Page 14

fourteen

The laundromat smelled of detergent and fabric softener, the air thick with humidity from the industrial dryers churning in the back. Rowan adjusted the strap of her holster beneath her jacket as she scanned the space. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, flickering slightly, casting an artificial glow over the rows of humming machines. The place was mostly empty—just an elderly woman folding towels in the corner and a guy in a hoodie pretending to scroll on his phone.

Davey stood a few paces behind her, arms crossed over his chest. “You sure this isn’t a trap?”

Rowan shot him a look. “No.”

He huffed. “Reassuring.”

She ignored him, stepping further into the laundromat. Benji had picked the spot—neutral ground, public enough to deter immediate violence but with enough noise and cover to have a private conversation. Still, her fingers itched to pull her gun, instincts screaming at her from too many double-crosses.

A rustling noise came from behind a row of machines, and she tensed. A moment later, Benji stumbled into view, shoving his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose with one hand and clutching a battered laptop case with the other. His shirt was three sizes too big, his jeans also baggy, and his sneakers were scuffed and untied.

“Got any quarters?”

Davey shifted beside her. “That him?”

Rowan nodded. “That’s Benji.” She sighed and turned toward the guy. “I’m not giving you money until I get the flash drive.”

“Oh, c’mon!” He gestured toward a rattling dryer beside him, the display flashing 00:01. “These ancient-ass machines run on change and I miscalculated. My favorite hoodie’s still wet, and I need another cycle.”

Rowan arched a brow. “You called me here for a laundry crisis?”

“Well, I still got the intel you want, don’t I?” Benji shrugged. “Multitasking. Got any quarters or what?”

Davey fished in his pocket and tossed him a couple. Rowan sent him a sidelong glance as Benji fed the quarters into the machine.

“What?” Davey said. “Easier to just give him the damn quarters than argue about it.”

“You brought your tail again.” Benji straightened, his gaze flicking to Davey, then back to her. “He’s got that ‘kill-you-and-hide-the-body’ look.”

“Benji, Davey Wilde,” Rowan introduced, nodding between them. “And he’s here for my protection.”

Benji snorted. “Oh, so I’m dangerous now? I mean, sure, I know things, but—” He paused, looking at Davey again. “Wait. Wilde? As in the guy you were supposed to kill?”

Rowan sighed. “Yes.”

Benji's eyes widened. “And now you’re working with him? That’s either really badass or really stupid. Maybe both.” He whistled. “Damn, girl. You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

Davey gave him a flat look. “You got information or not?”

Benji's gaze flicked to Davey, then back to her. “Okay, okay, but before we start, let’s talk protection. And payment. I want both.”

Rowan let out a dry laugh. “You’re still trying to bargain? With what leverage?”

Benji straightened, pushing his glasses up his nose. “With information you want. And I know you’re gonna want it bad. But my last little data expedition put a target on my back, and I’d like to stay very much alive, thank you.” He tapped his temple. “I’m smart, but I’m not ‘dodge-a-hit-squad’ smart. That’s where he comes in.”

He nodded toward Davey.

Davey exhaled sharply. “You want protection from Wilde Security ?”

Benji smirked. “Oh, don’t act so shocked. I know how this works. I spill my secrets, and you two disappear into the night while I get a bullet in the back of my head two days later. Not a fan of that outcome.”

Rowan folded her arms. “You’re assuming we’ll find your intel worth the trouble.”

Benji grinned. “Oh, you will. But I want cash and coverage. Non-negotiable.”

Davey considered him for a long moment before nodding. “Fine. But if what you’ve got is worthless, you’re on your own.”

Benji clapped his hands together. “See? That’s a deal I can work with.” He pulled out his laptop and slid into the plastic chair beside the change machine. “Now, onto the good stuff.”

The screen lit up with a mess of files, diagrams, and transaction logs. “Kryos Solutions is a brokerage firm,” Benji said. “They connect people who need dirty work done with the ones willing to do it.”

Rowan tapped her fingers against her arm. “We already know that, Benji.”

He wiggled his fingers over the trackpad. “Yeah, yeah, hold your horses. The part you don’t know? Who’s pulling the strings. Because I followed the money, and it led right to someone you’re definitely gonna want to pay attention to.”

Davey’s posture stiffened. “Who?”

Benji licked his lips. “Atlas Frost.”

Rowan’s stomach dropped.

Davey let out a slow breath, his expression darkening. “You’re sure?”

Benji turned the laptop toward them. A network of accounts linked to offshore banks sprawled across the screen, the highlighted name at the center: Frost International.

“I triple-checked,” Benji said. “Everything leads back to him. He owns Kryos.”

Rowan’s pulse kicked up. Atlas Frost wasn’t just a name in the criminal underworld—he was the underworld. Smuggler. Broker. Black-market financier. He had his hands in everything from corporate espionage to weapons deals. And while his businesses weren’t always legal, they weren’t always illegal either.

Wilde Security had even used him in the past.

Hell, for that matter, so had her father.

She turned to Davey. “So is Frost trying to destabilize WSW to move into the security sector?”

Davey rubbed a hand along his jaw. “That’s not his style. He only deals in information and money. He’s a computer nerd?—”

“Hey,” Benji said, offended. “We nerds can be plenty dangerous.”

They both ignored him.

“He doesn’t like getting his hands dirty,” Davey finished.

Rowan frowned. “Then why would he put out a contract on you?”

Davey’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.” He looked at Benji. “You’re sure about this?”

Benji held up his hands. “Hey, I just follow the money. And it all leads back to Frost. What he wants with you two, how should I know? I’m just a computer nerd. But if you want to pay me a bit more… let’s say… $500? I can tell you where he’s gonna be tomorrow night.”

“Nice try,” Davey said, pulling out his phone. “But I already know.”

Rowan arched an eyebrow. “You do?”

Davey nodded, tapping at his phone screen. “The Arctic Preservation & Climate Resilience Gala. It’s being held at the Plaza tomorrow night. Frost never misses a charity event. He likes to rub elbows with New York’s elite.”

Benji huffed, snapping his laptop closed. “Well, there goes my leverage.”

Davey glanced up from his phone, a slight smirk on his lips. “Looks like you’ll have to settle for the original deal, Benji-boy.”

Benji grumbled something under his breath as he shoved his laptop into its case.

Rowan ignored him and looked up the event on her phone. “It’s black tie, invite-only. We’ll need a way in.”

“Luckily, I have an aunt who loves a party and a rich uncle who loves her enough to indulge her. If Uncle Reece doesn’t already have tickets, he can get them for us.” Davey lifted his phone to his ear, his expression unreadable as he waited for his uncle to pick up. After a moment, his face shifted into an easy smile. “Uncle Reece? It’s Davey. Listen, I need a favor…”

As he walked a few paces away from the loud dryers, Rowan turned back to Benji, who was now shoving his laptop into a ratty backpack with unnecessary force. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the cash she owed him.

“Hey,” she said, catching his attention. “You did good, Benji. This is the lead we needed.”

He paused, then snatched the envelope with a slightly mollified expression. “Yeah, well, just remember our deal. I want that protection detail set up ASAP.”

“We got tickets,” Davey said as he came back. “If you want protection, you need to come with us now.”

Benji glanced at the still-rumbling dryer. “But my hoodie…”

“Forget the damn hoodie,” Davey snapped, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Unless you want to be wearing it in your casket.”

Benji's eyes widened behind his glasses. He swallowed hard, then nodded. “Right. Okay. Let me just...” He fumbled for the dryer door, yanking it open and grabbing his damp hoodie.

Rowan rolled her eyes. “Really?”

Benji clutched the hoodie to his chest. “What? It’s my lucky hoodie.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Davey pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just move your ass.”

They hustled Benji out of the laundromat and into the backseat of Davey’s vintage Mustang.

“Ohh, this is nice,” Benji said, rubbing the leather seat with both palms.

Rowan twisted in the passenger seat to glare at him. “Touch anything, and I’ll break your fingers.”

Benji snatched his hands back, holding them up in surrender. “Message received, scary assassin lady. I’ll keep my paws to myself.” When the car rumbled to life, he cackled with delight. “A combustion engine? Not electric! Damn, I didn’t think anyone still drove these things.”

Davey glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “It’s a classic. Now shut up and keep your head down until we get to the safe house.”

Benji mimed zipping his lips, but his eyes still gleamed with excitement as he hunched down in the backseat, hugging his hoodie.

Davey pulled the Mustang smoothly into traffic, the powerful engine purring as they wove through the midday crush of taxis and self-driving cars. The gleaming spires of Manhattan rose around them, the sleek glass and steel of the skyscrapers reflecting the watery winter sunlight.

The ride across town was tense and mostly silent, broken only by Benji's occasional nervous tapping against his laptop case.

Rowan stared out the window, her mind churning.

Atlas Frost.

What was his play here?

And how deep did this go?

They arrived at a quiet luxury high-rise on West 82nd, its sleek facade elegant but unobtrusive— the kind of place where high-profile residents valued privacy over flash.

“This is your safe house?” Benji asked, peering out the window. “Looks pretty swanky for a bunch of mercenaries.”

“It’s an investment property,” Davey said shortly, steering the Mustang into the underground parking garage. He parked in a corner spot near the elevator and killed the engine. “Easier to secure than a hotel. Now move.”

They hustled Benji into the private elevator, with Rowan keeping a wary eye on the garage until the doors whispered closed. The ride up was tense, Benji shifting from foot to foot, still clutching his damp hoodie like it was a shield.

The elevator doors slid open on the 15th floor, revealing a spacious apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and a sweeping city view. Minimalist furniture in muted tones and abstract art pieces gave the space a modern, curated sophistication—sleek, expensive, and impersonal. Everything was deliberate. Nothing personal. Nothing traceable.

Davey ushered Benji and Rowan inside, and her gaze swept the room out of habit. The rest of the team was already there, gathered around the large dining table between the kitchen and the living area.

“You’re late.” Elliot looked up from his tablet, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses as he took in Benji's disheveled appearance. “Who the hell’s that?”