“Good morning to you, too. Is your worthless husband still with the feebs?”
That threw her off balance. “Of course he is.” She had been married to Lucky Sharif for almost three years, a few months after Swanson hired her for Excalibur. The agency frowned upon fellow agents being married. The friendship between Lucky and Kyle dated all the way to Somalia.
“Now listen, Kyle…”
“Still in counterterrorism, right?” He swiveled his chair around, got up, and went over to the coffeepot. Held it up. “Want some?”
“No, thanks.” This was the problem. Other men sometimes went mute in her presence, but Kyle would look right through her. Sometimes she still missed the badge and the gun.
“Then do me a favor and have one of your assistants make reservations for four of us tonight at a nice restaurant. Something private, not full of tourists.”
“Four?”
“Yes. It’s time for both of you to meet Beth Ledford. She got in yesterday.” The coffee was black and hot. “Now, Janna, what’s the problem? What’s with the impatient foot-tapping? Why are you letting your problem become my problem?”
Janna stood up abruptly and smoothed her dark skirt, then crossed her arms over her chest. The ice-blue eyes went icier than normal. “I want a promotion. When we started this office, you were the boss and I was everything else. Now we have dozens of people working on two floors of a big building and more business than we can handle. My title is that of ‘office manager,’ and the corporate bigwigs hardly acknowledge me, much less sign onto a contract for Excalibur. I have to haul along a male lawyer.” She tapped her foot harder.
“I meant to tell you,” Swanson said, taking his seat again. “We’re expanding. When I was with Jeff in London, we okayed a new facility up near Twenty-nine Palms in California. The marines will allow us to test new weaponry on their secure dirt. So that’s going to be part of your job now. Hope you enjoy flying back and forth.” The smirk was intolerable.
“Dammit, Kyle Swanson! I need more official clout if I’m going to go out there. And who’s going to run this place when I’m gone?”
Kyle’s eyes held a touch of mirth. “You, I assume. Hire managers for here and in California.”
“I am the office manager here! That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Please, Kyle, quit playing games and be serious.”
Kyle finished his coffee and pushed the cup aside, folded his hands on the desk. “Did I forget to tell you this other thing? Jeff and I decided a few days ago that you should be vice president for North American operations for Excalibur Enterprises. Salary bump and stock. Interested?”
Janna sat back down in the chair. “You are a rat bastard.”
“So I’ll take that as a yes. You do all the work anyway, Janna, and I’m not interested in sales and contracts. The balance sheet speaks to your success. The company won’t suffer if I’m gone for a long spell, which happens now and again. I’ll be your show pony anytime you need to trot out a real sniper to talk tech with the military types.”
“I’m having a heart attack over here, you jerk. Can I tell Lucky?” The glare had been replaced by total surprise.
“Why not? Sir Jeff and Lady Pat are already spreading the word in England. Your name will be in the Wall Street Journal tomorrow. I would give you a hug, but you might break me.”
10
The Prince had his eye on northern New England. Too many customers up there up in New Hampshire, Vermont, and Maine were getting their dope from unauthorized sources. In urban centers like New York, Dallas, and Los Angeles, he had arrangements with central players, but the small towns were growing their own epidemics without seeking his permission or giving him tribute. He considered that rude. It was easier and cheaper to get a quality shot of China White behind a fast-food joint in Montpelier than to get drunk in a bar. Overdoses were common. The politicians were helpless, and the cops were outmatched. He had to do something. Meth crackheads were another matter entirely. They were like cockroaches who brewed their own poison, then ate it.
He wished Nicky Marks were around, but he was on another mission that was important. Maybe after that he should be dispatched to establish a little lawless disorder up there in Mooseland. If the townships thought they had trouble now, wait until Nicky started tracking the dealers and their bosses, and put things righteous. Right now, a six-dollar bag of heroin purchased in an urbanized place was being peddled for forty dollars in the northern Yankee belt, a bonanza for the dealer and a bargain for the addict. It wasn’t just the profit that bothered the Prince, because he had plenty of money. He had to be on top, number one, be the best of the best and spoken of with fear. He craved recognition as the best and the brightest.
The problem was that he didn’t have time to do it himself. There was no use trying to straighten out the details of transportation and distribution if he didn’t protect the precious poppies themselves. They were the heartbeat. Those jokers in St. Albans, Nashua, and Bath were really no different from any other breed of junky, except that their skins were white. So, he added up the score. The problem in the Wakham Corridor had been solved and a new, reliable man was in charge, protected by the Taliban. Relations were cool with the guy in Colombia, who was both a rival and a business partner of convenience. The Mexican cartels had used Nicky to maximum effect to screw up that government’s antidrug plan, and the Prince himself had personally almost seduced that fruitcake congresswoman from Nebraska, who would pull the plug on the CIA and the troublesome Kyle Swanson.
He should leave Swanson alone. The Prince knew that. The man was a legendary sniper in the Marines and had a history that included the Medal of Honor for bravery. He feared nothing. In the space of just a few years after retiring from the Marine Corps, Swanson had enhanced his reputation of being the best special operator on the CIA’s payroll. Worse, while Swanson’s raids on pressure points had been interrupting the financial and dope pipeline, he didn’t even know the Prince existed, much less recognize his superiority. There would come a day when all that would change. The Prince enjoyed having subplots to his main themes.
Kyle and Coastie arrived at the waterfront seafood restaurant first, a small and dark place with about a dozen tables spread with white linen, a long bar that had a stripe of ice down the middle of the granite to keep drinks cold, subdued lighting, and dark walls. Kyle was glad to find that it didn’t have loading nets and fishing buoys and anchors on the walls. It was the pricey kind of place favored by local VIPs whose hot wheels were babied by valet parkers. Tourists preferred the lower-end crab shacks.
Coastie wore a formfitting but modest dark dress, with a matching shawl across her shoulders, high on her neck, and minimal makeup. Her diamond wedding ring was still prominent on the third finger, left hand, and a small Beretta .380 semiautomatic nested in her purse. She ordered a glass of Merlot, and Kyle had a scotch when the server in a clean white apron greeted them. The reservation had been made for four people, so he didn’t rush them, although he leaned in to light a short candle in the middle of the table. “I had just as soon stayed at home. I feel out of place here,” Coastie said.
“I need you to meet Janna and Lucky on neutral ground. Plus, the food here is probably better than Chinese takeout, and I can’t have you just moping around like you were probably doing in Mexico.” Kyle unbuttoned his coat and adjusted the pistol on his hip. His eyes had acclimated to the light, and he looked around as the drinks were served.