Robert
Declan Doyle eyes me with overt suspicion as we settle into the booth. It’s off hours, and we are the only people in the dining room—the large windows look out on the upper floors of other Washington buildings, and the dark wood and leather decor reflects the wealth of those who live in the residences here.
We order our drinks from the tuxedoed waiter, and he brings a bread basket along with an assortment of cheeses—“compliments of the chef”—before Declan asks why I’ve invited him to join me at my apartment building’s private restaurant.
“I have some information that I think will be of interest to you.”
He shakes his head, a disbelieving smile twisting this lips. “You want to share intelligence with me? Out of the goodness of your heart?” He says it as though I’m a cat who’s asked a mouse to perform a teeth cleaning. But Declan Doyle is no mouse, which is why I tried to hire him years ago. His integrity and trust fund kept him in public service.
“I’ve changed,” I say with a shrug. “Become more community-minded.”
Declan laughs at that one. “Sure you have.”
“There is a cabal of criminal organizations plotting to destroy Joyful Justice, and I need your help to save them.”
His grin fades. I take a sip of my manhattan and grimace. Too sweet.
“Why would I help save Joyful Justice?” Declan’s tone is sober—no longer amused by or assured of my insincerity.
“It’s a wide-ranging plot that involves the Incels and Her prophet fanatics. That’s why I thought it’d be of interest to you.”
His brows raise. Is he surprised I know what he is working on? “I’m listening.”
I outline Amy’s plan to foment a massacre, leaving out her and Josh’s names and thus the true identity of the organization plotting against Joyful Justice. As I talk, Declan’s expression stays neutral and his drink untouched. “How do you know all this?” he asks when I finish.
“How I know it is not important. That I’m right is what you need to be paying attention to. Is there something wrong with your drink? Mine is sweet.”
I gesture to the waiter, who waits on the far side of the room, well out of listening distance. He approaches. “This manhattan has too much sweet vermouth. I said a perfect manhattan. That means half sweet and half dry vermouth. I’d expect you to know that.”
The waiter nods respectfully, mumbling an apology, before taking the drink away with a promise to bring a new one.
Declan waits for the man to be out of earshot before speaking. “Why should I believe you?”
“All of this will come to pass, and then you can follow the bread crumbs to the truth. Perhaps my warning will help lead the way. Personally”—I shrug—“I think it would be nice if we could stop the mass shooting from happening. Seems like Miami doesn’t need another tragedy at the moment.” I eye the cheese plate but decide against it.
The waiter returns with my drink before Declan can respond. I taste it, the smooth whiskey and aromatic dry vermouth perfectly tempered by just a hint of sweetness. I nod my approval, and the waiter leaves us again.
Declan sits forward, his drink sweating onto the table. “Is this the same group who was trying to kill Sydney?”
I raise a brow. “You heard about that?”
“She came to see me.”
I know. Then she went to see her mother. And is currently in the basement of a hospital, failing to see her way out. But she will survive. She always does. “Sydney paid you a visit, how nice.”
“She seemed eager to find the people who are after her.” Declan is baiting me, trying to see if I’ve told Sydney what I know.
“Fascinating,” I say, sounding bored. Declan frowns. “Do you think you can help avoid this catastrophe, or should I call someone else?”
Declan climbs out of the booth, never having tasted his drink. “Call someone else,” he says. “I’m not your man, Maxim.”
I let him walk away. He will look into it. Giving Declan a piece of information is like waving a fox scent under a hound’s nose—he can’t help but chase it down.
Back in my apartment, I call Amy. “It’s done,” I tell her. “But I don’t think he believed me.”
“That’s fine. We are just planting the seed.”
“When can I meet Natalia?”
“She is off the coast of Miami, waiting for you on her ship, The Escape Plan. Her helicopter can pick you up.”
“I can be back in Miami by this evening. I’ll call once I have my arrival time.”
“Good luck, Robert.”
It’s not luck that’s allowed me to survive this long. It’s always having an escape plan.