Stripping His Armor Read online

  Lach chuckled, and Vince’s body betrayed him. He adjusted his cuffs to mask the shudder.

  “You’ll understand why, once I’ve explained,” Cross said. “In short, I’ve decided to fund a new mission.”

  A new mission? Cross collected…well, officially they called them artifacts, but the pieces tended to be found in remote places, like mountaintops or ocean floors, and were ludicrously valuable, so really they were treasure. He employed shifters for their specific capabilities but also because they were innately secretive. Society at large didn’t know shifters existed, and everybody was better off maintaining that status quo. Vince had led teams for Cross for almost ten years now. Each new mission, and the trust it meant Cross had in him, gave him a pride he couldn’t deny.

  “What’s your objective, sir?”

  Cross sat back in his chair. “It’s a doozy, Vince. But I believe you’re cut out for it particularly.”

  Pride swelled his chest. “How so?”

  “Do you remember what you told me, back when you first interviewed? About your interest in Arthurian legend?”

  A cool shock zipped up Vince’s spine. Interest was a diplomatic way to describe an obsession. Since he was a kid, he’d read everything he could find about the legendary king, only in his mind Arthur wasn’t just a myth. Not a king, either, but a real man who’d fought in the hills and hollows of a dark and chaotic time in Britain’s history. Vince had always felt that in his gut.

  “I’m going to assume, by the expression on your face, that you recall our conversation.”

  “Yes, sir.” He could feel Lach staring at him, but he didn’t care.

  “Well, I believe we have a lead, a solid one.”

  “On Arthur?”

  “On his sword.”

  Holy shit. “Excalibur?” Movement caught his eye, and he looked over to find Lach watching him, one hand over his mouth. I know! he wanted to shout. Can you believe it?

  “Excalibur,” Cross confirmed. “Or whatever he actually called it. Much of what we think we know—”

  “—was added in the twelfth century, or later.”

  “Right, well, I’m ringing you early, Vince, because I’m eager to get this underway.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you, Lachlan. See, I’d like you two to take the first phase. But whereas you’ve typically worked at different levels of authority, I’m taking a new tack. On this mission, you’ll work side by side.” Cross leaned in to the camera. “Together, as equals.”

  Well, well, well. Vincent Ito, knocked off his perch. So this was what it looked like. Lach almost felt sorry for him.

  Okay, not really. Not at all, in fact. Of all the control freaks he’d ever met, Vince was fair near the top of the heap. And while the man’s…natural gifts for command had afforded Lach some pleasant moments indeed, they had also nearly ruined his life.

  Nearly, because he’d clawed back his autonomy and sworn never to give Vince that kind of power over him again.

  So, yes, he was enjoying a wee bit of schadenfreude just now. The moments were appallingly few and far between, when it came to Vince. It was sort of difficult not to grin, actually.

  And King Arthur?

  When Britain needs him most, he shall rise from the dead to lead her…

  Jesus leaping Christ, did people really still put stock in that shite? The current state of the kingdom and the utter absence of a fellow who’d either fucked off for good or never existed in the first place should have put such nonsense to rest.

  Hadn’t happened, evidently. And—not that he cared, but—why hadn’t he known Vince was so into it? Why hadn’t he told him, back when they were making fools of themselves? Wasn’t like Lach would’ve laughed.

  Aye, all right. He probably would have done. The thought was like a thorny wee vine, twisting in his gut. Why should he care, about any of it? He shouldn’t, beyond the payday.

  “Will you be leading this particular mission, Mr. Cross?”

  “Not I, Lach. For this one, I’ve chosen someone unconventional, you might say. Someone new to the role. But you know him.”

  Vince’s jaw loosened enough to ask, “Who?”

  The telly screen split, and another face appeared beside Cross’s.

  A very familiar face with a very familiar grin.

  “Oh my God,” Vince said, saving Lach the trouble.

  Because smiling back at them through a beard one could only describe as epic was Sten Sørensen, wolf shifter and modern-day Viking.

  And Lach’s other ex at work. Not that Vince knew that.

  “Hallo!” Sten boomed.

  “Hey,” Lach offered but couldn’t help looking over at Vince.

  The poor guy’s mouth was still agape. He clapped it shut and sat forward. “I respect your decision, Mr. Cross—”

  Ach, Vince, you’re a terrible liar.

  “—but in the interest of…team unity, what are Sørensen’s qualifications to lead this mission?”

  Sten nodded, almost comically serious, as if he’d expected exactly this question.

  Cross smiled. “Turns out, Sten brings a wealth of enthusiasm for all things Arthurian.”

  Vince’s face. And rightly so—he’d nearly pissed himself at the prospect of chasing this fairy story. What had Sten done—hump Cross’s leg?

  “You’ve visited how many proposed sites, Sten?”

  “Two hundred and fourteen.”

  “Over two hundred!” Cross said. “Personally! I call that dedication.”

  Just under the edge of the table, Vince’s hands gripped the arms of his chair. Lach had to admit, if Cross had meant for that to knock Vince in the ballocks, he’d succeeded. As crap as Lach’s history with Vince was, the man was nothing if not dedicated.

  “The long and short of it,” Cross said, “is that Sørensen has a surprising body of knowledge when it comes to Arthuriana. He’s the one who brought the lead to me.”

  “From whom?”

  “And I believe in giving people opportunities to prove themselves. To learn. To rise to their potential. In that, I know that you and I agree, Vince.”

  Direct hit. Vince was all about potential. Lach hadn’t heard the end of it before their dalliance blew up in their faces.

  “So I’ve decided to hand the reins for this one to Sten. You and Lach will report directly to him.”

  Vince looked as if he’d turned to stone.

  Right. Might as well hammer out the terms. The bank account wasn’t going to feed itself. “How much is this worth?”

  “The sword’s priceless, of course.”

  Hilarious. “The mission, sir. The job. What’s our take-home after expenses? And is it contingent on discovery?”

  “It’s not contingent, though discovery will yield a bonus. You’ll receive double your usual rates.”

  “For the sword?”

  “No, as a base rate.”

  Whoa. That was a tidy sum per week.

  “If you bring me the sword, you’ll split an additional one million pounds.”

  Lach’s heart nearly stopped. “One million?” He glanced at Vince again, but his expression still betrayed nothing.

  “What would happen to the sword?” Vince asked.

  “It would be very well cared for. After you got a chance to handle it, of course.”

  Vince’s hands gripped his chair again.

  Lach cleared his throat. “What sorts of shots do you want here? Daily updates? Still or video?”

  “Neither, unless they help you. We chose you two for your shifted capabilities. Vince’s swimming could come into use here, and we need your eagle eye, Lach.”

  It was much too early in the day for these lame jokes. “I’m a hawk, sir.”

  “And just as Vince has his interest in Arthur to contribute, you also bring something that could help us. As fortune would have it, you know the area rather well.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, the coordinates are specific.” Cross smiled at him. “Th
ey describe the land currently occupied by your family’s whisky distillery.”

  Chapter Three

  Lach tried to make sense of the words. “The mission coords are at the distillery? McAlistair’s?”

  Cross looked pleased as punch. “The very one.”

  “You think King Arthur’s sword is at my family’s whisky works.” Lach knew the place as intimately as his own sac. The only sword for miles was a hideous jewel-encrusted thing his father had received from a whisky fan with more money than taste.

  “We have reason to believe it may be.”

  “What reasons are those?” Vince asked.

  “Sørensen would have more information for you both, once you’re on the ground. As always, I would expect you to proceed under cover. What that cover is would be up to you, so long as no one suspects why you’re truly there. Shouldn’t be too difficult, eh, Lach? Simply treat it as a family visit.”

  Right, simple.

  “And Vince, you could be along for… Oh, what do you think, Sørensen?”

  “The historic sites,” Sten said. “The scenery. The excellent swimming.”

  “It’s November,” Lach said.

  Vince frowned at him. “So?”

  “Your ballocks, I guess,” Lach murmured.

  “You two will figure something out,” Cross said. “What do you say? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Are you in?”

  Vince looked at Lach, but whatever that glance was for, it wasn’t to wait for Lach’s agreement. He gave Sten a flat look next, then turned back to Cross. “Count me in, sir.”

  “Excellent. Lach?”

  A friendly visit to the family home with Vince in tow? The very real probability that Hamish McAlistair would seize the occasion to diminish everything Lach had managed to accomplish, with Vince as a witness? And all for a sword that was little more than a figment. Sounded delightful.

  On the other hand, he could see the old works again, maybe take some shots. Might even be able to talk his father into delaying the demolition. For what, he didn’t know, but the prospect was enough to make him nod.

  “Aye, I’m in.”

  Cross and Sørensen both beamed.

  How had he not known that both his work exes had hard-ons for a dead legend?

  “I’ll email your contracts,” Cross was saying. “You’d best pack your things.”

  For his trip home. With Vince. “Do I have time to shift first?”

  “Probably not.” Cross gave him what was likely meant to be a commiserative smile. “Your ride to the airport leaves in”—he looked at something off screen—“fifteen minutes. You should have just enough time to check in for your flight before boarding. Sorry about that.”

  The man didn’t look sorry at all.

  “I’ll let you go, then. Sørensen will open a line of communication with you and handle any necessary requisitions. Anything before they set out, Sten?”

  The big Norwegian shook his head. “I’ll be in touch.” He grinned again, his blue eyes dancing on the hi-def screen. “Isn’t this exciting?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cross,” Vince said. “Talk to you soon, Sørensen.”

  Sten waggled his fingers. “Bye!”

  The screen went blank. Neither of them moved.

  “What the fuck,” Vince said.

  That about summed it up. But Lach didn’t have the energy to cradle the guy’s dented ego just now. “I’ll text ahead, tell them I’m bringing a work colleague.” He rose and headed for the door. “Meet you at security.”

  One good thing about the freelance life: he didn’t own a lot of shit. Over the years he’d honed his possessions down to two bags: film equipment and personal kit. Took eight minutes to pack. He got it done in seven this time and beat Vince to security. A minor win but one he’d happily take. He used the moment’s breather to text ahead.

  First, a message to Archie, the man who had kept the family home ticking along since Granddad’s day. His reply was as predictable in its warmth as in its promptness.

  Archie: Wonderful news. Safe travels to you and your colleague.

  He held onto that glow while tapping out the next text.

  Lach: Unexpected break between projects, can make a brief visit. Bringing a coworker. Pencil me in for a chat.

  This reply was also prompt.

  Hamish: FFS no one uses pencils. Glad you’ve come to your bloody senses.

  With any luck, this brief visit would be brief indeed.

  Vince arrived a couple minutes later with a single bag, because of course, and they checked out of the base. Then they were walking to the SUV waiting to shuttle them to the mainland. The air felt crisp, and Lach would’ve given a kidney for half an hour to ride its currents, but they had a flight to catch.

  They stowed their bags and climbed in for the forty-minute drive. The driver was listening to some sort of instrumental music, but the volume was too low to drown out the silence in the backseat. Lach watched the snowy countryside slide past. The Orkneys would be plenty nippy and with blustering gales to boot. There, at least, he had an advantage over the man next to him. Vince liked to appear unfazed by the northern climes Cross operated from, but his California blood was thin.

  Turned out forty minutes were a few too many for silence this morning. “Did you know Sørensen was into King Arthur?” Vince asked.

  “Why would I know that?”

  Vince shrugged tightly. “You hang out with him.”

  “I do?”

  “You drink with him.”

  “Everybody drinks with Sørensen, even if they’re on seltzer. He’s entertaining.”

  “Entertaining,” Vince said, as if he couldn’t understand where the appeal might be in that.

  Lach could have enlightened him, but that was a conversation he intended to have never. “Cross is right, you know. It’s a chance for Sørensen to prove himself, professionally.”

  Vince turned to him, mouth open. “Professionally?”

  No, he didn’t usually associate that term with Sten, either, but still. “Everybody starts somewhere.”

  “And then what? He’ll lead the next mission, and the next?”

  “There are more than enough missions to go around.”

  The muscle in Vince’s jaw flexed.

  “Careful, V, you’ll crack those pretty teeth.”

  Vince’s clean-shaven skin smoothed over again. “So I’m just supposed to let it go?”

  “If you want that double-plus-bonus payday. You’re in this car, and it ain’t for the joy of my company.”

  No response.

  Well, shit. The guy could do something to refute that. “This is a growth opportunity for Sørensen.”

  “You’re seriously preaching to me about growth, McAlistair?”

  Aye, it was fairly hilarious given the direction that conversation had always gone between them in the past.

  But the past was just that: past. Gone. Tied up with a bow and sealed with a slammed door.

  “If you’re going to talk the talk, you can buck up and walk the walk, Vincent.”

  Vince shut up after that and remained so until they reached the check-in counter. Lach didn’t recognize the fellow who took their passports, but he had a nice smile.

  “Bit chilly for a kilt, isn’t it, Mr. McAlistair?”

  “Never too cold for the kilt.” He winked. “Just hafta guard against those tricksy gusts of wind.”

  The agent blushed and handed him his ticket with a smile and a dimple. “Guess so. Have a good flight.”

  Now that was a much better way to start the day. He headed toward the security scanners.

  Vince caught up to him. “You’re shameless.”

  “For flirting? Yes, I am.”

  “And why are the mission coordinates at your family’s distillery?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “That’s it?”

  Lach shrugged. “Why don’t you tell me why Cross chose you for this particular mission. Why your interest in King Arthu
r is so memorable that he thought of you.”

  “Maybe he just thought I’d be up for it.”

  “You looked more than up for it.”

  “Jesus, just try to be professional.”

  As they made the short trip to the gate, then up the steps and into their seats, it all played out again in his mind.

  A hotel bed, two years before, the sheets thoroughly debauched. Vince and himself, starving and thirsty but too lazy to drag their arses from the comfort of pillow and duvet to ring for anything. Instead, they had talked, about everything and nothing. In hindsight, one topic had had particular import: Lach’s ambition, or modesty thereof.

  In a nutshell, he’d expressed what he considered an admirable contentment with the life he’d made for himself as a freelance photographer. In expressing as much, he’d said he’d never seen himself wanting to manage other people. Being a solo entrepreneur suited him. Vince had smiled and agreed.

  Fast-forward a couple of months, to a message sent to everyone on the research base. Cross was looking for someone to helm a team that would search for evidence of the missing Ninth Legion of Rome.

  The Roman Empire had been one of his granddad’s great interests, and they had spent hours talking about it. The loss of the Ninth had been something they’d come back to, again and again, tossing theories between them the way others might lob a ball. And so he’d applied directly to Cross.

  And been rejected, almost immediately. Bothered by the summary refusal, he’d set up a video conference with the man.

  During which Cross had read to him from Lach’s most recent performance evaluation. “Lachlan McAlistair is not leadership material.”

  Signed, Vincent Ito.

  Vince had tried afterward to claim that he’d only been trying to help Lach. Had used his position as Lach’s frequent mission lead to ensure that Lach retained his autonomy.

  But it had been humiliating in a thousand different ways. That Cross had that evaluation in hand. That Vince had taken Lach’s honest self-assessment and turned it into critical corporate speak.