Carter: The Sinner Saints #1 (20 page)

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Rhys

Excerpt from RHYS by Adrienne Bell

Book 2 in The Sinner Saints Series

Chapter One

Something wasn’t right.

Rhys Vaughn was too familiar with the unsettled feeling that had taken root deep in his belly to ignore it. Listening to his gut had saved his ass before. Hell, it had saved his life.

Rhys grimaced as he steered his Mercedes around another sharp turn and continued up the steep, hillside road. It didn’t matter that he was driving out to see an old friend, one he hadn’t seen in years. He still felt as though he was in the crosshairs of a sniper rifle.

And, God only knew, maybe he was.

It wasn’t like, when his old Army buddy, Dylan Murtry, had called him up earlier that afternoon, he’d asked to meet up at the corner bar. No, Dylan had invited Rhys up for drinks at his boss’ mansion high in the hills of the San Francisco peninsula.

Invited wasn’t exactly the right word.

Summoned
—that was a better way of putting it.

And there was only one reason that Dylan would insist that they meet there—to offer Rhys a job.

It was the one thing Rhys Vaughn wasn’t looking for. Sure, he could have saved himself the trouble and told Dylan that over the phone, but Rhys figured the least he owed the friend who’d endured the hell of Ranger training by his side all those years ago was to refuse his offer face-to-face.

But that wasn’t the only reason Rhys was out here, traveling up this narrow, winding road on a moonless night. And it sure as hell wasn’t the possibility of a potentially awkward situation that had the hairs along the back of his neck standing at attention. It was that Dylan had called him at all.

Before this afternoon, they hadn’t spoken in years. There was no bad blood between the two men, no moment that Rhys could point to where they had parted badly. Dylan’s call to him this afternoon shouldn’t have been tense.

But it was.

Rhys had heard the edge in his old friend’s voice clear as day, as though Dylan would rather be calling anyone
but
him. And there were only two reasons that people became nervous when talking to Rhys—either they were afraid of him or the task they needed done.

And Rhys had a terrible feeling he knew which camp Dylan Murtry was going to fall into.

His old friend always had a way of finding himself in the middle of sketchy situations, of picking the wrong path even when the right one was clear as day. And Rhys had a feeling that now that Dylan was out of the service and had landed a job as the Head of Security for the notorious Anders Boyd at SciGen International, he wasn’t lacking for wrong paths to travel down.

Which meant that Rhys couldn’t just refuse and walk away. Even though he knew there was no way in hell that he would touch another job, he had to follow his gut and investigate why they’d called him out here in the first place.

Because no one called Rhys for anything good.

Especially someone like Anders Boyd.

Rhys’ jaw tightened as he pulled his car up to an ornate, twelve-foot fence marking the end of the public street. At least the golden scrolled
AB
in the center of the gate told him that he’d reached the right address.

If there was one constant in this world, it was that men of power and privilege loved their showy displays of wealth. If they only knew how little protection their gates and high walls actually gave. Rhys had been part of teams that had stormed dozens of compounds just like this. They might have been on the other side of the globe, but that didn’t matter. One power hungry son of a bitch was the same as any other, whether they lived in Khartoum or Atherton, California.

Rhys pulled up to the box at the edge of the drive and rolled down his window. He pressed the black button next to the speaker and waited.

A moment later a familiar voice sounded. “Rhys?”

“Dylan,” he said.

“Come on up,” Dylan said. None of the tension had left his voice. If anything, it had grown. “I’ll meet you at the door.”

Rhys rolled up his window as the gate slowly swung open. He took his foot off the brake and the car swept past the towering posts that fenced in Boyd’s sprawling property. On a moonless night like this one, it was nearly impossible to see much past the reach of the Mercedes’ headlights, but Rhys knew from the satellite map that he’d pulled up ahead of time that Boyd’s house was still a good mile down the private drive.

For a man who didn’t mind being in the public spotlight, even for less than positive reasons, Anders Boyd was a man who liked his privacy. And he certainly had plenty of open space up here to hide any number of sins.

So which one was Boyd planning on paying Rhys to commit for him?

The thought ran through Rhys’ head as he pulled the Mercedes into the roundabout in front of the entrance of the house. He eyed the two men in black suits standing by the front door before turning off the engine and stepping out onto the gray gravel.

Rhys didn’t need to see their guns to know that they were packing. He could read it in their stiff posture, stock straight with their hands behind their backs.

So, he was right. This was no regular job interview.

Dylan stepped out of the white stone mansion the moment that Rhys closed his car door. He moved quickly, hurrying down the steps, making sure to keep his face pointed down.

Not that it mattered. Rhys didn’t need to see a man’s face to read him. And with someone that he knew as well as Dylan Murtry, it was even easier.

Rhys could tell in an instant that all his suspicions were spot on. Dylan’s shoulders were tight, his steps short and rushed. He was a man that was upset about something. Frustrated, even.

And if Rhys didn’t know any better, he would have said more than a little nervous.

Dylan waited until he was just a few steps away from Rhys before he lifted his head, a too-wide smile plastered on his face.

Dylan stuck out his hand, and Rhys took it.

“It’s good to see you, man,” Dylan said, giving him a quick once-over. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“You seem to be doing all right,” Rhys said.

It was the truth. It looked like the years had been kind to Dylan. He appeared fit and healthy. There was no sign of stress or age around his eyes. The tailored suit he wore spoke of his success. If it wasn’t for the edge of anxiety that showed clearly in the tight lines of his jaw and neck, Rhys would have said he was doing well.

“So, why did you ask me out here?” Rhys asked before Dylan could open his mouth again.

“Wow,” Dylan said, blinking a couple times. “No time to catch up? Just get right to the point?”

Rhys fixed Dylan with a stare. He didn’t blink. He didn’t say a word.

After another couple of seconds of stewing under Rhys’ stare, Dylan threw back his head and laughed. A real one, loud enough to turn the heads of the armed guards on the front step.

Dylan clapped him hard on the back. “That’s the Rhys that I remember. I knew I called the right guy.”

“Called me for what?” Rhys asked.

“Come on inside, and we’ll talk.” Dylan started toward the front door. His posture easing with every step.

Rhys followed, giving the guards one last glance before crossing the threshold.

The interior of Boyd’s house was exactly what Rhys had expected—a marble entryway with a sweeping double staircase in the center, gold-framed paintings hanging from the walls, crystal chandeliers dangling from above.

Every inch of the house screamed of Boyd’s wealth and success.

And none of it impressed Rhys one bit.

Dylan led him to a set of open double doors just to the right of the hallway. He extended his arm, inviting Rhys to enter.

Rhys gave Dylan a long look before stepping inside. The room was nice enough, filled with plush couches and chairs. It was more comfortable than the cold, marble hallway, if not less ostentatious. Still, it wasn’t the decor he disapproved of as much as the company.

Rhys glanced at the two guards standing by the floor-length glass doors along the far wall that appeared to lead out into a garden patio. The place was crawling with black-suited muscle.

And no doubt they were all here for one reason—the man seated in a high-backed leather chair in the middle of the room.

“Rhys Vaughn,” Dylan said, walking over to a seat by the man’s side, “let me introduce you to my boss, Anders Boyd.”

Rhys didn’t need an introduction. Anyone who had watched the news or picked up a magazine in the last five years would recognize the head of SciGen International.

“Mr. Boyd,” Rhys said, nodding his head in acknowledgement.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Vaughn,” Boyd said. “Dylan speaks highly of you.”

Rhys squared his shoulders. “We served in the same unit for a time.”

“I am well aware of your history, Mr. Vaughn,” Boyd said. “Rest assured, I would have never asked you to my home without doing my homework first.”

Rhys pulled his shoulders back.

“I’m aware of your work as well,” he said, keeping his voice flat. SciGen might have been the fastest growing science-based tech company in the world, but it wasn’t without controversy. Claims of their environmental violations, humanitarian issues and ethical concerns were everyday news lately.

Boyd gave a lazy shrug, telling Rhys that those weren’t the kind of problems that kept him up at night.

So what was?

“Please make yourself comfortable, Mr. Vaughn,” Boyd said, motioning to a chair across from him. “Is there anything that my men can get for you?”

“I’m fine where I am,” Rhys said, clasping his hands in front of him. “I’m only interested in knowing why you called me out here.”

Boyd smiled. “You’re every bit as direct as Dylan described.”

Rhys stiffened. His gaze flashed over to Dylan. He was curious to find out what else his old friend had said about him.

“I’ll get right to the point then,” Boyd said, leaning forward in his seat. “SciGen International has found itself in a sensitive situation.”

“What kind of situation?” Rhys asked.

“The kind that requires someone with a particular skillset to remedy. Dylan assures me that you are the only man for the job.”

Rhys didn’t need to ask which skills Boyd was speaking of. He might be an expert shot and deadly when it came to hand to hand combat, but that wasn’t why anyone sought him out. There was only one thing that Rhys Vaughn was truly known for—intelligence extraction.

“I already have a job.” Rhys worked to keep his voice even. He didn’t like the way this was going.

“And I am not trying to take you away from Macmillan Security,” Boyd said. “Think of it more as coming on as an independent contractor for a single assignment. A very
confidential
assignment.”

Rhys sharpened his gaze. “If this assignment is as delicate as you say, why bring in an outsider at all? Surely, Dylan has all the training to take care of your
situation
.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Rhys caught Dylan’s gaze sliding down to the floor.

So, they had already tried that plan. And it hadn’t worked.

“I’m afraid this case has proved particularly difficult,” Boyd said cryptically.

Rhys’ jaw tightened. That didn’t bode well for whatever poor son of a bitch they wanted him to have a crack at. He wondered what the man had done. Fraud? Embezzlement? Corporate espionage?

Whatever it was, Boyd wasn’t interested in bringing in the authorities.

“Who is the subject?” Rhys asked.

Boyd shifted in his seat. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose anything until you agree to take the job, Mr. Vaughn.”

“And you can’t expect me to accept a job that I know nothing about,” Rhys said plainly.

“Actually, that’s exactly what I expect, Mr. Vaughn,” Boyd said, cocking his head to the side. “I can’t imagine this one small assignment would give you any trouble. Your history tells the story of a man with a
flexible
moral code.”

Rhys’ jaw tightened. “My history? As told by who?”

“By Mr. Murtry for one,” Boyd said, glancing over at Dylan. “But I have many sources in high places, Mr. Vaughn, and they were all willing to vouch for both your effectiveness as well as your character.”

Rhys pressed his lips together tight. It didn’t rile him that Boyd was trying to intimidate him. Men of means usually deluded themselves into believing their wealth and power gave them the upper hand in every situation.

It was Dylan’s assessment of his integrity that upset Rhys. They’d been friends. At least, Rhys had thought that’s what they’d been. But obviously Dylan had believed he was little better than a psychopath.

Rhys had just opened his mouth to tell Boyd that he could go straight to hell when another man in a black suit ran into the room, pale-faced and sweat beading on his brow. The man rushed over to Dylan and whispered something in his ear.