Page 23 of Tamed Enemy
“I don’t know.”
“With whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Surely, you understand the risk?—”
“There’s no way anyone could plan a hit. I’m willing to take my chances with a bunch of over-privileged billionaires I’ve known for years.”
“My job is to?—”
“Your boss will be getting on that plane. I can either tell him you accepted my reasonable limits on our business arrangement, or I can tell him you’re fired. Your choice.”
Jacobson raises his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Text me when you know your return flight.”
I agree, because the man is only trying to do his job. He gets out of the SUV, though, as I collect my bag from the back seat. He watches with steely eyes as I cross the airfield to Trap Prince, waiting beside his private jet.
“Good morning,” I say, knowing better than to offer my hand to shake. Prince does his best to avoid physical contact with anyone.
“Motherfucking hot for six thirty.” Prince also does his best to include at least one curse in every sentence.
“Any hints on where we’re going?”
“There are personalized dossiers for every one of you cocksuckers, waiting on the plane.”
I raise my eyebrows. Prince usually doesn’t fill us in on our destination until our arrival. I don’t know if he likes the air of mystery, or if his need for control is even stronger than my own.
A uniformed flight attendant steps out of the hangar, carrying a tray with two insulated mugs of coffee. Mine is black, just the way I take it. I suspect there’s a chart on the wall inside, detailing the caffeine preference of every member of the Diamond Ring.
“May I take your bag, sir?” the attendant asks, with all of Nilsson’s efficiency and quite a bit more warmth. I watch him wheel my suitcase around to the far side of the plane.
After a bracing sip of coffee, I ask, “Is Alix joining us today?” I keep my tone perfectly neutral.
Prince flexes his fingers, the ones not folded around his mug. “Someone has to stay here, minding the goddamn fort.”
His tone is as careful as mine. We both remember what led up to my being tossed from the Diamond Ring. I abused Alix’s trust, roping her in on my con without her knowledge or consent. Prince countered with fists and financial ruin. My bruises have healed, and I sealed an apology by giving Alix three masterpieces from my private art collection, but I’m not sure how long it will take to get my working relationship with Prince back on solid ground.
He shakes his head. “She’s got one of those paintings hanging in her office. Alix says shelikesthe woman’s smile, but I can’t get past that fucking eyebrow. Looks like she’s ready to shank a motherfucker just for breathing.”
A lot of people feel that way about Frida Kahlo self-portraits. But I recognize the olive branch Prince is extending. “That’s probably the real reason Alix likes it,” I say, earning an honest laugh.
A low-slung Ferrari pulls into the lot before we have to find another safe topic of conversation. Roger Turner—another Diamond Ring member—climbs out, looking as if he wants a participation trophy for arriving at the airfield. He shakes my hand too vigorously, pulling me in for an unwelcome bro hug. I almost regret telling Jacobson to keep his distance. Prince finds a reason to duck into the hangar.
Half an hour later, the entire Diamond Ring is airborne, bags safely stowed and coffees all refreshed. Prince was true to his word. Each of us has a personalized dossier, our names embossed on the front, along withAllen and Company Sun Valley Conference.
Turner whistles, long and low. “I’ve been trying to get an invite to Billionaire Summer Camp for years.” He curls his fingers into air quotes around the nickname.
Of course he has. Who wouldn’t want to go to one of the most luxurious resorts in the country to rub shoulders with politicians, actors, philanthropists, and industry leaders?
I page through the information Prince has provided. If I can pull myself away from Idaho’s finest hiking, rafting, and golf over the next three days, I can meet with more than two dozen CEOs of the largest market-cap companies in the world. Prince has helpfully provided summaries of the key leaders in the technology sector, and Diamond Freeport is hosting a cocktail party tomorrow night.
“Pretty impressive views, aren’t they?”
I close my bound report, setting aside a photo spread of the five mountain ranges that create Sun Valley. A crasser man than I would note that Fiona Moran is offering a pretty impressiveview herself. Her tailored jacket is cut to accentuate the fact that she’s the first woman ever to lead the Irish mob in Boston. She hasn’t bothered to wear a top beneath the pair of hard-working buttons.
I can see from the frown lines deep around her mouth that Fiona isn’t interested in discussing Idaho geography. As usual, she gets straight to the point. “I’m leaving Lone Wolf.”
“You can’t,” I say automatically. She hired me to manage the back-end of her clan’s complicated money-laundering system when her own man was murdered.
