8
Zeke lookedat his watch and marked the seconds as they sifted away. It was all he could do not to boot their new recruit, Clay Neuman, out of the way and pick the damn lock himself. His brother, Cruz’s, assurance that the young man had what it took to be a recovery artist was the only thing keeping Zeke’s foot anchored to the floor.
His mind took the opportunity to wander into more tempting, but no less dangerous territory, also known as Liv. Special Agent Olivia Westcott.What were the chances that the same woman he’d had mind-blowing sex with two weeks ago would walk into a meeting he was present at a hundred and thirty miles from their penetration point?
Had she known who he was when she slept with him? Had she been the tenderizer to the FBI’s plan to soften him up? Make him more amenable to their offer?
Another more disturbing, more bile-inducing thought hit him. Had she felt sorry for him? She couldn’t have missed that he’d been flying solo during the humiliating birthday serenade.
For the hundredth time, Zeke analyzed their conference room reunion. Something about the extreme neutrality of her expression didn’t ring true. It was as if she’d been forewarned of his presence, but had no idea of how to navigate the situation.
She certainly hadn’t known Lawson’s intention of assigning her as Zeke’s handler. No one could fake that level of shock and repulsion.
Zeke leaned closer to Neuman’s kneeling form when a cloud of noxious fumes sailed up his nose. Jumping back, he hooked an elbow over the lower part of his face and sent a savage look at Cruz, who guarded their backs at a safe distance away.
His brother’s shoulders shook with laughter, and Zeke could almost hear the humiliating words being carved on his headstone.
Here lies Zeke Blackwell, a noble thief, who died from complications of an ass bomb.
His brothers would do it. Without a second’s thought. Then they’d go have a drink in his honor.
“Neuman, what the hell did you eat for lunch?” Zeke wheezed.
The rookie glanced up before quickly turning back to the lock. Even in the dim light, Zeke could see red blotching his fair, freckled cheeks.
“Didn’t I tell you no more spicy foods before a recovery?”
“Red pepper flakes clear my mind. They help me focus.”
“What the hell kind of voodoo you-do logic is that?”
When he opened his mouth to explain, Zeke held up a hand. “I don't want to hear it. Not now. Finish what you’re doing.”
Impatience gnawed at Zeke’s nerves. He could almost smell the anxiety wafting off the rookie as he unrolled the soft leather housing his picklock set. Zeke understood he was, in large part, the reason for Neuman’s nervousness, but he didn’t much care. Every step of a recovery was timed to the minute. If one RA blew his mark, he put the whole recovery at risk.
While monitoring Neuman’s slow progress, he followed the team’s chatter in his ear.
Rohan: “Chickadee is at the dessert table.”
Phin: “On my way.”
Rohan: “Last month, she purchased the collector’s edition of i-Werewolf.”
Phin: “You’re shittin’ me.”
Cruz: “Good luck with that one, bro.”
Phin: “Hit me with the short version.”
Rohan rattled off a description of the novel and two talking points.
It was all their little brother needed to strike up a conversation. The guy was a master at small talk and drawing out even the most reluctant target’s secrets. Especially if the target was female. For reasons Zeke didn’t understand, women found Phin’s tailored clothing, bling watches, and product-tamed hair appealing.
Zeke said into his throat mic, “We’re about ready to breach the antechamber door. I need that code in three minutes, Phin.”
“You’ll have it in two.”
If the boast had come from any of his other brothers, he would have busted their balls. But Phin's track record justified his cocksure attitude.