off, Jon,” Nick said unexpectedly, and it was so unusual for him to react that Jon blinked and shut up.
Nick had been scrutinizing every molecule of the Hawk. He finally placed it carefully down on the table and looked up, meeting Jon’s eyes, then Mac’s.
“It’s real. And it’s his.”
Mac nodded. He’d come to the same conclusion himself.
“Yeah? And so?” Jon finally broke the silence. Surfer Dude didn’t do too well with silence when they were off an op.
Nick frowned. Expressions on his dark face were even rarer than words.
Jon turned the emblem over in his hand. “I mean—if this is real, then—then Lucius what? Gave it to the woman? Instead of lazing about in his villa on Capo Verde or Bali he’s in a lab in Palo Alto with his ass hanging out? Does that sound real? Is that even possible?”
“I didn’t know him like you two did. Never really had a chance to. So I don’t know, but . . .” Man, Nick was on a roll. Several sentences. “Could it be we’re wrong about him?”
“You mean about what went down?” Mac asked harshly.
Nick nodded.
Mac and Jon exchanged glances. Jon had been as devastated as Mac. Like Mac, he’d considered Lucius a surrogate father and had taken the betrayal hard. Nick had simply gone into stoic mode, the betrayal one more shitty thing in a shitty world. It had brought Mac and Jon nearly to their knees.
“Mac?” Jon asked. “You think—”
Mac shook his head sharply. He didn’t know. The betrayal had been bad enough. The idea that Lucius might have been betrayed himself, might be in serious danger . . .
“It depends on the woman.” Nick seemed to be the only one who could think clearly about this. He turned to Mac. “Looker like that, I think you should interrogate her more fully.” And then, to Mac’s astonishment, Nick grinned. It lasted just a second and then Nick’s features rearranged themselves into his usual stony façade, but it had been there.
Jon picked up on it. “Yeah, man. Interrogate her. Get to the bottom of this. The front, too.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Hands-on interrogation, if you get my drift.”
“Idiots,” Mac growled. But he’d had a punch to the chest at the thought of putting his hands on her, dammit. That mass of shiny hair, the silver gray eyes and vulnerable expression blossomed in his head and something stirred throughout his body. Stirred south of the border, too. Shit. He started getting a chubby and had to will it down.
That shocked him. He was a focused man, all business, all the time. Sex had its place, a narrow enclosed space, usually bar to bed, couple of hours max. Then back to business.
The woman was fucking with his head. He’d thought of her all night, dammit, and not in a strategic way. Nope. Not focusing on her story, pulling it this way and that looking for holes, which is what he would have done with anyone else.
All night he’d stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed, remembering that burst of heat rushing through his veins at her touch. He’d never taken drugs. His entire childhood had been spent around people who retreated into drugs to wipe out their reality. He was thirty-four and he was sure that most of the people he’d known as a child were either dead or wished they were. So no, drugs had held no appeal. He didn’t want to die, he wanted to live, fiercely. He always had.
But one kid had explained to him the rush of heroin as it hit the system. The kid rented his ass out on a nightly basis to get it and hated himself 23/7. That one hour of heroin was worth it—worth the pain and degradation. Worth being treated like butcher’s meat. Worth being beaten and abused every night. He’d said that when the drug entered him, all the bad things went away and it was like being in heaven, if heaven existed.
Well, fuck it if that wasn’t a pretty good explanation of what had happened when Dr. Catherine Young touched him. A rush. A rush like nothing he’d ever felt before. Like having his
Nick had been scrutinizing every molecule of the Hawk. He finally placed it carefully down on the table and looked up, meeting Jon’s eyes, then Mac’s.
“It’s real. And it’s his.”
Mac nodded. He’d come to the same conclusion himself.
“Yeah? And so?” Jon finally broke the silence. Surfer Dude didn’t do too well with silence when they were off an op.
Nick frowned. Expressions on his dark face were even rarer than words.
Jon turned the emblem over in his hand. “I mean—if this is real, then—then Lucius what? Gave it to the woman? Instead of lazing about in his villa on Capo Verde or Bali he’s in a lab in Palo Alto with his ass hanging out? Does that sound real? Is that even possible?”
“I didn’t know him like you two did. Never really had a chance to. So I don’t know, but . . .” Man, Nick was on a roll. Several sentences. “Could it be we’re wrong about him?”
“You mean about what went down?” Mac asked harshly.
Nick nodded.
Mac and Jon exchanged glances. Jon had been as devastated as Mac. Like Mac, he’d considered Lucius a surrogate father and had taken the betrayal hard. Nick had simply gone into stoic mode, the betrayal one more shitty thing in a shitty world. It had brought Mac and Jon nearly to their knees.
“Mac?” Jon asked. “You think—”
Mac shook his head sharply. He didn’t know. The betrayal had been bad enough. The idea that Lucius might have been betrayed himself, might be in serious danger . . .
“It depends on the woman.” Nick seemed to be the only one who could think clearly about this. He turned to Mac. “Looker like that, I think you should interrogate her more fully.” And then, to Mac’s astonishment, Nick grinned. It lasted just a second and then Nick’s features rearranged themselves into his usual stony façade, but it had been there.
Jon picked up on it. “Yeah, man. Interrogate her. Get to the bottom of this. The front, too.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Hands-on interrogation, if you get my drift.”
“Idiots,” Mac growled. But he’d had a punch to the chest at the thought of putting his hands on her, dammit. That mass of shiny hair, the silver gray eyes and vulnerable expression blossomed in his head and something stirred throughout his body. Stirred south of the border, too. Shit. He started getting a chubby and had to will it down.
That shocked him. He was a focused man, all business, all the time. Sex had its place, a narrow enclosed space, usually bar to bed, couple of hours max. Then back to business.
The woman was fucking with his head. He’d thought of her all night, dammit, and not in a strategic way. Nope. Not focusing on her story, pulling it this way and that looking for holes, which is what he would have done with anyone else.
All night he’d stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed, remembering that burst of heat rushing through his veins at her touch. He’d never taken drugs. His entire childhood had been spent around people who retreated into drugs to wipe out their reality. He was thirty-four and he was sure that most of the people he’d known as a child were either dead or wished they were. So no, drugs had held no appeal. He didn’t want to die, he wanted to live, fiercely. He always had.
But one kid had explained to him the rush of heroin as it hit the system. The kid rented his ass out on a nightly basis to get it and hated himself 23/7. That one hour of heroin was worth it—worth the pain and degradation. Worth being treated like butcher’s meat. Worth being beaten and abused every night. He’d said that when the drug entered him, all the bad things went away and it was like being in heaven, if heaven existed.
Well, fuck it if that wasn’t a pretty good explanation of what had happened when Dr. Catherine Young touched him. A rush. A rush like nothing he’d ever felt before. Like having his
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