“It’s not—I would never have let you guys get in trouble,” Digby swore, his eyes, cold and murderous, trained on me. “It would have never gone that far. That wasn’t the plan. Dallas would have made sure.”
At which point I did a slow pan to the guy I wanted to see naked. “What the hell is going on? And don’t tell me you have no idea, because that is absolute horseshit.”
Dallas’s exhale could not have been any more exasperated. He was fed up with something, evidenced by his growl of frustration, and he pointed at Digby Ingram. “If you think we’re honoring your deal now, asshole, you have another thing coming.”
“What?” I had never heard a grown man whimper before, outside of bed, and the difference was night and day—one being pathetic and the other hot as hell. “No. It’s not my fault he bailed on the party before you got to be the hero.”
The “he” in that sentence was pointed at me.
“It’s time to explain,” I announced to Dallas, stopping near the elevators, making sure Brig was beside me. When he gasped, I checked to see if Dallas was the cause of Brig’s shock, and somehow was not surprised to see the FBI badge in his hand.
“We need to have a talk,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. “And you”—he pointed at me—“need to show me some fuckin’ ID.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Brig whispered, turning from me to Digby and then back again.
“Brig, I think your sister might be involved in something a bit more serious than building homeless shelters,” I answered him under my breath, feeling sorry that he’d been so blindsided by all of this.
“And you would be right,” Dallas agreed, leaning in close to us, his voice low even as his wicked grin went nuclear. “Much more serious.”
Four
The FBI field office in Las Vegas was on Lake Mead Boulevard, which was, as Special Agent Dallas Bauer explained, normally about a fifteen-minute drive from the Strip. Without the benefit of lights and a siren, it was closer to twenty-five.
Dallas had taken pictures of my licenses—concealed carry and driver’s—as well as taking Jared’s contact information, and proceeded, I assumed, to run my credentials through his database while instructing someone to contact my boss to verify my employment.
He now sat in the front passenger seat of the black Chevy Suburban, with Agent Tanner at the wheel. Brig and I were in the middle seats, Digby in the far back, and Chase and the others had been left behind, outside the entrance of Caesar’s Palace, with a warning not to speak to anyone and to please make sure that they were seen, in a deliberate, conspicuous public way, at the Bellagio. Nothing could look amiss, and while Chase wasn’t thrilled to let Brig out of his sight, the others were more than happy to participate in a little partying of the legal variety.
“I’m his lawyer,” Chase had insisted as he stood beside Brig, stalwart and determined. “I need to go with him.”
“He doesn’t need a lawyer,” Dallas informed him. “He’s not the one in trouble.”
“Why does Croy get to go?” But it came off more wounded than petulant. I was yet another thing that had gone wrong in Chase’s world.
“Because Croy’s the goddamn bodyguard, if you’d been paying attention.” Dallas was done, his patience dissipating on a wave of frustration that these people could be so obtuse.
And I saw it in their expressions then, the shock followed closely by bewilderment when they realized I wasn’t one of them. They had thought I belonged.
“No wonder you need a bodyguard,” Dallas grumbled to Brig as we all climbed into the SUV. “Everyone in your life is fuckin’ clueless.”
“Why do you need a bodyguard?” Digby asked him.
Brig shook his head. “Do me a favor and never speak to me again.”
“Aww, man, c’mon. I––”
“No,” Brig snapped, looking out the window.
There was silence for a moment.
“So, you were hired by his father to protect him,” Digby surmised, not a question directed at me, but a statement of fact.
I didn’t answer, just stared straight forward.
“Yes,” Dallas answered him, turning in his seat to look at the man who was clearly his asset. “Brig’s father hired Croy, who works for Torus Intercession, to provide protection based on the threats on his sister’s life, which he was concerned would, by association, endanger his son. The board of Stanton-Downey included a stipulation in Brig’s dealings with her that if he were ever in danger, they would pull the plug on financing the shelters.”
“But there are no threats on Lane’s life,” Digby replied, raking his fingers through his hair over and over, like his skin was crawling or he had lice or something. His nerves were getting the better of him, and he was on the verge of crashing. “She made all of it up. All those contracts—the developers, the builders, it’s all bullshit. She was never going to do any of it.”