Page 83 of Unlocked

Archer sat for a moment after the door closed.

He had to fight everything in him not to follow her. Not to go back to last night, to the way she'd felt in his arms, the way she'd looked at him.

He'd gotten up this morning knowing it couldn't happen again. He was a target, and she was already in enough danger without him adding to it. He needed to clean up Davis and Anderson and find the Curator before anyone else got hurt.

But if it came to it, if there was no other way, he knew what he would do. He would end Kelly himself. The case would die. Tatum could try to sue Granite Industries, but there was nothing left, and she'd know it. It would be over.

She'd be safe.

He'd spent his youth on the streets of Europe doing things most people couldn't imagine. He had no hesitation about doing what was necessary to protect someone he cared about. And he cared about Tatum. More than he'd cared about anyone in a very long time. More than was wise.

He thought about Davis. It still surprised him mildly that Davis was involved in trafficking. Davis liked to see himself as above that kind of ugliness. However, he was friends with Eli Fisher, and that sort of activity was right up that asshole’s alley. But after the vice presidency imploded, Davis had needed money, and he'd needed relevance more. Whoever the Curator was, they had known exactly how to use both of those needs against him.

The Curator had a gift for finding people's pressure points. Davis applied them to others. The Curator applied them to Davis.

His phone went off. He glanced at the screen and swore under his breath.

He answered. "Austin."

"Archer." Davis's voice was warm and easy, and completely artificial. "I'd like to call a meeting of the board."

"We don't have one scheduled for another month."

"I know, but I think we need a discussion. A deep discussion about these cameras."

"Austin, I told you. There are no cameras."

"That's not what I'm hearing," Davis replied. "You're hiding things, Archer. Keeping secrets. It's time for some transparency."

"If you want to call a board meeting, you need to give me proof. I'm not dragging everyone in based on hearsay. I'm quite busy. Call me when you have something concrete."

“I do have something concrete,” Davis said, his voice smug. “I have already sent out the email. The board meeting will be in three days. I invoked the bylaw that allows board members to call an emergency meeting when there is an issue before the board that the head of the Society refuses to address. I had Fisher sign off on it and Alan Forgerty, which is the requirement. Two board members to back up my claim.”

“I see,” Archer said, his voice even, but his stomach had knotted, and bile was creeping up his esophagus. This was it. The board meeting would be the last battle in their war, and Archer had to win. “Then I guess I will see you in three days.”

He ended the call.

Davis was going to try to hang Archer with the cameras so he could take over the Society. There would be more to it. Witnesses who would swear to seeing cameras, people who will be outraged. Chances were excellent that someone would discover a camera in a Society location sometime in the next day or so. How did he know? Because that’s what Archer would do if he were in Davis’s shoes. But why now? Was it because of the investigation into the Ponzi scheme and the Curator? Or was there something else? Someone else?

This had Fisher's fingerprints on it, too. There would be all kinds of games being played in the next couple of days. Archer had to figure out how to make sure he was the winner.

A knock rattled the door.

"Come in," Archer called.

The door opened, and Ryker stepped through, followed by Kelly.

Archer almost didn't recognize him.

Gone was the greasy, disheveled wreck from earlier. Kelly had showered, shaved, and changed into clean clothes, khakis with a button-down shirt. His hair, still damp at the collar, was combed back. His face was less puffy, though his eyes were still red-rimmed, and the weight of everything he was carrying hadn't left him. It was just tidier now.

He looked almost respectable. Almost.

"Here's your guy," Ryker said. "Clean, sober, and ready to talk."

He doubted the sober claim, because he’d just watched the man polish off a fifth of scotch that Archer knew had only been delivered that morning. But he let it go. "Thanks, Ryker. You can go."

Ryker nodded and left.