Read Online Enemy Mine (The Base Branch Series Book 1) by Megan Mitcham - Free Book Online
Authors: Megan Mitcham
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doors. Not here in front of the paid entertainment—which went to show how expendable they were as commodities.
Baine raised his chin from where he’d been studying his plate, and looked Devereaux head on. “They’re dead, and I told Walters to cut the order in half.”
“What do you mean, they’re dead?” The older man’s cheeks reddened.
“Never coming back,” Baine replied coolly.
Kobi stood, knocking into her chair, which screeched over the wooden floor. She breathed sharply in response to the jolt, ready for anything. “What the fuck did you do?” he demanded. Spittle flew from his mouth, and from this angle she noticed his crooked teeth.
Devereaux shook his head. “I’ll handle this, thank you.”
Kobi quieted, but remained standing, leaning over her. Devereaux’s jaw clenched and brow scrunched, and for the first time she noticed how much the man had aged. Wrinkles of time creased his forehead. Brown eyes lit with anger sunk into the framework of his face. The darkness of his hair lightened with grey, not only at the hairline, but sporadically over his head. For more than twenty years the image seared into her brain, the one that haunted her daylight and dreaming hours, had stayed the same, a stagnant sneer of youthful ambition and malevolence.
Through gritted teeth the old man asked, “What happened?” After a breath, he added, “I want details. Don’t make me find them on my own.”
9
B aine chuckled , and the acrid sound burned Sloan’s ears. His laughter, healing in the past, now frightened with its hollow peals. His profile dominated her periphery. Dark, rumpled hair barely touched the slope of his forehead, which peaked gently at thick brows. Below them long lashes protected eyes she’d yet to regard. A prominent nose gave way to thick lips invented for loving and a wide, sturdy jaw made for boxing.
His humorless laugh died abruptly. “You requested a hit on a nation’s president on American soil, in its capital. You want a hit in a first world nation, you deal with first world problems. Heightened security. No access. A population with a bloody load of time on their hands to poke their noses where they don’t belong. Then you insist on sending a mob of knuckle-dragging fools with me. The situation was fucked from the outset.”
A small part of Sloan had held out hope that Baine hadn’t been there, since no one actually saw him in D.C. Well, that plane just got blown out of the air. A thousand questions shot across Sloan’s mind in an instant. None had answers. Each question spawned only new questions. The most critical one at the moment—would he recognize her from the bloodbath in Washington? Thank holy hell she hadn’t made eye contact with him. But realistically, how long could she avoid his gaze?
“Details,” Devereaux bit out.
“Ty got into it with an old lady outside the apartment. He stepped on her poodle’s foot. She went nuts. Close to shot time a couple of cops knocked on the door. Instead of dealing with the situation quietly, Ty opens up on them through the door. I took the shot early while shit went sideways behind me. The cops got a few lucky shots. Killed two of your guys. I killed the rest and got the fuck out.”
The other women in the room blanched. One gasped. Sloan rejoiced at their reactions. They camouflaged her shocked expression, because she couldn’t comprehend why he’d just lied. Maybe, if he hadn’t admitted killing any of his father’s men, she could understand him creating the fictitious scenario. Why bother, if he was going to admit to killing them anyway? To add more questions to the infinite list, why did he save her? If he recognized her from D.C., would he reveal her identity? Would he remember her from childhood?
She waited for someone to jump up and down, pointing and screaming, “Liar! Liar!” No one moved for an eternity, and Sloan realized she was the only one who knew he’d lied about how the D.C. massacre went down.
Baine raised his chin from where he’d been studying his plate, and looked Devereaux head on. “They’re dead, and I told Walters to cut the order in half.”
“What do you mean, they’re dead?” The older man’s cheeks reddened.
“Never coming back,” Baine replied coolly.
Kobi stood, knocking into her chair, which screeched over the wooden floor. She breathed sharply in response to the jolt, ready for anything. “What the fuck did you do?” he demanded. Spittle flew from his mouth, and from this angle she noticed his crooked teeth.
Devereaux shook his head. “I’ll handle this, thank you.”
Kobi quieted, but remained standing, leaning over her. Devereaux’s jaw clenched and brow scrunched, and for the first time she noticed how much the man had aged. Wrinkles of time creased his forehead. Brown eyes lit with anger sunk into the framework of his face. The darkness of his hair lightened with grey, not only at the hairline, but sporadically over his head. For more than twenty years the image seared into her brain, the one that haunted her daylight and dreaming hours, had stayed the same, a stagnant sneer of youthful ambition and malevolence.
Through gritted teeth the old man asked, “What happened?” After a breath, he added, “I want details. Don’t make me find them on my own.”
9
B aine chuckled , and the acrid sound burned Sloan’s ears. His laughter, healing in the past, now frightened with its hollow peals. His profile dominated her periphery. Dark, rumpled hair barely touched the slope of his forehead, which peaked gently at thick brows. Below them long lashes protected eyes she’d yet to regard. A prominent nose gave way to thick lips invented for loving and a wide, sturdy jaw made for boxing.
His humorless laugh died abruptly. “You requested a hit on a nation’s president on American soil, in its capital. You want a hit in a first world nation, you deal with first world problems. Heightened security. No access. A population with a bloody load of time on their hands to poke their noses where they don’t belong. Then you insist on sending a mob of knuckle-dragging fools with me. The situation was fucked from the outset.”
A small part of Sloan had held out hope that Baine hadn’t been there, since no one actually saw him in D.C. Well, that plane just got blown out of the air. A thousand questions shot across Sloan’s mind in an instant. None had answers. Each question spawned only new questions. The most critical one at the moment—would he recognize her from the bloodbath in Washington? Thank holy hell she hadn’t made eye contact with him. But realistically, how long could she avoid his gaze?
“Details,” Devereaux bit out.
“Ty got into it with an old lady outside the apartment. He stepped on her poodle’s foot. She went nuts. Close to shot time a couple of cops knocked on the door. Instead of dealing with the situation quietly, Ty opens up on them through the door. I took the shot early while shit went sideways behind me. The cops got a few lucky shots. Killed two of your guys. I killed the rest and got the fuck out.”
The other women in the room blanched. One gasped. Sloan rejoiced at their reactions. They camouflaged her shocked expression, because she couldn’t comprehend why he’d just lied. Maybe, if he hadn’t admitted killing any of his father’s men, she could understand him creating the fictitious scenario. Why bother, if he was going to admit to killing them anyway? To add more questions to the infinite list, why did he save her? If he recognized her from D.C., would he reveal her identity? Would he remember her from childhood?
She waited for someone to jump up and down, pointing and screaming, “Liar! Liar!” No one moved for an eternity, and Sloan realized she was the only one who knew he’d lied about how the D.C. massacre went down.
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