Forty-four

Berlin, Germany

Ben stepped off the elevator on the sixtieth floor, moving quickly across the reception area of his father’s office suite, cloned keycard in his hand.

When he’d gotten out of the shower, the card had been in an envelope slid under his door and Celine was long gone. His father had meetings in London before heading to South Korea. That meant she would be scuttling along behind him, juggling his schedule like a perfectly coiffured circus clown. It also meant his father’s office was empty.

Empty or not, security remained tight. Aside from the Pips—the less-than-flattering nickname Michael had given to lower-level FSS operatives—and surveillance cameras, each of his father’s office suites was equipped with added measures. Like its original, the keycard he’d scanned and cloned was embedded with a microchip. Once that chip was scanned it would send a signal, alerting the small army his father called a security detail that his office had been breached. Since he and Celine were currently somewhere between Berlin and London, that presented a problem.

As soon as Ben swiped the card, the clock would start ticking. He figured he had less than three minutes before he was surrounded by Pips. That meant he had less than that to get into his father’s desk and get what he came for. Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly while he settled the tip of the card into the reader, sliding it downward swiftly.

The door let out a soft click.

Ben pushed it open. Not bothering to close it behind him, he crossed the sea of blood-red carpet, heading straight for the desk. Angled in front of the vast bank of floor-to-ceiling windows, he took a seat behind it before reaching into his breast pocket, producing a large folding knife. While he had no doubt Michael had the skills to pick the lock in the time it would take him to sneeze, he wasn’t that good. His B&E skills were more angry looter than international art thief. Before he could go to work on the lock, his cell rang.

“What?” he said, in lieu of hello, putting the call on speaker before tossing it on the desk.

“You got company,” Lark said, his tone stuck somewhere between amusement and panic. “About eight of them. Four in the stairwell, the other four in the elevator. You’ve got less than a minute.”

Fuck. They were faster than he’d thought.

“So …” He worked the flat of his knife between the collar of the lock and the hard wood of the drawer. “Stop ’em,” he said through clenched teeth, giving the blade a vicious jerk. The following metallic twang of the lock falling apart inside the desk drawer was music to his ears.

“I hate this shit, you know that, right?” Lark griped, but in the background Ben could hear his fingers clacking across his computer keyboard.

He laughed, couldn’t help it. “Bullshit. You love it.”

“What’s to love, motherfucker?” Lark bitched while he worked. “You and Mikey keepin’ me buried in shit? Knowing that when I start doing you assholes favors, a messy, painful death is all I’m probably gonna get out of it? A brother can’t even catch … there.” One final clack followed by a sigh of relief. “Got the group in the stairwell jammed up on fifty-eight and the elevator is stuck between fifty-nine and sixty. Now hurry your cracker ass up because it won’t hold them for long.”

“Keep your panties on, Green Mile, I’m in,” Ben said, yanking the drawer open, sending the scrapped lock bouncing and flying across the carpet. “Give it another twenty and then let them out.” He hung up on a string of Lark’s protests.

Snagging the file, Ben slipped it into the zippered lining of his suit jacket. There was no time to open it now. He’d have to take it with him. He’d been about to shut the drawer when he caught sight of it. Beneath the file was a key. Not a plastic card but an actual key. The two-pronged metal piece was as long and thick as his finger. Deep, jagged cuts on each side, the head of it nearly as wide as his fist. He’d never seen it before.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t know what it opened.

He could scan it, have Lark make him a copy like he had with Celine’s card, but there was no time. A quick glance at the clock told him he had less than ten seconds and both escape routes were clogged with his father’s goons.

On impulse he swiped the key and dropped it into his pocket along with his cell phone. Lifting the lid on the humidor his father kept on his desk, he pulled out an Opus X, cut the tip, and stood, taking a stroll to the sleek, polished sideboard his father kept stocked with liquor.

Down the hall, he heard the elevator let out a discreet chime, followed almost immediately by the loud bang of the stairwell door being thrown open. Within seconds his father’s office was flooded with Pips, guns drawn and pointed straight at him.

Showtime.

“Afternoon, fellas,” he said, cigar still clamped between his teeth, turning slightly to cast a dismissive glance at them over his shoulder. There were nearly twice as many as the eight Lark had counted. He lifted the stopper from the mouth of a cut crystal decanter before bringing it to his nose. Scotch. He hated scotch. He poured himself a couple of fingers anyway and turned to face them. He scissored the Opus between his fingers to pull it out of his mouth. “Something wrong?”

Guns were immediately dropped but they weren’t reholstered. A few of them had been there the day his father had ordered his head of security to put a bullet through Ben’s hand to stop him from saving his brother. Most had heard the story about what Ben had done to the man afterward. All of them knew what he was capable of.

Which meant none of them wanted to be the first one to approach him.

He sipped his scotch and watched them. Fifteen of them now, all displaying varying degrees of apprehension. Waiting for him to make a move. Finally one of them found his balls and spoke up.

“What are you doing in here, sir?” Mr. Ballsy said, the FSS-­issued Kimber twitching in his hand as his flat brown eyes slid across the room, over the surface of the desk before landing on the pilfered drawer. “Mr. Shaw left for London an hour ago.”

“I wanted a cigar.” He moved to the front of the desk, still grinning. “You guys want one?” he said, spinning the humidor around to face them. A few of them flinched like he’d just pulled the pin on a grenade.

“No, sir,” Mr. Ballsy said, shaking his head, trying like hell to put some bass in his tone. “You really shouldn’t be in here.”

“Yeah, well …” He slammed the rest of his drink before gently setting the glass on the edge of the desk with a pronounced click. “What are you prepared to do about it?”

“I, uh … I …” Mr. Ballsy looked around, hoping to find someone to back his play. Unfortunately for him, players were in short supply. “I’m gonna have to ask you to come with me, sir,” he finally managed, his eyes widening just a touch, like even he couldn’t believe what he was saying.

“I’ll leave when I’m ready.” Leaning across the desk, he reached into the drawer and fished around while all fifteen of them tensed up, hands flexing around the grips of their guns. He pulled out the large desktop lighter his father kept there. “And I can guaran-fuckin’­-tee that when I do leave, it won’t be with you, sweet cheeks,” he said before sticking the cigar back into his mouth. Lifting the lighter, he clicked it, turning his head to the side so he could catch the short burst of flame, puffing on it until the blunt end of the cigar glowed red.

He stood there for a moment, puffing on a two-hundred-dollar cigar he didn’t want, letting the room fill with smoke, making sure every single one of them knew he was here and there wasn’t a fucking thing any of them could do about it. The file he’d taken pressed against his ribs. The key weighed heavy in his pocket. The fact that he took them wouldn’t stay hidden for long. As soon as he left, this chump would call his father and fill him in on his latest episode. Hopefully the show he was putting on would buy him a few hours—just another one of Ben’s tantrums—before his father realized what he’d really been up to.

He pulled the Opus from between his teeth, flicking a considerable amount of ash onto his father’s desk blotter, the movement of it putting the mass of gnarled scar tissue in the center of his hand on display. He smiled, reaching into the humidor to scoop up a few thousand dollars’ worth of cigars. “Now,” he said, “I’m ready to leave.”

He strolled across the room, Pips parting like the Red Sea. As he passed, he tucked a cigar into each of their breast pockets, smiling. Not one of them was willing to make eye contact with him, much less actually try to detain him. Stopping in front of Mr. Ballsy, he slipped a cigar into the guy’s pocket before pressing his fingertips against his chest. His heart hammered wildly beneath the pressure of Ben’s hand. Ben’s smile widened. “Don’t worry,” he said in mock whisper, the thick, cloying smoke of the Opus X in his hand curling around his nose. “When my father and I have a conversation about this, I’ll make sure to tell him how forceful you were.” He winked before fitting the cigar between his teeth and walking out the door.

In the outer office, he passed by Celine’s empty desk and felt a twinge, remembering what Gloria had said earlier about her. About how his father would kill her if he found out they were sleeping together. Once his father figured out what he’d really been up to and how he gained access to his office …

“Sorry, sweetheart, my boat is full,” he muttered under his breath, swiping the keycard through the reader for his father’s private elevator. He waited less than a half a second before its door slid open.

Stepping inside, he turned to find them all where he’d left them, standing there, clustered in the doorway of his father’s office, cigars sticking out of their pockets like party favors, staring at him like he was some sort of rabid dog who’d slipped its chain. Like he was unpredictable. Indiscriminately dangerous. Someone you didn’t want in your blind spot. Not ever.

They had no idea.

As the elevator door slipped closed, Ben gave them one last grin. Lifting his scarred hand, he waved good-bye.