Page 16 of Twisted Enemy
At the gate, I check the mirrors, verifying no one is lurking on the street. Because that’s another reason this is a bad time to leave: Tarasov has already worked his way past the gate once.
But I have plans to keep the bratva brigadier at bay. And in the meantime, Nilsson is an expert marksman. I’ve leaned on the DC police to circle by the house every couple of hours.
So once I’m certain no one’s waiting on the sidewalk, I trigger the Jaguar’s bespoke electronics. The iron gate slides open. I wait until it’s safely closed behind me before I continue down the street.
Georgetown is still quiet this early in the day. Once I get out of the city, my foot is heavy on the accelerator. I’m driving almost due east, against the lawyers and lobbyists flooding into town for another day of work. Over the road’s steady hum, I replay Kate’s arguments after dinner: Megan is at risk. Tarasov will use her again.
But Megan knew the danger before she ever approached that bratva bully with the Lonely Hearts game that backfired on her. My sister is the shrewdest con artist I know, better even than the animal who raised us. She measures risk and reward to the fucking millimeter.
Her actions have consequences. Now I have to work for the Russian fuck.
If that was all Tarasov demanded, I could look the other way. Megan has hurt me before. I’m a big boy. I can take it.
But this time, I wasn’t the only one who came out bruised. Megan’s actions hurt my wife. And I won’t tolerate that.
Ever.
The drive to Dover, Delaware should take two hours, but I make it in an hour and a half. Trap Prince waits on the tarmac at Dover’s private airfield. The owner of Diamond Freeport hosts these monthly get-togethers for a dozen of his top clients, the so-called Diamond Ring. We never know what he has planned;we just show up to the appointed place at the appointed time, wearing the appointed clothes.
Today’s invitation said, “western wear—denim, etc.” For me that means the same as nearly every other day: Black jeans and matching T-shirt.
“Trap,” I say by way of greeting, offering him a nod. The man will shake hands if he has to, but I know he prefers not. I can respect the quirks of a business partner who has made me millions.
“Cole,” he says, jutting his chin toward a canvas pavilion. “Make yourself at home. Wheels up at nine.”
I find half a dozen of my fellow billionaires gathered around a few high tables. An eager young waiter offers to fetch my drink of choice, but the chef is especially pleased with this morning’s tamarind turmeric jamu, which offers excellent anti-inflammatory, antioxidant, antiseptic, and immune-boosting benefits. I ask for a black coffee.
I join the group gathered around the nearest table. The chef—apparently taking a break from his industrial-strength juicer—has also laid out a spread of bagels, half a dozen cheeses, herb-infused butters, and three different types of smoked fish.
I opt for an apricot from a silver bowl. It’s as big as my fist and perfectly ripe. I’ll hold off on more serious food until I learn our destination. Past Diamond Ring meetings have included motorcycle races and downhill skiing. I’m competitive enough to refrain from heavy eating until I know what else the day will bring.
Gage Rider, though, is gesturing with half an everything bagel slathered with cream cheese, lox, and capers. He’s talking about last night’s hockey game between Boston and New York, which apparently featured a seven-minute brawl at center ice. Rider doesn’t think much of someone’s left jab.
He should know. He skated professionally for years, before deciding his third concussion would be his last. Now he owns his old team, the Atlantic City Aces, along with several square blocks of Manhattan real estate and a sex club in Brooklyn. I’ve heard about Kynk, but I’ve never visited.
Rider demonstrates proper fighting form, pulling his own punch a half-inch shy of Carl Braxton’s jaw. The international arms dealer doesn’t flinch, although he looks like he has a drone or two he’d like to bring into the match. Rider laughs and goes back to his bagel, downing a gigantic bite.
“Boys,” comes a smooth contralto voice from behind me. “You don’t want to miss your chance at an omelet.”
Fiona Moran sidles up to the table, balancing a glass of shockingly bright orange-color juice, a cloth napkin rolled with silverware, and a plate filled with the largest omelet I’ve ever seen. She takes a massive bite of eggs, apparently oblivious to the effect she has on half a dozen grown men as her tongue loops around a strand of melted cheese.
She’s followed the dress code from the invitation. Her jeans are dark blue denim, tight enough to look sewn on. She’s wearing a yoked emerald-green shirt, cut like a man’s but with ample room for the cleavage she displays like a weapon. Her feet are encased in tooled leather boots with heels higher than any self-respecting cowgirl would ever dare wear.
The table clears as my fellow billionaires head over to get their own omelets. I salute Fiona with my coffee, saying, “Howdy, partner.”
“Don’thowdy partnerme.”
My stomach sinks. As queen of Boston’s Irish mob, Fiona hired Lone Wolf to keep her accounts up and running. But she’s already rejected two of my employees, and from the tone of her voice, she’s about to let another one go.
“There’s a problem?” I ask coolly, because I’d rather confront an issue head-on than let it fester.
“Chuck Bertolli,” she says. “He’s my problem. Or rather, he’syourproblem.”
“He’s one of my best employees,” I say. “When I needed to upgrade my own accounts payable, I had him?—”
“He stares at my tits instead of my computer screen.”
“I—” I wasn’t expecting that.
