Page 3 of Unlocked

Austin Davis, son of a bitch extraordinaire, had cured him of that particular innocence.

He tucked the weapon at the small of his back and checked his reflection in the mirror above the bar. Green eyes unreadable. Not a flicker of the cold anger that lived permanently behind them. Good. Whatever was coming, they wouldn't see it on his face.

The position he held was vacated only one way. Every leader before him had died in the job. The Society didn't do retirement, didn't do graceful exits, didn't do anything that might allow a former head to become a liability. He'd always known this. Had accepted it the way one accepts gravity, as a condition of the world rather than a choice.

He wasn't ready to die.

He straightened his jacket again, turned from the mirror, and walked toward the conference room.

If Davis wanted a war, he'd get one. Archer had been fighting his whole life, back alleys, boardrooms, the particular kind of war that was waged in silence over years. He hadn't survived any of it by playing fair.

He had a black belt in fighting dirty.

And he was in an exceptionally dark mood.

CHAPTER THREE

Archer walked into the boardroom and took his seat at the head of the table. The others were already assembled. Austin Davis had planted himself at the opposite end, which told Archer everything he needed to know about how the morning was going to go. No words necessary. The man was declaring war in the language of furniture arrangement.

As expected, Eli Fisher had taken the seat directly to Davis's right. The pair of them together in solidarity at one end of the table had the look of something rehearsed.

"Archer." Jason Sakstra nodded from his seat. "It's been a while."

Archer acknowledged the greeting with a curt nod. "How are you, Jason?"

"Fine." But he didn't look fine. He looked exhausted and hollowed out; like a man carrying something he hadn't put down in weeks. There was something else in his expression, too, something that landed just short of pleading. Archer filed it away. Jason wanted a private conversation and didn't know how to ask for one.

"I'm glad you're here, actually. I wanted to discuss a few things. Will you be staying in Paris after the meeting?"

Relief moved across Jason's face so plainly it was almost painful to watch. "Yes. Dinner this evening?"

He was about to say more, but Archer cut him off. "Let me check my calendar. I'll get back to you." He let his gaze move casually around the room as he said it.

Jason appeared to catch on immediately, and he glanced around and straightened. "Of course." He pulled out his phone and said nothing further.

Good man.

"Armand." Archer turned to his left. "Comment ça va?"

"Ça va bien, mon ami." Armand Fontaine's dark eyes moved over Archer's face with the unhurried casualness of a man who had spent decades reading rooms far more dangerous than this one. "Et toi?"

Archer kept his expression pleasant and said nothing beyond a small nod. Armand would understand. Armand always understood. Since joining the society’s board, he had become something Archer rarely allowed himself, a genuine ally, possibly even a friend. The man had sold arms on three continents and survived to retire comfortably, which meant he could smell trouble with the same instinct most people reserved for weather. Right now, he was smelling it clearly, and Archer could see in his eyes that he didn't like what he was picking up.

"Can we begin?" Davis asked, tapping his watch with the theatrical impatience of a man who had somewhere more important to be. He didn't, of course. This was exactly where Davis wanted to be.

"In a moment, Austin." Remy Tanger didn't look up from the pastry she was selecting from the spread along the back wall. "This is Paris. I refuse to rush through a meeting without proper croissants." She glanced up at Archer with a smile. "I hope you know I'm never leaving this city."

"Hear, hear," Jason said, already moving toward the coffee.

"Is true," Armand agreed, pushing himself to his feet and heading for the coffee station with the deliberate pace of a man who answered to no one. Archer watched him bypass the pastries without a second glance and felt a small measure of relief. Diabetic and disciplined about it. Good. He had no interest in explaining to Lacy Carmichael how her father had been felled by a pain au chocolat at a board meeting in Paris.

Fisher hadn't moved. He sat with his arms folded and his eyes on Archer with the flat, patient attention of a man who enjoyed watching other people's discomfort. He hadn't bothered with pleasantries when Archer walked in, and Archer hadn't offered any. Some understandings didn't require words.

Archer let his gaze drift to the far end of the table. Everyone had gotten up except Tatum Wellington. She sat perfectly still, staring at nothing, her long blond hair pinned loosely at the back of her neck, her expression somewhere far from Paris.

Archer walked down to her. "Tatum."

Nothing.