The Hunter (Boston Belles 1)

The more I thought about it, the more I was happy she wasn’t here. Good riddance.

I hoped she’d have fun shooting the GW cover she wasn’t even excited for.

Maybe she would. Sailor did a fine job lying to herself. She hated fame. Loathed interviews. Detested being in the spotlight. And recently, I suspected, she’d also come to despise archery itself. She was working on autopilot.

Feeling my nostrils flare with anger, I grabbed the flowers and shoved them into the trash can, cramming them in with my foot, half-kicking them all over the kitchen.

I grabbed my laptop and retired to my room, planning to go ham on some Thai food and listen to Syllie’s recordings to finally find incriminating information on the asshole.

Without the goddamn nanny.

Four hours into the recording, I hit the jackpot.

By the sound of it, he was meeting face to face with someone. I didn’t know who, but prior to that, I’d heard him driving for an hour and a half, so it was likely out of Boston. He’d been fidgety on his way there—changed radio channels frequently, sighed and muttered profanity at the traffic. He’d called his wife twice and forgotten what he wanted to tell her both times. Kill had called him once to get some details about our refinery trip to Maine. He’d cross-examined him about the health and safety failures. Three of the machines there were down. It all sounded like gibberish to me. Desalter units. Vacuum distillation. Amine gas treater. The only thing I knew was this shit sounded like something I didn’t want to touch. After Sylvester hung up the phone, I heard him punching the steering wheel again and again and again, mumbling, dammit.

He’d slammed his car door shut (I made a mental note to check where he’d driven with the tracking device I’d put there) and walked into someplace. It sounded quiet, the earth crunchy with leaves. He talked to someone. Male. He sounded older and not from here. Thick, Eastern European accent. Russian, maybe. His English was impeccable, though, his words measured.

“How are we getting along with the plan?” Syllie sniffed.

He was pacing, I could tell. Hours upon hours of listening to his recordings had helped me recognize his tells: the way he talked, walked, and clicked his pen in succession when he was nervous.

“We are making progress, but as I said before, it is a sophisticated operation, and there are a lot of things to take into consideration. We are planning for seven potential scenarios. The men involved in the operation would like some reassurance that their families will be compensated, should something happen to them.”

“And they will be compensated,” Syllie snapped. “As long as the Fitzpatricks are out of my way.”

“I’m afraid they’ll need more assurance than that. I do not blame them for being skeptical. It is not every day a beggar tries to dethrone a king.” The Eastern European man clucked his tongue, lighting a cigarette by the sound of the lighter flicking.

“Where is this coming from?” Syllie spat. “The details of our deal have already been signed and agreed upon.”

“Deals change. The risk is great. Your reward, greater.”

“And the contract?” Sylvester was probably foaming at the fucking mouth at this point.

“Good as any old piece of paper. You’ve yet to pay a penny, and they’ve yet to execute your plan. They can still back out. Right now, it seems like they are.”

“You think I have millions lying around, waiting to be gifted? Think about the amount of money Royal Pipelines will lose as a result. We’re talking at least two hundred mill in the red, not to mention the legal fees. And don’t get me started on our shareholders. It will be a black day for Wall Street.”

I sat upright in my bed, causing the half-empty cartons of Thai food to spill from where they were propped on my thighs to the carpet. Hell if I cared. This was what I needed—some kind of admission, proof that Syllie was planning something. And he was. Weirdly, the first person I wanted to run to with this information wasn’t Da or even Kill. It was Sailor. Which went to show how pussy-whipped I was, because she had no skin in this game. But I knew how proud she’d be that I’d nailed it.

That’s it, asshole. You’re going cold turkey on this bitch, even after she comes back. You need to get her out of your system.

“You will lose a fraction of what you are gaining.” The man who spoke with Syllie took a drag of his cigarette. “And have the world at your feet in return. If your excuse for why you shouldn’t raise refinery workers’ salaries is stirring pity in Wall Street brokers, you may want to try another tactic.”

“What are you asking?” My father’s right hand retorted. “Get to the point.”