He smiles again, a thing he seems overly fond of doing. “Don’t you love a good romantic drama?”
Glowering at him, I say, “I love a good murder.”
“Ach. You’re no fun.”
“How do I know any of this is true?”
“Call Pakhan. He’ll fill you in.”
“Why would he want me as his successor? I killed his cousin.”
“The kid was an asshole. Everybody thought so. And you’ve been incredibly loyal and efficient. Plus, you have that do-gooding side. He thinks you’re up for the job.”
“Do-gooding side?”
“Sticking up for your little brother who was getting bullied. Trying to save prostitutes with generous donations of cash. Alina’s knee. Only a few of numerous examples.”
“How the fuck do you know about any of that?”
His smile is smug. “They don’t call me the man who knows everything for no reason.”
With the exception of Declan O’Donnell, I’ve never known anyone I’d like to kill more. “Why didn’t Pakhan just tell me all this himself?”
“I had to vet you.”
“Vet me?”
“Stop repeating everything I say.”
“If you’d make any sense, I wouldn’t have to.”
Killian exhales a short, annoyed breath. “Look. I’m the leader of a multinational organization. A clandestine group of thirteen men who specialize in espionage, geopolitics, guerrilla warfare, and advanced spycraft to thwart global terrorism. We’re the real power behind the thrones. Don’t make that face at me, you bloody grand gobshite.”
“It’s just that this is a fascinating yarn you’re spinning. Please, continue.”
He mutters something in Gaelic. “As I was saying. We’re all working undercover in some capacity, masquerading as mob kings, corrupt politicians, shady business tycoons, you name it.”
“Uh-huh. And the point of all this masquerading?”
“Saving the world.”
Unbelievably, he says that with no trace of self-consciousness or awareness of how ridiculous he sounds. His hubris is staggering.
I decide to play along with his insanity. “What do you call yourselves? The Avengers?”
“The Thirteen.”
I snort. “Sounds like a boy band.”
“Fuck you.”
“Let me guess—you came up with that winner?”
He glares at me, and now I find myself having fun.
“And I suppose you’re Number One, right?”
“You know, I liked you better when you were only making a Broadway production out of pouring yourself a bloody coffee.”
“Who’s Number Two? Because that’s all sorts of awkward. Does everybody giggle during meetings when his name is called?”
I can tell he’s debating whether or not he should go ahead and kill me, and I can’t help but smile.
From across the store, Alina calls my name. “Your order’s ready!”
“That’s my cue, Number One. You realize you’ve nicknamed yourself piss, right? You’re the head urinator.”
“They only say that in the US.”
“No, everybody knows it.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yes, they do.”
He grinds his teeth for a while, then stands. He shoves his sunglasses back onto his face and props his hands on his hips.
“Obviously, we’re not interested in you for your personality, because it’s shite. You’ve got skills we can use. Weaponry, technology, languages, disguises, critical thinking. It took me a long time to find you, which never happens, so you’re an expert at covering your tracks. You can pilot a plane. You can operate drones. You’re proficient with ingress and egress of locked spaces.”
“You could just say getting in and out. You don’t have to be so pretentious about it.”
The breath he exhales is slow and controlled. I’m making him mad.
My grin could be described as shit-eating.
He decides the pleasantries are finished and pronounces, “If you refuse to join us, you die.”
I lift my brows. “Not exactly a rousing recruiting slogan, is it?”
“That’s not an idle threat.”
“Yes, I can see you’re very serious. Your dimple is winking at me.”
After a pause, he says sourly, “You’re an arrogant prick.”
“I’d say it takes one to know one, but I’m so frightened that you’ll lose your temper and murder me.”