The Sixth Man (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 5)

dress, to the black thong she wore. He reached his hand down and squeezed her soft butt cheeks.

“I thought you said you were really beat,” she chided him.

“That was before I saw you naked.”

“God, your timing is incredibly poor.”

“I know,” he admitted

After he zipped her up he moved his hand along her smooth back, which made her writhe a bit. She turned to him, smiled. “I shouldn’t be too late tonight if you really want to fool around later. I bought some new lingerie.”

“I’d like that,” he said, momentarily forgetting that people were dropping all around him, and that he was facing professional doom or even an early and violent death. This thought coupled with the seeming domestic bliss of his life made him feel suddenly dizzy.

She kissed him and said, “I’m having Leon drive me over. He’ll wait to bring me back. Or he can come directly back if you need the car.”

“No, I don’t plan on going out. See you later, honey.”

He watched her leave. At forty-six his wife was still a stunner. They’d been married over seventeen years, and it felt like the first year over and over.

I’m a very lucky man. In some ways. Not so much in others.

Time passed and he wandered the house, a second glass of gin he’d poured dangling precariously in his hand. He finished it off, chewed the ice cubes down, sucking in every last drop of alcohol.

Foster and Quantrell were in this together and obviously had been for quite some time. Bunting had moles embedded everywhere, but they’d completely missed that little alliance. The E-Program, despite its proven worth, was going up in flames. And those two were poised to walk out of that fire with their kingdoms not only intact but far larger. And Bunting?

Either I’m dead or in prison. They’ve set me up nicely.

He had called James Harkes and gotten no answer back. It was clear to Bunting what that meant. Harkes was supposed to be his attack dog. But he had returned to his true master now, like Cerberus to Hades.

He rubbed his forehead. Harkes had been a plant. Either by Foster or Quantrell, or both. If he had killed those people? If the FBI thought that Bunting… Enough evidence to send him away forever, he was sure, was all neatly planted. Foster was nothing if not thorough.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. The comforter had been hand-sewn in Italy. It had cost more than Bunting’s first year’s college tuition. He had never much thought about this. And he didn’t dwell on it now. He would buy a hundred such comforters if only he could put this all behind him.

He took a deep breath and smelled the alcohol coming out of his mouth. It tickled his nose, warmed him. He poured another gin, let it wash down his gullet, splash into his gut, and give him a cool burn, like diving into icy water naked.

His phone buzzed. Bunting lifted it from his pocket, gazed at it wearily when he saw who it was. He considered not answering it, then habit took over and he relented.

“Yes, Avery?”

“I just received a call from Sean King. He wants to meet.”

Bunting didn’t say anything. He felt a painful stitch in his chest.

“Mr. Bunting?”

“Yes?” He tried to keep his voice steady, but he heard it wobble.

“He wants to meet.”

“I heard that. With you?”

“No, with you.”

Bunting cleared his throat, tried to work some saliva into his mouth. “When?”

Avery didn’t say anything.

“When!”