The Wild Charge (Dartmoor Book 9)

Forty-Nine

Three days later, it was a decidedly motley and patched-together group that met in the sitting room of the Ritz suite that had become a headquarters of sorts over the past two weeks. The TV was set to a local news station, playing the four to eight morning broadcast, less-thrilling stories interspersed here and there to break up the major story that had dominated stations across the country since the morning after the raid on the Beaumont Building. Anchors and pundits had argued viciously on-air: some calling the killings of four NYC elites – as well as Waverly's son and his friends, along with a whole host of private security personal and two "as of yet unnamed men on the top two floors" – as murder, others as quasi-defensible vigilante justice.

Two things were certain: no suspects had been officially named. And secondly, with regards to Waverly's deathbed confession, the rescued girls were painting a dire picture to police as to the veracity of the claims against Waverly, the Morettis, and Nikola Howard.

The word Abacus hadn't been breathed yet. Pongo said he'd offered it up to Detective Dixon, but she wasn't on the case. To no one's surprise, the feds had swooped in. Whether they were tainted or not, no one was certain.

They'd cut the head off the snake – but now they had to wait and see if they'd spawned a hydra. Four Abacus big shots remained, moneyed and well-protected, doubtless panicking over Waverly and the others' demise. This wasn't over; club life, Walsh had learned long ago, was an unending string of crises in need of careful management. Part of this one had been managed, and managed well; there was more to do – runs to make, ops to plan, loose ends to tie up – but for now, they could go to ground for a bit and lick their wounds. Let the dust settle.

They could go home.

"...know it's not all a setup?" a pundit was saying on TV, as Walsh ducked down the hallway and into one of the suite's bedrooms.

"Are you actually telling me you don't believe someone that rich and powerful could do something like this?"

"No, but it seems–" The inane chatter cut off when he pushed the door to.

Raven was on the phone, pacing idly back and forth at the end of the bed. "Right. Yes. Okay. Okay. Thanks." She cut the call, and turned to face him, expression bright and eager. In many ways, she was the most resilient person he'd ever met.

She also hadn't been involved with the raid, though.

He didn't bother with pleasantries. "Albie says you're staying in New York."

"Yes. For a little while, at least. I've been talking with Siobhan and Emily–"

"That model and the designer you pulled from Howard?"

"Yes, stop interrupting, King. The model who sent me the photos Miles leaked to the press, more importantly." The photos had dropped yesterday, and had inspired today's chaotic news cycle. Some thought they were doctored, but others had completely jumped aboard the Waverly guilt train. "With Nikola out of the picture, and her silent backer as well, Howard Models is going to collapse. I'm sure someone will try to swoop in and sign her better models – and there's no reason that someone shouldn't be me. I've got everything I need to open a solid American branch of my agency here, and Ian says he's happy to help with financing – maybe even come on as part owner."

"What about Cass?"

"She'll stay with me. I'd like to get her into a real art program, get some more credits under her belt, you know? And Maverick has already said he'll supply us with security, should we need it, once we've found a more permanent place to stay."

He took a slow breath. "You have it all figured out, then."

"Yes. I generally do."

"You know what Phil would say."