Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,91

don’t catch him?”

“Because I’m the guy who's getting in his way of selling the hardware. And I don’t want to die.”

“Oh,” she says heavily. “He wants you dead, and I’m drinking your soda. Why don't I feel safer right now?”

Scout lets out a snort. “You’re really selling this, Max.”

Max ignores her. “Look. If your creepy boss is who I think it is, the State Department wants him. If we can prove his location, I’ll summon the guys who will take him away in handcuffs.”

“And what if it’s not the right guy?” she challenges.

“We can find you a backup plan. I have a branch on the West Coast. Worst case scenario—I’ll get you new identities and put you up for a month in California. You can find some new clients. I'll be your reference. You can just disappear and start over somewhere new.”

I expect her to hate this idea. But she doesn’t. “That's really tempting. But what if you don't follow through?”

“You're going to have to trust somebody. Why not me? Now tell me your boyfriend's name.”

The guy’s name is Geoff Pinter, CPB. Max sends an agent to Geoff and Teagan’s apartment, bearing a note from Teagan. And Geoff is a smart enough man to follow him back here.

When the bookkeeper eventually steps into the interview room—after he’s patted down and surrenders his phone and smart watch—he and his girlfriend exchange a quick, hard hug, and then a bunch of rapid-fire sign language.

I don’t know what they’re saying, but it might be: These people are all a little crazy but they don’t seem to want us to die.

It’s the truth, anyway.

They finally sit down, and Max is all business. My friend always manages to broadcast a calm demeanor. But I’ve known him long enough to sense the excitement radiating off him.

This could be big for Max. He’s wanted to catch Aga for more than a decade.

Max attaches a keyboard to a computer projection on a screen that we can all see. Then he passes the keyboard to Geoff, and begins the interview. “Please tell us the boss’s name. And what does he look like?”

Geoff begins tapping on the keyboard, while we all look up at the screen to read his answer. He introduced himself to me as John Smith.

Of course he did.

The checks I cash say JS Entertainment. He shrugs. He is older than you. Maybe late forties or fifty. His head is shaved bald. He has an olive skin tone. He usually wears black jeans and a black suit jacket over a white shirt. Once, just jeans and a black T-shirt. He looks like a guy who's taken care of himself. Like he goes to the gym. He had a mustache when I started, but then he shaved it off.

Max looks directly at Geoff to catch his attention. “Does he have any scars on his face?”

Geoff points at his neck, just to the side of his chin. Then he types, Right here. A thin scar. And the man's nose has a bump right here. He taps his own.

Max doesn't say anything for a moment. But I can tell he's struggling to remain calm. “Interesting. I'd like to show you a group of photos and ask if you see him.”

Of course.

I flip open the folder I'm holding and pass over the black and white print-out we made before he arrived, with a red marker. There are twelve photos on that page, all of men in the same age bracket as Aga.

Geoff uncaps the marker and—with zero hesitation—circles a photo at the edge of the page. He glances up at Max, then taps the paper twice. That’s him.

Max goes completely still. And then a slow smile spreads across his face. Max doesn’t smile all that often, so the effect is startling. “Okay, Geoff,” he says calmly. “Here’s what’s going to happen next.”

The Company headquarters becomes as busy as a hornet’s nest in a heatwave. Anyone off duty is recalled to base. It’s time for recon, and last-minute intelligence.

I instruct a team of analysts to learn everything we can about the block where Geoff goes to work. Who owns the building? When did the club open? And so on. If Max is going to prove that a notorious arms trafficker is living in Manhattan and running his operation out of a SoHo nightclub, we’re going to need to make some connections.

If we’re very, very lucky, we can help the feds prove that Aga is guilty of a petty crime, and they can hold