The Wild Charge (Dartmoor Book 9)

Thirty-Seven

Talking needed to happen, but Fox wasn't doing it in front of Ian and all his suit-clad goons. He fetched a towel from the bathroom, threw it in the direction of Devin's face, and said, "Come down the hall," without waiting for an answer.

He went back to the suite where he'd crushed his cigarette out on the table – traced a fingertip over it with a fleeting remorse – and was glad to see that Tenny and Reese had found somewhere else to go. After a few minutes, long enough that his agitation began to ramp up again, Abe and Devin finally joined him.

Abe closed the door, and Fox was relieved to know that no one else had followed them; that he wouldn't have to deal with Albie or Raven's reactions to whatever cheap explanation was offered...glad too that Eden wouldn't watch the proceedings with that blend of shock and sympathy he couldn't bear right now.

Devin still held the now-bloodied towel to his leaking nose. Fox hoped it hurt like hell. The petty sort of thought that only Devin could inspire.

Fox caught the leg of a French-looking chair with his foot, dragged it to the center of the rug, and pointed to Devin. "Sit."

"Yes, m'lord," Devin mumbled around the towel, offering an exaggerated bow.

"Sit the fuck down and shut up."

"Charlie," Abe cautioned. He leaned against the TV cabinet, arms folded, frowning.

"No," Fox said. It was an effort to keep his tone as flat and emotionless as he wanted. Damn that man for knocking him off-center. He'd thought – really thought – after last time, after he turned tail and ran and had the audacity to send a letter, that he'd burned up the last of his ire. That, should he ever have the misfortune of meeting him again, he'd feel nothing at all. But of course that wasn't true, was it? How could it have been? "This stain on society," he continued, pointing to said stain, "ran off in the middle of our last op like the spineless wanker he is, with no explanation, and waits until now to turn back up. Now, when we can't afford any distractions, when we're facing a goddamn international fucking human trafficking empire" – shit, he was close to shouting, and checked himself mid-sentence – "he thinks the sight of his face might do some good? No. I want a real explanation. Why are you here?" he asked, turning his glare on Devin. "Because if it turns out you're actually working for those people, and you've come to spy on us for them, it won't surprise me one bit."

"It wasn't his idea," Abe said, startling him. His expression had gone grim. "I called him."

A punch would have been more pleasant than that information.

"You called him?"

"And here you are getting all angry with–" Devin started.

"Shut up. Abe?"

He sighed; scrubbed a hand over his face a moment, clearly full of regret. "I nearly did it when you first called and told me about Eden."

Another blow; this one felt like it landed in his throat.

"I called 'round to Phillip a few days later, just to see if he'd heard from you, and he was pretty tight-lipped, but he said something about you lads in the club biting off more than you could chew over here. I called Michelle, and she gave me the details."

"That little traitor."

"Don't talk about my granddaughter like that," Devin protested.

"Shut up. Jesus Christ, you've met her all of once. You don't even remember her name half the time, I'd wager."

"I called him," Abe pressed on, "because it's like I said before: he's good at this sort of thing. Not that you aren't, lad, but this is beyond what the Lean Dogs normally deal with."