There’s the sound of footsteps outside, and when the doorknob jangles, I freeze, the blood chilling in my veins. The door opens, and agent Marlow steps in, an evil, smug grin on his face and a manila folder in his hands.
“You know, it’s always the quiet, smart ones you never see coming.”
I don’t say a thing, and he just chuckles as he closes the door and steps toward me. I tense as he gets close, moving to sit on the corner of the desk in front of me and tapping the file folder against his knee. He eyes me before glancing down, opening it, and whistling lowly.
“Jeez, valedictorian, a shoe-in at Boston University for undergrad, and it looks like they practically begged you to enroll in that double master’s program they got you in.”
He clears his throat, scanning the file.
My file, apparently.
“Straight A’s until - huh, until a few months back, looks like.” He glances up, smirking. “A C?” He makes a tsking sound. “Well that just won’t do, will it?”
Agent Marlow grins at me, before making this sarcastic sad face.
“Awww, what’s the matter? Conversation not stimulating enough for you?”
“Guess I’m not feeling chatty,” I mutter.
He chuckles. “Shit, you sound like Roarke. Guess he rubbed off on yah, huh?”
He winks lecherously, and I bristle. He glances back at my file.
“So, you start snagging C’s, you stop going to class, and then, wow. Then you burn down some poor little shit’s garage.” Marlow glances back up at me. “What are we going to do with you, Sierra? I mean what would your parents say?”
My lips purse tight.
“And your siblings? Rowan, Ivy, Kyle and Stella?”
I feel a cold sensation trickle over me, and he grins sharply.
“Still don’t feel like talking, huh?” He shrugs as he reaches into the pocket of his two-sizes-too-big sports coat and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
“Smoke?”
“No,” I say quietly.
He shrugs, sticks one in his mouth and lights it with a silver Zippo lighter he pulls out of the other pocket. Smoke curls around his pudgy face, drifting and wafting up to the ceiling in the dry stillness of the ancient room.
“Here’s what we’re going to do, Sierra. This arson charge?” He blows smoke through his nose. “I’m not gonna hit you with that one.”
“Are you even really with the FBI?” I blurt out.
He smirks. “That I am.”
He must get the meaning in my words because he laughs right after that.
“Oh, what - this?” He looks around the empty, dusty office and shrugs. “Ahh, you’re one of those poor schmucks who still thinks the world is black and white. You think I’m ‘bought’ or some shit since I’m working for Anton.”
“Aren’t you?”
His eyes narrow. “I don’t work for free, missy, but no, I’m not bought. This is just how the world works.” He puffs on his cigarette. “There’s a war coming, and I hate to say it, but your little Irish boy-toy and his pals are going to be on the wrong side of it. Because I’ve picked my side, or rather, the side that wants to win picked me. Anton’s not an idiot, unlike Roarke and his little gang.”
Marlow eyes me, clearing his throat.
“But let’s talk about you. Here’s the deal, Ms. Hammond. This arson charge isn’t going to come out and bite you, but it is going to linger - waiting around, watching your back. Call it insurance if you will.”
I glare at him. “I’d call it leverage.”
“Call it whatever you want, but it means you work for me now. It means you do what I fucking say, and talk to who I fucking tell you to talk to.”
He grins, his eyes sliding over my body, making me shiver horribly.
“Maybe I ask all sorts of things from you.”
I immediately want to throw up.
“I’ll turn myself in,” I hiss at him, pulling tight at the ropes binding me.
“No, you won’t.”
“Watch me,” I spit.
“Does your brother Rowan own that dive bar of his outright?”
I glare at him, hating the smug look on his face.
“Yes.”
“How’s his fire insurance?”
The blood drains from my face.
“You son of a bit-”
“That sister of yours, with the kid?”
I shake my head, the rage bubbling up inside.
“Be a shame if he followed a ball out into the street or something.”
“Fuck you!” I grit out.
Marlow just laughs.
“Shit I can do this all day! Your other sister? The one with the lifestyle blog and all those pretty Instagram pictures? Suppose something happens to fuck up that money-maker of a face? Or how about the next time your daddy takes Mommy out for a nice dinner, some drunk assholes just happens to be going a little too fast to see the red light, and just-”