The Boss Page 4

  *

  The last time Graves had seen this boy, he had been shaking his fist at Graves in his rearview as he sped off. At the time, Graves had laughed before setting his mind to eluding his security detail for an hour or two. The redhead was cute, a vicious little thing, perfectly ready to start a fight even if he barely reached Graves’s chin.

  Now Graves had the same impression. The disbelief on Nick’s face when he offered him the joint, the sneer… When was the last time anyone sneered at him? Graves felt a swell of affection for the little American. He wanted Nick to think well of him suddenly, to make up for nearly running him over. These events were so boring, and lately he had been too restless to even pretend to be charming. Nick was a pleasant distraction.

  They stood out on the dock and smoked, Graves asking about the States and what Nick’s life had been like. Nick, looking happily stoned, told some stories about his brief stint in the seminary, and how wildly out of place he had been. In return, Graves told a few stories about being a Māori “big and clumsy as an ox” in an English boarding school. The aimless small talk gave a chance for the pot to lift both their worldviews.

  “This is ridiculously good,” Nick said, looking at the neatly wrapped joint in his hand.

  “I’m particular,” Graves said with a smile. The boy was cute. Damned cute. And sweet-natured once you got through his horrendous language. He was observant and curious. Not afraid to ask Graves anything.

  “You said boarding school. Is that how you sound so…English?” Nick said. “I mean, if you don’t mind my asking. All your guys are from New Zealand and you look—sorry. I don’t mean—”

  Graves waved him off, taking a long drag. Is it possible he doesn’t know who I am? He isn’t the slightest bit intimidated. Hasn’t been in Singapore long then. Charming little thing. Not that he was going to bare his soul, mind you. But it was nice just to be asked, flat out.

  “I was born in New Zealand, but raised in the UK,” he said. “My foster father, the elder Lord Graves, insisted I speak correctly, as he put it. Boarding school and elocution and all the trappings of gentility.” He grinned at Nick’s skepticism. “But oww—I can give a good Kiwi when I need to, eh?” he said in a thick New Zealand accent. Nick snorted, making himself cough. Graves laughed at him, and it also turned into a cough. His hip throbbed.

  “Damn,” Graves muttered, shifting to sit on the metal crates. He pulled his pipe out of his jacket and lit it. He had already prepped the dope, knowing the pain would sneak up on him. The smell of opium blew up and around on the breeze.

  “That’s the real stuff,” Nick said, sniffing the air. “Not the tobacco-laced crap the Marines get.” Graves took a few puffs then put the pipe out, laying it on the crate beside him.

  When Nick raised an eyebrow, Graves nodded toward his cane.

  “My hip is killing me,” he said. The old embarrassment rose but he pushed it away.

  “Whatever floats your boat, big guy,” Nick said. Graves blinked at the nickname. They talked a little about drugs, what the American embassy personnel got into and what they didn’t. After a moment, Graves shook his head.

  “That is better,” he sighed. “I shouldn’t have trained so hard today.”

  “I guess you don’t have to worry about being busted by the authorities,” Nick said.

  “My dear fellow: power has its privileges,” Graves said, deepening his voice and making his English accent even thicker. Nick snorted

  “You sound like the tiger from the jungle book,” he could barely get the words out, his blue eyes shining. Graves let out a completely unexpected bark of laughter, and they were off again, helpless to stop. Graves felt shaky; when had he last laughed like this? Until something sharp and ugly twisted in his hip again.

  “Stop! Christ, boy, stop!” Graves said, pressing a hand into his hip. He leaned back, trying to take the weight off the prosthetic and shift enough to make the pain stop. “Bloody hell—that hurts. I haven’t laughed like this in a long time.” He took another draw on his pipe. The pain receded.

  “Did it hurt to get those?” Nick asked, gesturing to the tattoos on Graves’s face. His voice was far away, and Graves felt himself smiling, loopy and mindless.

  “Like you wouldn’t believe,” Graves said. “My brother had to hold my hand! But the pain is part of the tradition, so…”

  “Do you mind if I ask what they mean?” Nick asked. Oh, Graves liked this American. Liked him very much. Being asked so…honestly was a refreshing change from the usual racist nonsense he heard. It had been a long time since someone had just…asked.

  “This is family, here,” he said pointing to the two over his brows. He let his fingers drag down. “I have three children, their mothers, my brother, my other brother, who died before I met him. Our family—living and ancestors and even future generations you might say.” He traced the ones around his mouth. “I have more, but we’d be here all night, and I’d end up half naked, and then what would Ambassador Young say?”

  “He’d say ‘It is a terrible moral failing! You sir, lack fortitude!’” Nick said, in a passable imitation of John Young. Graves, who arranged for most of the ambassador’s moral failings, snorted. Moral failings indeed; he likes his coke and he likes his mistresses—typical.

  The door banged open, and Nick jumped, spinning in place. Graves’s hand was already dipping into his jacket, but it was only David Bishop.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Bishop muttered. Nick turned and Graves hastily pulled his hand out from inside his jacket. He saw Nick’s eyes dart to his hand and widen.

  Ah, bloody hell; he saw the gun. I’m too high. I really mustn’t get so comfortable with someone.

  “Come on then, Boss; you are on in two minutes!” Bishop barked and Graves straightened his jacket. Nick cleared his throat, and Bishop spotted him. Graves didn’t fail to notice how Bishop’s face softened when he saw Nick.

  “Hey there, Nick; how’s tricks?” Bishop said, winking at him. Graves gave him a dirty look. Peel your eyes off him, you old jackal.

  “Oh you know…” was all Nick could manage. Bishop winked at Graves, clearly perfectly aware of his thoughts.

  “Miss Jeanne said if I didn’t find you, she was going to make me into a hat—” Bishop said. They made their way down the hall, Bishop half dragging him away.

  “Oh stop,” Graves said, shooting one last smile at Nick. “She knows I can do these things in my sleep.”

  “I see you made up with our Nick,” he said.

  “Our Nick?” Graves laughed. “What are you on about?”

  “Oh, I think we’ll see him again,” Bishop said. “I seen that face of yours.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Hope you don’t mind me cutting your lunch then,” Bishop said.

  That would have started another argument except it was time to be Lord Graves, and that needed all his concentration these days.

  Chapter Five

  “The beauty of this,” Peterson said gleefully, “is I don’t even need to transfer you now.”

  He tapped the picture. Nick and Nelson Graves smoking pot on the loading dock. Nick’s head thrown back, blowing a blue cloud up. Lord Graves sitting back on the crates with his legs out straight, just lighting his pipe.

  “I can just fire you and have the Marines walk you right onto a fucking plane.”

  The photo was from a folder held by the other person in the room. Nick was completely numb, but he caught the sympathetic look the man gave him. He looked like a bear, with shaggy brown hair and warm brown eyes. His mouth was a grim line under his beard. He was wearing fatigue pants and flip-flops. The gun in a holster over his Hawaiian shirt looked old and well worn: the real thing. One of these no-name mercenaries and CIA agents fighting Red Sky in Thailand.

  “Come on Geoff,” he said in a slow drawl. “What was the kid supposed—”

  “Leave it, Agent Macaulay,” Peterson snapped. “This solves all my problems.”

  “What was
I supposed to do?” Nick blurted, kicked out of his stupor. “He’s Lord Graves! He was the VIP!”

  Peterson grinned, showing all his teeth, and picked up his phone. Soon enough a Marine came in.

  “Escort Mr. Erickson to his desk to collect his personal effects and escort him off the property. He is to turn in all his badges.” Peterson turned to Nick. “Once you have your things out of your housing, we are putting you on the first flight back home. We’ll send Sergeant Townsend once we’ve booked it.”

  Nick didn’t know what happened next. He was in a blank haze. He had barely slept the night before anyway, his dreams full of screeching tires and the stench of blood. Now his mind felt like a bird trapped in an attic, frantically beating itself against pointless ideas over and over, trying to think of a way out of his situation. Home. They were sending him home. There had to be a way…something…someone…

  He had a sudden memory—so intense it froze him where he stood. In the jail, still splattered in blood, making call after call—no one answering. No one came for him, no one stood by him. The phone ringing and ringing… No one is gonna come for you, boy, not after what you done. The guard had been right of course. The only people to speak to Nick Erickson had been the public defender and Father Anderson. His parents, when Fred Anderson had cornered them, had admitted their shame, their anger—the death threats that hounded them since the media had identified Nick the first night.

  “Sorry, lad,” Father Anderson said, sitting behind Nick in the courtroom. “I tried.”

  Nick had stared at the courtroom doors anyway. Amber, Tim, his sister Courtney, his parents, his swim coach…no one.

  The memory was so powerful Nick didn’t even notice the contractor had followed them out.

  “Hey, kid, I’m real sorry,” Agent Macauley said. Nick stepped around him, trying to get his temper under control. But despite his blank fear, he had real reason to be angry.

  “Sorry? Sorry? You fucking…you snitch,” Nick snarled. It was the worst word he knew. A word from prison, a word that led to fighting, sometimes killing. Macauley must have sensed that—he took a step back.

  “I had no idea he would jump on it like that,” he said. “I was just askin’ who was at the door, and Peterson saw it and lost his shit and called you in.”

  The man was tall and wide—and armed. So Nick forced himself to breathe deep—push the anger away. It wouldn’t help him now. He scrubbed his face with both hands.

  “You know what? Never mind, man. Never mind.” Nick let out a bark of laughter. “He was going to find a way—no matter what.”

  “I still feel jus’ awful,” Macauley said. He ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “No thanks,” Nick said dully. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be a mercenary.”

  “Hey, I ain’t no mercenary,” Macauley said, his drawl even more pronounced. “I consult, but be damned if I pull triggers or kick doors for any of those assholes.”

  “You just tell them what doors to kick,” Nick said dryly. The man blinked at him, then grinned.

  “Aw hell, you’re one of them smart ones,” he said. He reached up and ruffled Nick’s hair before Nick could bat his hand away.

  “Don’t fucking touch me,” Nick said and turned back toward the main door. The Marine was waiting.

  *

  He walked down the drive with his box, following the fence as he had the other day. He tried to fight off the memories that swamped him. Home. The waitress who refused to serve him, the store clerk who spat on him. He remembered his parents’ faces. You have to stay away. We’re getting death threats.

  Again the screech of tires, but this time Nick couldn’t react—numb and slow. An SUV. And a familiar face.

  “You again!” Bishop said, leaning out the window. “Quite a dangerous crossing for you, isn’t it?”

  Nick just blinked at him. Bishop frowned and got out of the car, waving to the driver to wait.

  “Hey, you all right?” he said. “What’s this?” He pointed to Nick’s box. It was almost empty. But it had the photo of him and Reverend Bob, his sweater and coffee mug. The plant Lena had given him. Nick shook his head. Somewhere in his tired brain anger was brewing again, but he didn’t have the focus for it—couldn’t even seem to summon it to help him.

  “Your boss got me fired,” he said. He regretted it immediately. Bishop was rubbing his chin again.

  “Get in the car,” he said.

  “I can’t,” Nick said bitterly. “They are putting me on a plane.”

  “Don’t be stupid, eh,” Bishop said. “They can’t touch you if you’re with us. Get in the car, boy.”

  The logic was horribly flawed, but Nick wasn’t in a position to apply logic. He got in the car.

  *

  They took him to a boat. Or yacht—Nick supposed it was called a yacht. A big yacht. Docked at the end of a wide stone pier. It sat alone, far past the rows of other, smaller ships, the water under it the dark blue of the deep-sea channel. Nick didn’t know people lived on yachts in Singapore. He thought they were all sky-high apartments and “good-class bungalows” in Queen Astrid Park. But this…

  He trailed after Bishop, still clutching his box, up a gangway past a couple of armed men and up a short flight of stairs onto a wood deck. It was sheltered and had sweeping views of the sea and the rising green hills behind Singapore’s skyline. There were a couple of deck chairs and tables—one had a chess set—clearly midgame. And there was Sang Soe Jeanne Kyaw seated at a round wooden table, having breakfast.

  Nick made a faint choked-off noise and felt himself blush. Ms. Kyaw was wearing a white robe, and her hair was in a loose braid over her shoulder. She looked tousled and sleepy and was clearly just starting her morning, never mind that it was ten o’clock.

  “Oh hello, David!” she said, smiling. “What have you brought us?” She peered at Nick over her cup.

  “This is the boy his lordship nearly ran over in the Bugatti the other day. Apparently, he lost his job because of us, as well,” Bishop said, throwing an arm over Nick’s shoulders.

  “Le pauvre!” Jeanne said and gestured to the table. “Would you like to join us for breakfast?”

  “Uh, no, ma’am,” Nick said, good manners taking over. “I already ate. And I am so sorry. I am not sure why I’m here. I was just walking, and Mr. Bishop stopped by me and—”

  Her laughter cut him off.

  “David! Did you—

  A loud, snarling voice from inside cut her off.

  “You tell Chan that he had better see that ship into port himself! Not his brother, not his partner, himself! Personally! Or ask how his wife will feel getting her daughter’s head in a box! You tell him that I…”

  The voice faded as the speaker moved away, but all three of them on the deck were frozen in place. The cries of seabirds were loud in the silence. The voice had been instantly recognizable, even if the tone of it made all the hairs on Nick’s neck stand up. Bishop shook his head.

  “That kind of morning?”

  Jeanne Kyaw recovered next.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “The pain is very bad and there is a…problem…in Hong Kong.” She glanced at Nick who was still staring at the sliding doors. He snapped his mouth closed.

  “Nick,” she said. “That was your name wasn’t it? Please sit down at least. Tell me all about how you lost your job. It happens I am in need of an assistant. Do you speak any French by chance?”

  Nick made himself sit and admitted that while he had taken French in college, he had never learned more than ‘Ou est la bibliotheque?’

  “Well never mind—I can still keep you,” Jeanne said. “Bishop, why don’t you go and see if Monsieur le Comte is in a fit state for breakfast.”

  It was a polite hint and Bishop took it as such, patting Nick and heading inside. Nick told Jeanne Kyaw the barest possible bones of the story, leaving out everything except the fact that he had been seen smoking pot with Lord Grav
es and so had lost his job and was being sent home.

  “Today,” he concluded glumly, patting at the plant in his box. “They will put me on the plane today or tomorrow—to make sure I go.”

  *

  Bishop joined Graves just as he threw his phone onto his desk. If Stinton didn’t get his damn…

  “Heads up, Boss. There’s trouble,” Bishop said.

  “What now?” Graves snapped. Then he caught the mischief in Bishop’s eye.

  “A damsel in distress,” Bishop said. “Except you’re the bloody distress.”

  “What?”

  “Your little American ginger’s lost his job for smoking with you,” Bishop said. “Better move fast before Ms. Jeanne steals him.”

  “He’s here?” Graves was already moving, caught out by his own eagerness.

  “He is, best fix your tie.”

  Graves paused a moment at the top of the stairs. Sure enough, there was Nicholas Erickson. But something was clearly off. The boy who had threatened Graves, laughed at him, made him laugh, talked his ear off… Where was he? Sitting by Jeanne, clutching a box with a plant in it, was a tired, confused, and defeated man, every line in his body sagging. Nelson Graves was perhaps the biggest sonofabitch in Asia, the most ruthless Baron this side of the dark ages, but he had a code. He took care of his people. Look at the poor sod. Is no one taking care of him at all?

  “Good morning, Jeanne. What’s this I hear about you stealing my American?” Graves said coming out onto the deck. The heat was starting and Graves breathed deeply. The heat made his shoulders relax, like sinking into a bath—the hotter the better. His hip felt better than it had in weeks. The only hitch was Nick glaring at him, clutching his box in a white-knuckled grip.

  Graves wore a crisp pale-blue shirt, gray trousers and vest, dressed down to the cuff links and gold watch. It was important to start the day as one wished to continue, and Graves had business to attend. Never mind what the little American thought. He was wearing sunglasses but took them off to shake Nick’s hand. Nick started at his eyes and Graves frowned. Why was he so jumpy?