech lab. There was an unmarked door on one wall, and Dust had assumed it must lead to a storage area. But when Carrow opened the door and flicked on the lights, there was a huge lab inside.

Good God , Dust thought. There’s enough equipment in here to explode the whole state of California.

“I doubt you need me to show you around the lab,” Carrow said, noting the awe on Dust’s face.

“No,” Dust said, stepping forward, finally finding the first thing that could distract him even momentarily from Carrow’s magnetic pull. “I think I can take it from here.”

“Dinner's at eight, if you’re hungry,” Carrow said. “Herron’s cooking — none of us miss their meals.”

“I’ll be there,” Dust said, turning and winking. “Thanks, boss.”

It took almost no time for Dust to come up with a plan to impress Carrow on the museum job.

When he’d trained explosive and demolitions at AIIB, everything had been tightly controlled. When he wanted to create an explosive device, it meant submitting hours of paperwork and specs — and then waiting on the bureaucratic process that would eventually decide whether or not he could have what he needed.

There had been so many safety procedures, so much red tape to cut through before he put anything together — let alone actually blew anything up.

So walking into The Company’s explosives lab made Dust feel like he was a kid who’d just been unleashed in a toy store.

They had piles of equipment, explosives, fuses, timers — and plenty of supplies he’d never even seen before.

He had free reign over things that would’ve made the people in charge at AIIB lose their goddamn minds. Dangerous volatile stuff. Yes, in the wrong hands, it would’ve been easy for someone to do something stupid and blow up the whole goddamn building. But it was clear that no one had spent time in the lab since Nick Short had been off the scene. They respected the power held there.

He had a plan in mind within just a few minutes. In an hour, he was elbows deep into a new device — the type of thing he’d always wanted to build at AIIB but never been allowed to due to the strict protocols.

Dust didn’t realize he was late to dinner until he stuck his head into Wayles’ lab down the hall and found it empty.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, hightailing it to the dining room.

The Company was already eating. There was one empty chair waiting for him between Vashvi and Wayles, and Dust wondered if they’d added the chair for him or if it had always sat empty there since Nick.

“Hey, we thought you were gonna work through dinner,” Vashvi said, smiling when he sat down.

“Are you kidding? You’ve all hyped Herron’s cooking so much, I would’ve hated myself if I missed their first meal while I was here.”

Herron’s mouth flickered in something that might’ve been a smile.

The Company began to reach across the table, to pass him things and pour him wine and water. They were having Indian food — a cuisine Dust knew next to zero about — and he took big portions of everything offered to him. He didn’t bother asking what he was about to eat, and dug in happily. Dust hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he had the first bite in his mouth.

Conversation resumed as he began to eat.

“Have you heard from Kerry since the last job — you know, when we did that thing with the, uh, forest fire?”

“No, but I’ve heard about him.”

“He moved up the coast, right?”

“Yeah, and inland, too. He’s probably running a ring in Canada by now.”

“What, couldn’t take the heat?”

“No — I heard he ran afoul of a cartel sometime after our job.”

“Christ, again with fucking Comandante?”

“Apparently. They’re getting bolder, even off their home turf.”

“You know, if my nickname was El Comandante, I’d just shorten it to Dante. Way cooler.”

“And that’s why you’ll never run a cartel, Wayles.”

“I can think of a lot of reasons why Wayles will never run a cartel…”

“Hey, now! I’m a great criminal. I’d never rule it out.”

The names and details flowed around Dust. If they kept him, let him join, would he ever understand the references? How long would it take him to understand the past of The Company, and how long would it take to be a part of reshaping its future?

( Or, a grim part of his mind added, ending its future if you’re successful. )

Dust volunteered to do the dishes and no one tried to stop him. Leta, Vashvi, and Herron retired back to their respective corners of the penthouse. Wayles and Carrow sat at the bar behind him, sipping brandy and talking softly as he worked. He didn’t try to hear what they were saying.

He felt… warm. Accepted.

I could belong here, he thought to himself without stopping to think of all of the implications of that statement.

He dried the dishes and found where they belonged, stacking them in the sleek cabinets before wiping down the stainless, restaurant-grade appliances. It would be fun to cook in this kitchen, which came equipped with every gadget an amateur chef could ever hope for. And there would always be hands to help him clean up and people appreciative for the effort he’d put in.

It was a strange mental game, thinking about the potential of life in the penthouse. Every time he seemed to leap forward, forgetting his mission, thinking only of the pleasure he could reap by becoming one of them. The life and purpose of Charlie Judge came loping along after a few minutes, reminding him of what he was and what he was there to do, but only gently. The purpose seemed malleable somehow.

It was important to belong, if he was going to get the information AIIB wanted.

Maybe he could negotiate for The Company once they were brought to justice. He could intercede on their behalf, and guide them through the legal system. He could convince them to take plea deals… The thought was unpleasant, though, and so he pushed it to the side. Why think about the future when his role was in the present?

Dust bid Wayles and Carrow goodnight, unable to miss the fact that both of their faces fell slightly when they realized he wasn’t going to join them.

He needed to sleep. There was work to be done the next day in preparation for the job.