But Declan was very worried.
ChapterThree
Atlas had the good sense to have his meeting with Lavender first, before swinging by Paul and Reginald’s to see Declan. He couldn’t risk being lovestruck and distracted when he needed to lay down the law—literally—and find an even footing with the overly perceptive assassin. And Atlas was determined to set a firm, disapproving tone. He was still establishing himself and didn’t want to come off as a pushover or a doormat. There was a reason Paul had picked him to oversee the assets in Lake Cliff and it wasn’t because Atlas would let Lavender walk all over him and look the other way.
“Just be yourself and let Lavender know that you weren’t born last night. He’s not getting away with that shit just because he’s useful. And fucking cool,” Atlas added in a whisper, then got out of his car. He did his best to appear relaxed as he made his way up the driveway, admiring the perfect lawn and neatly trimmed hedges. The white roses were beginning to fade as fall crept into Lake Cliff and made the mornings chillier and the days darker. But the home was still a beacon of domestic perfection. All the houses on that particular street were perfectly lovely, but Lavender’s set the tone.
“Hey! Welcome back!” Sage Bradley’s smile was bright, open, and easy as he clasped Atlas’s hand and pulled him into the house. He clapped Atlas on the back like they’d been buddies in college. Atlas laughed as he gave Sage a loose hug.
“Thanks. Did you catch the game?” He asked, feeling like theyhadbeen friends for years. They had bonded over the Cubs and the Bears and were texting each other recipes and grilling tips because Sage was one of the kindest and most laid-back people Atlas had ever met.
“I did. We’re looking good for the playoffs!” Sage cheered and waved for Atlas to follow him. “Jeremy and Robin are out back.”
They made their way past the dining room and the kitchen and Atlas was once again amazed at hownormaland healthy Lavender’s home and family were. Not normal in the sense that the home was typical because Sage’s La Cornue stove cost around $20,000 (Atlas often longed for a similar model while perusing the Williams Sonoma catalog, despite being unable to cook) and the house’s security system included explosives. But the kitchen was the heart of their home and Robin’s parents still read to him before bed and tucked him in every night.
From his conversations with Sage and Robin, Atlas was seeing a picture very at odds with his expectations of Lavender. And Atlas shouldn’t have been surprised when he found Lavender up to his elbows in pumpkin guts on the back porch. But a shocked laugh burst from Atlas as he waved at them.
Robin’s hands and forearms were smeared with orange chunks and seeds and he was focused as he carved. That was perfectly typical and just what you’d expect to find a nine-year-old boy doing on a typical fall day. His father, on the other hand…
The tall black rubber gloves and a butcher’s apron were not what one expected and Lavender was dressed in a charcoal pinstripe underneath. A superbly carved pumpkin rested on the table in front of him and there wasn’t a speck or a seed on the plastic drop cloth around it.
“Let me have a look!” Lavender said as he removed his gloves and made his way around the table.
“I’m almost done,” the little boy said, but he smiled and waved at Atlas as Lavender inspected his work.
“I am so impressed,” Lavender declared, tossing his gloves on the table.
Robin beamed up at his father, then turned the pumpkin so Atlas and Sage could see. “It’s Frankenstein’s monster!”
“That’s incredible!” Atlas said with a sincere gasp. The face was more realistic than cartoon-like and far more advanced than the basic Jack-o-lantern Atlas usually carved for his parents’ front porch.
“Awesome job,” Sage said, then gestured for Lavender to hand over his apron. “I’ll take over while you two catch up,” he said, excusing Atlas and Lavender.
Instead of heading back inside, Lavender skipped down the porch steps. “Let’s talk in my workshop.”
“Sure,” Atlas replied calmly and followed, but he was legitimately freaking out on the inside.I’m going inside Mr. Lavender’s workshop!
Tucked in the back corner of a picture-perfect backyard, in the shade of a massive oak tree, sat a harmless-looking building. It could have been a large garage or guest house and mimicked the main house’s crisp white stone facade, sharp gray shingles, and quaint flower beds. The neat stone footpath shouldn’t have made Atlas anxious but his heart was racing as Lavender leaned and looked into the retina scanner next to the door.
“Plus one,” Lavender murmured before Atlas heard a faint click. “After you,” he said as he pushed the door open and Lavender was watching Atlas closely.
He kept his face straight, but Atlas couldn’t help the widening of his eyes as he passed over the threshold. It was more of a gallery than an arsenal, but hundreds of weapons—mostly firearms—lined the walls. The room was brightly lit and two long white marble-topped work tables filled the middle of the space.
Atlas didn’t recognize a single weapon in the room. None of the rifles, pistols, or various handheld cannons were made by a manufacturer of commercial or military weapons. He made his way between the tables to get a closer look at a row of rifles. The finishes ranged from glossy chrome to matte black at the bottom. Each model was slightly different but there were no serial numbers and each one was immaculate and seemed to float, mounted on fine glass brackets.
“Jesus,” Atlas whispered, giving up any pretense of being cool as he ducked to look at the pistols on the shelf at his waist. “Rami Ali made these, didn’t he?”
Lavender gestured airily, smirking as he leaned against the closed door. “Every single one. I thought you’d appreciate them.” He was utterly relaxed and nonchalant. Which was wild considering how much the collection had to be worth.
Rami Ali had become a myth and a criminal legend after his alleged death. During his lifetime, a Rami Ali original would fetch anywhere from $250,000 to $2 million, depending on the model and the materials. After his “death,” the value of his one-of-a-kind designs skyrocketed and Mr. Lavender was rumored to have the largest collection of Ali pieces.
“Feel free to play with any of them,” Lavender said, causing Atlas’s eyes to narrow as he swung around.
“If you’re trying to make me forget why I’m here, it won’t work,” he warned, but he swiped one of the pistols off the counter. He had to look at it to be sure it wasn’t made of paper, it was so light.
Lavender hummed knowingly, amused as he clasped his hands behind his back and strolled away from Atlas. “Now, why would I ever want you to forget aboutthat?” He chuckled again and it was a touch patronizing as he grinned over his shoulder at Atlas. “You’re welcome to warn and even threaten me, Agent Beesley, but I thought that this might be a better use of your time. We both know there isn’t a thing you or the FBI can do to stop me. I cooperate becauseI want toand because our relationship benefits me and my family.”
He was absolutely right and once again, Atlas felt childish and like his ideals were too naive. Especially when he compared his ideals to Lavender’s. Atlas believed thatallliving people deserved respect, dignity, and justice. Even people like Eddie Flanigan. He didn’t deserve to be free and his victims deserved real justice, but Atlas didn’t like that Lavender had been the FBI’s preferred remedy.