"Enter."
It was a command, not an invitation.
Ryan propped his cane against the outside of the jamb. He
steeled himself and opened the door.
Squaring his shoulders, he did his damnedest not to favor
his injured knee when he stepped into Horace Blackthorne's
private office. The sleek, modern public reception areas
downstairs contrasted with this room, a time warp from the
fifties. The old–fashioned Venetian blinds were
lowered against the late afternoon sun, blocking the view
of the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. Ryan squinted
into the glare sneaking through the cracks. Although his
boss didn't smoke, the office always smelled of pipe
tobacco. He cleared his throat, surprised at its dryness.
"You asked to see me, sir?"
Blackthorne looked up from the sheet of paper he'd been
reading. No pleasantries, not that Ryan expected any. When
the man didn't gesture toward one of the two utilitarian
chairs fronting the steel desk, Ryan held himself erect,
squelching the urge to grab the back of one for support. He
waited while the man placed the paper into a file folder,
gave it a tap, then set it in the wire basket on the corner
of the desk.
Blackthorne removed his half–frame reading glasses,
snapped them into a leather case, and slipped them inside
his jacket pocket. He pushed away from his desk and levered
himself to his full height.
At six–three, Ryan usually looked down on people, but
he adjusted his gaze upward to lock eyes with his superior.
Blackthorne disguised his emotions well, but over the last
ten years Ryan learned to eke out the subtlest signals. A
shift in the eyes, the twitch of a jaw muscle, a minuscule
shoulder shrug—these were flashing neon signs. Today,
the man stood stock–still, like the bronze statue of
Old Whatshisname in front of City Hall back home.
Ryan waited out the silence, his eyes moving up
Blackthorne's furrowed brow to the
salt–and–pepper hair, neatly parted, still
thick. He resisted the urge to run his fingers through his
own hair, hanging in unruly tendrils over his collar.
"You met Alvarez." A statement, not a question. "Where are
the files?" Blackthorne leaned forward. His gaze bored into
Ryan's. Did he detect a glint of eagerness in his boss'
eyes?
Uncertainty spread outward from Ryan's middle like ripples
on a pond. Two weeks in the hospital kept him out of the
loop, but not so far he didn't know about the
rumors—all blaming him for the screwups. That a leak
existed at Blackthorne, Inc., and he was suspect number one.
He balled his fists, keeping his hands away from the flash
drive in his pocket. The intel. Mr. Alvarez's list of
stolen artworks. Nothing worth killing for. But a sleazebag
like Alvarez might be dealing in more than smuggled art.
Was there a connection between Alvarez and the failed
Forcada mission in Colombia? Ryan had to find the leak, and
he'd do whatever it took to prove his innocence, even if it
meant investigating Horace Blackthorne himself.
He kept his gaze steady. "The grenade destroyed the
computer, sir. Along with the entire building."
Blackthorne hesitated. Cleared his throat. Nodded, the
barest twitch of his chin. "Finish your rehab, take some
extra leave."
"I'm fine, sir. Give me the weekend. I'll be ready for a
new assignment on Monday."
"Two fouled missions. You're no good to me, the firm, or
yourself now. I read your medical reports. I spoke with
your doctors. We're not negotiating, Harper. Six weeks
personal leave while you finish your rehab, plus any
vacation time you've accrued, if you need it. Three months
on security detail, and then we'll discuss your future as a
field agent."
Security detail. A Blackthorne euphemism for chaperoning
spoiled offspring of arrogant aristocrats or media
hotshots. Why not say, "You're fired." His gut clenched.
That's precisely what his boss had in mind.
Ryan reached for his wallet. He pulled out his ID. Ryan
Harper. Six–three, brown eyes, brown hair, two
hundred pounds. Not much had changed. True, he was thinner
since his illness. He focused on the photo. The face of a
younger man, fresh and optimistic, stared back at him.
The soft click of the laminated card landing on the scarred
steel desk echoed through the room.
Ignoring the card, Blackthorne sat down and reached for the
file folder on his desk.
Ryan pivoted, disregarding the pain in his knee. The one in
his belly hurt worse. He retrieved his cane on the way to
the elevator. On the ride down, he flipped open his cell
phone. If there was anyone left he could trust, it would be
Dalton. His ex–partner was out of the country on
assignment, but even on his voice–mail recording, the
Texan's easy drawl loosened the knots.
He waited out the message, concentrating on keeping his
voice steady when he spoke. "It's Harper. Call when you
can."
The elevator doors opened. He snapped the phone shut.
Outside, sunlight bounced off the buildings, but its warmth
eluded him. In the building's grassy courtyard, a group of
young children chased around an abstract sculpture, one
that always reminded him of a bunch of asparagus. He hated
asparagus. He tuned out the giggles, but he couldn't turn
off the image of Carmelita. His fingers ached, and he
released his death–grip on the cane. On the way to
the parking garage, he passed a wire trash bin. Without
missing a step, he flung the cane inside.
Ryan sat behind the wheel, his mind replaying the afternoon
in the warehouse, pieces falling into place. The smells
he'd attributed to the cats. The clutter on the floor. At
the time, he'd disregarded the Spanish writing on the
cartons. He remembered one now, tilted on its side. Γter.
Ether. An abandoned meth lab. With a sense of purpose, he
put his Mustang into gear.
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