Code Name - Revenge (Jameson Force Security 9)

“Well, duh!” She laughs, and I know she’s not mad anymore. “And since you brought it up, yes… you should tell her how you feel. For fuck’s sake, my friend, you came very close to losing her a few hours ago. Imagine the regrets you would’ve had.”

I rise from the chair and walk over to the windows. “You make a point.”

“Find the time—you know, in between fleeing from psychopathic Russian Mafia types—and tell her. She clearly loves you.”

“As a friend,” I say automatically, not willing to admit her words may have meant more.

“Maybe, maybe not. Only one way to find out.” I hear someone in the background, and Bebe says, “Kynan’s here. He wants to talk to you.”

His voice comes over the phone. “You okay?”

“I’m good. Why?”

“Because you had to shoot someone,” he replies in that crisp English accent. “It’s okay to be bothered by it.”

“I’m not,” I reply. “I hit what I was aiming at, and I gave him fair warning to stop.”

Kynan chuckles. “Fair enough. Maybe you ought to consider going into the field with that spot-on aim of yours.”

“Hard pass,” I grumble. “We’re flying out tomorrow, back to Pittsburgh. Can we use two of the apartments at headquarters?”

“Of course. We’re round-tabling this later today. I’ve got calls set up with the prison, the highway patrols between New York and Miami, as well as local police down there. I think the FBI is going to liaise on this as well. I’ll touch base with you later with the efforts that are being made to bring Borovsky in. Hopefully, this will be over quickly.”

“I appreciate it, Kynan. I know this isn’t without significant cost and Jameson resources. I’ll gladly pay.”

“Please,” he scoffs. “Consider it a perk of the job.”

That brings a smile to my face. “It’s a damn good job.”

CHAPTER 6

Jessica

The evening view from James’s main patio is unparalleled. It overlooks the small harbor his estate sits on within its own mini peninsula, and you can see Miami in the distance, ablaze with lights that twinkle and shimmer all the way across the water to where we are.

In my limited travel experience, I’ve never seen anything like it. And while Dozer comes from money, and his mother had a beautiful home during the few years before cancer took her, I’ve never seen this level of wealth. Dozer’s always said his dad does something not quite on the right side of the law, but he’s been vague about it. I’m not sure he even knows, but the muscled, armed men James Burney keeps around tell me he’s not exactly a W-2 employee somewhere.

Or maybe he just likes the image. Who knows?

All I do know is that he’s a cool guy, and I want to get to know him better. Mr. Burney is gregarious, if not a little cocky, but also charming and genuine. The fact that you don’t know how he fuels this lifestyle—whether it’s money from his pro football days and endorsements, wise investments, or something illegal—only makes him more mysterious. I know my mom is completely taken with him as he regales her with tales from his gridiron glory days.

Dozer has been listening quietly as we sip on post-dinner drinks poolside, having finished dinner about an hour ago. I think the gap between father and son stems from a lot of mismatched expectations on both sides while Dozer was growing up, but when I see them together like I have this evening, I can tell it wouldn’t take much to bridge that gap.

“Anyone want another cocktail?” James asks in his barrel-chested voice, rising from his patio chair.

“I’ll have another,” my mom says, rising as well. “I’ll help you make them.”

James looks to me and then Dozer. We glance at each other, and I shrug. “Feels weird to be drinking cocktails in a mansion on the water when killers are after us.”

“You’re safe here,” James asserts with authority. And I don’t doubt it. More men showed up shortly after we did, all looking fierce and ready to tangle with anyone who might try to scale the fence surrounding this peninsular compound. I knew they were walking the property now and would be throughout the night, but Dozer thinks chances are almost nonexistent that anyone associated with Borovsky would link me to Dozer’s dad.

“I’ll have another,” I say, holding out my glass. Whatever he made—with mangoes and coconut—was sublime.

“I’ll pass,” Dozer says, eyes drifting over to Thea who is quietly coloring in a book provided by James. Within half an hour of our arrival, he’d sent a man out with his credit card and orders to buy enough stuff to keep a seven-year-old happy for the evening. The man returned with three huge bags of toys, dolls, coloring books, makeup kits, and nail polish.

Earlier today, my heart swam with all kinds of warm fuzzies when Dozer sat down with her and let her paint his nails a bright pink. He still has the polish on, most of it smeared on his skin and cuticles because seven-year-olds don’t have refined attention to detail. But he’s completely nonplussed by it. I make a mental note to try to find remover at some point along our journey.