I helped myself to a whiskey neat but kept it to two fingers. I am working after all, even if it’s off the record.
I’ve sat here for hours—waiting, sipping, stroking pussies—but finally it happens. What I traveled across the pond for. When I hear him, I only move my hand to lift my Glock.
The door opens but doesn’t close.
I wait.
He was a Marine, not an operative. I’m impressed by the fact I can hardly hear his steps.
Penn Simmons appears, moving around the corner from the kitchen to the family room, but he enters second, behind the pistol pointed at me.
Well, fuck you very much, Penn Simmons. Mine is drawn and aimed right back at him.
He’s steady but his tone is even more stable. “Who are you?”
I don’t answer nor do I lower my weapon as Lady Macbeth’s tail swipes my face from where she’s curled around my neck. “You have good taste in whiskey.”
“Who are you?” he repeats with a force behind it that would make most people cower.
“No, I think the better question is, who are you, Penn Simmons?”
“You know my name and are sitting in my favorite chair so I’m not answering that. The only reason you’re not dead right now is because I don’t want blood all over my recliner and I like that cat. I can’t put a bullet through your head without killing her and she’s the only one I’ve ever been able to teach to fetch, so quit fucking around—who are you and why the fuck are you in my house?”
I scratch Lady Macpussy on her hind leg since I need her to stay where she is and shake my head. “I might have my gun trained on you, but I only came to talk. Trust me, if it weren’t for me, you’d be deader than Romeo and Juliet, only your story might be more tragic. Can we put down the guns so no one gets an itchy finger?”
“You first.”
Besides his frown setting deeper into his face, Penn doesn’t move a muscle.
I narrow my eyes.
Macpussy meows.
He lowers his voice. “I’m not talking ‘til you put your gun down.”
“If you shoot me, you’ll ruin your chances of seeing tomorrow because I promise they’ll find you.”
He nods. “You’ve got two minutes to explain yourself.”
I slowly lower my gun until it’s sitting on the arm of his favorite chair. I see why he likes it so much—it’s damn comfortable and I might need one since all my shit is a charred mess. I show him my bare palm. “Your turn.”
Not so slowly, he twirls his handgun around a finger and points it at the ceiling but doesn’t put it down.
“On the counter, Penn.”
“On the coffee table, asshole.”
I lean forward enough to put my gun out of reach and he does the same.
“Who the hell are you?” he demands.
I don’t answer. “Some pretty important people want you dead. Do you have any idea why that might be?”
The muscle in his cheek jumps. It’s small but it’s a tell—he isn’t surprised. “No.”
I tip my head. “Really? Somehow, I don’t believe you.”
“Not my problem what you believe.”
“You see, this is where you’re wrong. I think you and I have something in common. I can’t justify why anyone would want you dead. I’ve also read up on you—pretty sure you and I play for the same team.”
“Did my time and did it honorably.” He tells me something I know. “I’m not on anyone’s team anymore but my own. I’m trying to work and live somewhere my kids can see the world and enjoy a larger life before we move back to the States.”
I gaze at him a second before nodding slowly. He won’t take his eyes off me and he won’t relax.
I tell him something else I know. “You handle military contracts for armored gear and weapons.”
“I can’t tell whether you’re trying to rile me by showing me how much you know or accuse me of something, but your two minutes are ticking by. I suggest you get to it or else I will pick up my gun.”
“Yours is an interesting job,” I note, not worried about the shock clock he’s put me on.
“It’s really not.”
I take my hand off the cat’s ass and rub my chin. “But it is. So many new people I’ve met in the last two weeks dabble in government contracts for the Department of Defense. And some of those companies I’ve come across are winning all the bids despite being