Cat's Paw - Chapter Three

Cat's Paw
​Chapter Three​
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​​"Stupid, stubborn prick!” Morgan said, barreling past the speed limit. 

No wonder Parkin had made enemies at the DEA. That lone-warrior, “I’m smarter than anyone else” crap was what had gotten him hung out to dry. It still was.

She should have expected his reaction. She’d read everything she could about Alexander Michael Parkin: his psychiatric evaluations, his medical and college records. She expected him to have changed—you didn’t do all that time in a maximum-security prison and not come out scarred. Now he was a powder keg waiting for an open flame.

“You’re trouble,” she muttered. The kind of trouble that ruined missions and that wasn’t an option with this one. She wanted revenge. So did he. “Which is why we should be working together.” 

With another long string of swear words, Morgan let her foot off the gas, allowing the car to slow of its own accord. She didn’t need a ticket.

I blew it. 

She’d been so sure he’d want a chance to clear his name that she hadn’t even considered it might be a hassle. Now, looking back, it would have been better to have had one of the others in her team serve as Parkin’s contact. Someone male, maybe. 

As she got within spitting distance of the speed limit, she knew it was time to report the bad news. “Phone CW,” Morgan said, and the car obediently connected to her boss.

“I’m guessing it’s a no go if you’re calling me,” Crispin Wilder said, not bothering with a greeting. His accent was hard to place, a blend of British and European, with a dash of the Old South. 

“It was a total wash. He wants nothing to do with us. He’s on his own crusade.”

“I gather the Russians haven’t made their move yet.”

“Not from what I can tell. I give it a week before Parkin’s facedown in an alley with a bullet in the back of his head. They aren’t going to allow for that kind of disrespect.”

“We’ll see. Knowing Buryshkin, he’ll find a way to push the con’s buttons. We may yet have a chance to bring him onto our team.” 

Not likely. 

But then, Crispin was a strategist. In his forties, he spoke at least ten languages fluently and had logged serious time doing super-secret activities that he never spoke of. He had good instincts. 

Morgan often envisioned him as a very savvy spider sitting in the middle of a massive global web. If a twitch at the far end of that web caught his notice, one of his people would check it out. Then he’d decide if the issue needed Veritas’s intervention, or if it was something that could be safely ignored. Buryshkin and his organization were way past the “let’s ignore this” stage.

“The Russians will make their move soon,” Crispin added, bringing her thoughts back to the situation. “Please take precautions to ensure that his sister is not harmed.”

“I already have.”

“Excellent.” He paused. “The people in London send their regards. Your work on their behalf has made them very happy. They’ve offered to help us in any way possible in the future.”

“Good.” The ache in her lower back eased a bit. At least the bullet wound had healed properly. “Is their daughter getting better?” 

“That will take time, I fear.”

It always did in kidnapping cases. Especially when the kidnappers buried their victim in a pit and left her to die. 

“Keep me in the loop on Parkin,” Crispin added. “If he doesn’t go for our offer, we’ll have to decide what to do next.” 

“How aggressive can I get?”

“As aggressive as you want. If my sources are correct, there’s a power struggle about to erupt inside the Russian’s organization, and if we don’t get a handle on it, there may be open warfare.”

“I’ll let you know how it plays out.”

“Thank you, Morgan.” 

As the miles rolled by, she found herself replaying the confrontation with Alex Parkin. At six-two or so, all muscles after his stint in prison, he was ruggedly handsome with dark hair, a deep tan, and flinty brown eyes that had seemed to pierce right through her skin. But that all-male package included a strong dose of arrogance, the kind that made her angry. Now she’d been forced to protect the fool from himself. 

After two more phone calls to put her plan in motion, she synced up her smartphone with the radio. Carlos Jean’s “Prisoners” filled the car.

Parkin’s dark eyes occupied her thoughts again. For all his bravado, the man was hurt and angry and confused. It was like finding an injured puppy on the side of the road. You just couldn’t drive by and leave him behind. 
​
But she had done just that, and dammit, now she felt guilty. 

Chapter Four
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​Cat's Paw
​Veritas Book 1
(c) 2016 Jana G. Oliver
 All Rights Reserved.

Available on Amazon