Chapter Eight

In the tight confines of the elevator at Chase Industries, Hudson could still smell Allie on his skin. He could feel the lingering sensation of her gripping him, and he could hear the noises she made when she came. God, the thought of her was making his cock go Sear’s Tower behind his fly. After their early morning quickie, he should’ve been relaxed and ready to roll through the rest of the day like a well-satisfied man. Instead he was wired, and now had a hard-on.

For fuck’s sake.

The elevator glided to a stop and Hudson shot out like a horse at the gate. His assistant was waiting for him just outside the doors. Hudson glanced over at him and caught sight of a hyper-pink bow tie. Jesus fucking Christ, hadn’t that trend worn itself out by now?

“Afternoon, Mr. Chase.” Darren took a couple quick steps to catch up, then fell into stride alongside him. “Ben Weiss called; so did that woman from the Ingram board, and Laurie from the press department. Three times,” he added, continuing to scroll through his iPad. Darren preferred modern technology to scraps of paper, which Hudson appreciated. He had enough paper cluttering his desk. He didn’t need a million color-coordinated Post-its stuck to every damn surface. “Oh, and Sophia requested that you call her as soon as you get her message.”

“Of course,” Hudson muttered. “Anyone else?”

“About a half-dozen more.” Darren grinned. “Your harem awakens.”

The news that he and Allie had split must have hit the newsstands and gossip rags, which would explain the ghosts of girlfriends past along with why his PR department was blowing up his call list. He could already picture the headlines, and just like that, the impulse to safeguard Allie’s heart, in addition to her well-being, kicked in. The implication that they had broken up grated against his nerves. He wanted to buy every newspaper, magazine or blog that had reported the story, then fire them all for splashing that horseshit across their pages. They needed the world to believe their relationship was over, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Darren, normally I appreciate your sense of humor along with your efficiency, but not today.” Hudson’s jaw tightened.

“My apologies, sir. The numbers, times, and messages have been uploaded to your call list. The contracts needing your signature are arranged in order of priority on your desk. The one on top is time sensitive.” Darren was back to business as they closed in on his office. “And your first meeting is all set up in the conference room, as requested.”

“How long have they been waiting?”

Darren pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Five minutes at the most.”

“Hold all my calls until I say otherwise.” Hudson strode past his office and into the adjoining conference room. Max was seated at the table along with two men and a woman, all strategically facing the door. Hudson’s gaze drifted from one to the next. Without a doubt each of them were skilled observers, protectors, and when shit hit the fan, killers, if need be. He gave them a quick nod as he shut the door. “Good morning.”

“Mr. Chase.” Max stood up, and in perfect unison, the other three did as well. There was an elegance to the way they moved, efficient and smooth. These were not rent-a-cops. Max only worked with the best, and these individuals were deadly weapons in the guise of civilians.

“Please sit.” Hudson unbuttoned his suit jacket and took a seat at the head of the table. The group followed his lead, lowering their bodies with the same efficiency. “I appreciate you all coming on such short notice. Before we discuss why you’re here, I like to know who I’m talking to.”

Max nodded to his left. “This is Ivan,” he said, offering no last name. The man was built like a tank, and when he shifted his massive body into a more comfortable position, the cuff of his shirt rode up, revealing tattoos that undoubtedly covered his arm in a full sleeve. “Former US Special Forces and high precision marksman.” So in other words, a sniper. As if confirming Hudson’s train of thought, Max added, “Ivan has extensive training in observation, surveillance, and target acquisition, as well as unconventional warfare.”

“Unconventional warfare?” Hudson lifted a brow.

“Hybrid tactics combining protocol with unorthodox methods,” Ivan answered.

Military tactics weren’t Hudson’s forte, but dollars to shit piles he’d just been fed a diplomatic explanation of guerilla warfare. His gaze shifted to the guy with the military-grade haircut. His suit was perfectly tailored, his white shirt high on the starch, and judging by the sharp, clean edges, his hair was freshly trimmed. This was a guy you’d pass on the street a hundred times without noticing.

“Jim,” he said. “CIA.”

Well, that explained his John Doe look—he wasn’t in the market to be noticed or draw attention. No further description of Jim’s training was given, nor was more needed.

Next was the only woman on Max’s team. With her slight build and long blond hair, she could have passed for Allie at a distance. Hudson wondered if that was merely coincidental or part of a contingency plan. Either way, he thought, the similarity could prove useful in the future.

“Jessica, former Israeli intelligence, computer science and communications expert.” There was no artifice to her introduction; it was clear and concise.

“Pleasure to meet you, Jessica, Ivan, Jim.” Hudson said their names, though he doubted they were the ones bestowed upon them at birth. “I’m sure you’re as anxious as I am to get started, so I’ll dive right in. Victoria and Richard Sinclair were murdered in cold blood at their Lake Forest home. Shot to death—Richard in his study and Victoria in the dining room.”

Max hit a button on a remote, and in unison a screen lowered and the lights dimmed. With another push of a button images from the crime scene flashed in full color: Richard slumped over his desk, Victoria on the dining room floor. Hudson had seen the images before, but knowing Julian was responsible, and that he had his sights set on Allie, spun them in an even darker light.

“The police labeled it a home invasion,” Hudson continued, “until a cataloging of the home’s contents revealed nothing was missing with the exception of Mrs. Sinclair’s engagement ring.” A large sapphire surrounded by a ring of diamonds filled the screen. “A few weeks later, a known assassin was found dead with that ring in his possession.”

Max hit the remote and pictures of the murdered gun-for-hire flashed onscreen, one after the other. Hudson had no idea how his head of security had gotten his hands on them, and he had no intention of asking. When it came to this assignment, the less he knew, the better.

“The Sinclair murders were sloppy for a professional hit,” Ivan said. “Especially the wife.”

“The police believe that was intentional,” Hudson said. “To make it look more like a break-in gone bad.”

“Then why take out the shooter?” Jessica asked.

“Loose end.” Jim casually crossed his leg at the knee. “Is there a money trail?”

“None that the authorities have been able to find. But I’ve recently learned that the man responsible for orchestrating their deaths is Julian Laurent.” A picture from the Laurent website popped up, and in spite of the gravity, Hudson nearly laughed. The fucker looked more like Miss Clairol than the head of a global conglomerate.

“Is he on Chicago PD’s radar?” Ivan asked.

“No. And his alibi is rock solid, placing him in France at the time of the murders.”

Ivan frowned. “Wait, isn’t he engaged to their daughter?”