“Goddammit, Mav. Have you switched those camera feeds yet or what?”
“Trust me.” Her words come out with a rehearsed Russian accent that’s so deplorable, no wonder she strayed from field work into management. “Swapping feeds unnoticed is a little more sophisticated that you might think. We spliced images of when Evie was in the room and brightened them to match this time of day. We’re all set, so all anyone sees is the old footage of your girl. But, Austin, she’s not alone. No threat detected, but proceed with caution.”
“No threat detected? Really?”
“You’ll have to figure this one out on your own. Good luck,” she sings before hanging up.
I hate how much that woman always manages to get under my skin. Though there’s probably some twisted side of her that knows how much the anticipation fuels my soul with kerosene and dynamite.
The compact 9 mm rests comfortably in my pocket, and my finger slips over the trigger. Turning the doorknob quietly, I enter without knocking.
Evie and a priest turn to look at me, and both stand when I enter.
“It’s all right, Evie. You can come here.” My hard words are controlled but insistent, and she flies into my arm—the one not tethered to the handgun.
To ease her concerns, and unbothered by the priest, I kiss her head but keep my eyes on the man I thought I might know, but don’t.
Is he the inside man? I can’t imagine Dimitri has found any sort of real religion. That, and when the man rose to his feet, I caught a glimpse of the telltale red undersides of what has to be a two-thousand-dollar pair of loafers. Between his shoes, his manicured nails, and bright white veneers that are the trademark of Beverly Hills, this man is no priest.
“No need for the gun, Mr. Byrne,” he says, glancing at my pocket. “I’m on your side. You and Evie’s. Since you’re here, I presume Mav switched the feed, and we can relax.”
“You work for Mav?”
“Not in this life.” Chuckling, he adds quietly, “In case she’s still listening. She might be a mastermind, and I’m no Mav, but I’ve got a hunch you’ll like my plan better.”
“Is that so, Father?”
“That’s so,” he says with a smug confidence that’s damn likable. “We’re going to need a pen. And please, call me Paco.”