Deep Under (Tall, Dark and Deadly #4)(3)

“It’s been almost three years since Whitney died, Kyle. He has Kara now.”

“Three years, since his then-fiancée was slaughtered by Alvarez feels like yesterday, if you open the wound. Believe me, I was there when that happened, too. You don’t want that Blake to return.”

He is silent for several beats in which I turn a corner, and so does that damn white pick-up. “I’ll contain them,” he finally says.

“Contain them?” I demand, scrubbing my newly shaved face, having given up my beard for this assignment. “Tell me that means you’re getting them the f*ck out of here.”

“I’ll evaluate when you let me off the damn phone.”

“I need to cancel the meeting,” I say, certain this is going to get us all killed. “I’m pulling over.”

“You will not pull over,” he orders, pulling the hard-ass boss routine. “You know damn well that if you do, Blake will follow, and you risk your cover being blown. We both know you aren’t going to do that. And you say you know Blake, so you know that means he’s not following you on a hunch. He knows. I’m not going to trick him into thinking this isn’t about Alvarez.”

He’s right. “Fuck,” I growl.

“Yeah,” he concurs. “Fuck. And for the record, you and I might share an FBI background, but you don’t understand the f*ck about me if you think I can’t handle my brother. Get to that meeting and get inside Alvarez’s operation. Be the guy they hire to be the notorious bodyguard those with big secrets hire when they need protection. Then be his worst nightmare.”

“I’m already sold as that guy.” I shift back to what’s important right now, in this moment. “You’re close to this too, Royce. This isn’t a job we took for Walker Security. It’s family.”

“You’re right. It is. And you’re our family now, so focus on your damn job or you’ll end up dead, in which case I’ll drag you out of your grave to kick your ass.” And in typical Royce fashion, he assumes my compliance, as he does everyone’s, and hangs up, giving me no time to question if I should back the hell out of this meeting tonight.

But I’m not backing out. I’m going to get this done and over with, for all of us, once and for all. Bodyguard isn’t exactly the kind of infiltration Blake once had as a security expert that could shield Alvarez’s entire operation, but it’s an in. I’ll make half a million dollars for eight weeks of work, which says I’m reaching fairly high up the chain. The hotel is now in my line of sight, and it’s time to pray Royce has this handled.

“Siri,” I say, pulling into the driveway of the Ritz.

“Yes, Kyle,” Siri says. “What can I help you with?”

“Clear all phone and text logs,” I say, eyeing my rear mirror with no white pick-up in sight.

“Clearing all phone and text logs,” Siri confirms, and I stop at the door, grabbing my phone and confirming her work.

“At least you’re reliably compliant, Siri.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Kyle,” Siri says.

“Of course you can’t,” I grumble, scrubbing a hand through my blond hair that screams outsider to a Mexican cartel, or so my contact Juan told me at our first meeting. But then that was the point of shaving my beard, too. I’m supposed to be the outsider they need on the inside, and it’s worked or I’d never have made it to meeting number two and now three.

The doorman opens my door and despite it being February, I step outside into the year round Texas humidity of my childhood, my roots here helping establish my cover story. “Hello sir,” the fifty-something, rather stately, man greets me. “Will you be staying with us tonight?”

“Just a few hours,” I say, offering him my keys before I smooth down the navy jacket of one of my “go to” suits from my days in the FBI. “Keep her safe.”

“Always, sir,” he assures me, offering me a ticket, his face completely straight as he adds, “But I shall fantasize about driving her on the highway at a hundred and forty miles an hour.”

“I’ve had that same fantasy,” I assure him, and considering I used this job as an excuse to buy the gorgeous beast, I revel a bit in the idea that I can actually do it. “I need to get on that.”

“You do indeed, sir.”

“Kyle,” I say, palming him a large bill. “Sir makes me feel like my father.”

“Kyle,” he repeats, “and I’m Les Gordan, should you need anything.”

“Thanks, Les,” I say, heading toward the double doors, and entering to find shiny tile beneath my feet, a centerpiece table filled with a couple dozen vases of flowers and a glass chandelier above my head. It’s dripping money, and for some that would make them regret what they don’t have, but not me. I have money, beyond the income I make at Walker Security, which I don’t touch for one reason and one reason only. It’s blood money.

Cutting left into a bar area, where a thick, blue and gray swirled rug sits beneath clusters of tables with high back chairs, my contact is nowhere in sight. As I’m about to turn back and call him, he slides out of a booth and waves me forward, his suit 70’s pale blue, but expensive. At the same moment, a woman wearing a slim-fitted white dress, with long, dark hair, slides out of the seat across from him and walks toward the bathroom. I discreetly suck in air, the idea of this being Myla, impossible to ignore, but that’s ridiculous. It can’t be her. Could it be her? Could it be this easy to have her land in my lap?