back.
He checks it again. “Yeah, that’s good. Now just enter it into the computer and you’re all set.”
I do and then tick the little box that says
“Done! And we’re early, it’s only seven forty-five.” I reach down to get my backpack so I can shove my shit inside and leave, but Gage slides some papers across the table at me. “What’s this?”
“Printouts of your friends, Rook. I hope you thought about what I said last week. They’re dangerous.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Gage, I think I know them better than you. They are the farthest thing from dangerous I’ve ever seen in my life. Maybe you’ve just been really sheltered or something?” I flutter my eyelashes a little to play it down and make him back off.
“Uh-huh.” He pushes the papers towards me with one finger. “Just read them, OK? Read them and then I’ll never say another thing about it. Deal?”
“Whatever. I already saw them, though. I looked it all up online.”
“This stuff isn’t online, Rook. So just read it.”
I pick up the stack of papers and read the first headline. It’s not a newspaper. It’s an FBI report. “What the fuck is this?”
“Just read it.”
It looks like your basic FBI wanted poster you’d see on TV, except it doesn’t say ‘wanted,’ it says ‘person of interest.’ And that phrase conjures up only one image since the 9/11 attacks. Terrorists. I look up at Gage and raise an eyebrow.
He pans his hands out in an innocent shrug. “Just read it.”
I continue. It’s all about Ronin. Height—so very, very tall. I snicker to myself. Weight—buffed the fuck out. Eye color—electrifying. Age—young. He’s only nineteen in this dossier. “Well, these are his general stats which I am already very familiar with. And his picture just makes me want to kiss the photo.” I look up with a smirk.
“You’re laughing now, but wait.”
I glare over at Gage and toss the paper back to him. “I’m just not interested. I don’t care what he did in the past or why the FBI thinks he’s important. It’s over. He’s a good guy. I love him. I’m thinking having his blue-eyed babies might be a good idea in about ten years.”
“Ronin Sean Flynn, age nineteen—”
“I said I’m not interested. Besides, that was years ago if he was just nineteen.”
“—picked up for human trafficking, cocaine distribution, grand larceny—”
My heart about beats out of my chest at the first charge.
“Rook, I swear to God, OK? The fucking FBI handed me these papers not two hours ago, they wanted me to tell you so you don’t get caught up in this, they would like you to talk to them—”
I grab my bag and bolt out the door, leaving Gage there with his stack of bullshit papers that might be ripping apart my whole world right now. I look around. Are they watching me? I stop in front of my truck, scanning the dark parking lot.
Nothing. No one out here at all.
I get in and take a few deep breaths. This is not my Ronin. Whatever those papers said, it’s a lie. He’s not involved in that kind of stuff, I know it. No man as gentle as him could possibly be involved in that stuff. I pull out of the parking lot, trying my best not to speed so I don’t get pulled over, and head east towards College Ave.
Shit. Who the fuck can I ask about this?
Why don’t I have any friends?
I chew on my cheek as I think. I have Elise, Spencer, Ford, Antoine, Ronin. That’s it. My whole fucking circle of friends could possibly be involved.
Except one, maybe.
Veronica.
I know for a fact that Spencer is a commitment-phobe, so even if some of this stuff with them is true—and I’m not even thinking it is yet, but even if it was—I don’t think Veronica would be involved. Spencer refuses to even call her his girlfriend.
I turn left on College and head up towards downtown to her tattoo shop. It’s Monday night so the place might not even be open. But it’s all I have right now.
Veronica, the girl who endured the agonizing pain of a bullet-induced scrape across her hip, called my ex an ass-faced bastard, and probably saved me from being dragged back to my own personal hell in Chicago, is as good as I’ve got as far as second opinions go.
Chapter Twenty-Nine - RONIN
So this is how it works.
Listen to the question, breathe. Stop. Blink. Breathe. Recite the question back to myself so that I understand every word. Answer yes or no.
That’s it.
Of course, they’re trying to make you fuck up. They ask the question a few different ways. They give you throwaway questions—which, depending on the question, may be a good time to just outright lie. Like if they ask
And then I sit back and smile.
Because I just did two things. I set up their machine to record that kind of response as truth and I lied to their faces but it didn’t record and they know it.
A good operator will know what to do with that. They’ll set me up in a pattern of repeated questions, phrased with slight variations, so that I will unconsciously lie. But I’m telling you, this is my God-given gift. Spencer paints naked girls, Ford is some evil version of Einstein, sans the bad hair and
That’s just how it is.
I can be whatever people want me to be. You want me to be guilty? I can play that part just as well as innocent. In fact, sometimes I do play guilty when I’m being questioned. That really fucking throws them off.
And none of what I’m doing is special, not really. I’m just observant, calculating, and I spent just as much time learning to turn off my emotions as I did turning them on.
“Is your name Ronin Flynn?”
I’m all hooked up to the computer now, sitting in this slightly over-warm room that will at some point in the middle of questioning turn slightly too cold, and I’m ready.
“Yes.”
“Do you live at the Chaput Studios Building in LoDo?”
“Yes.” That’s a lie, but I say it with confidence and the machine agrees with me. Our building is technically in Five Points, not Lower Downtown, but like I said, dummy questions.
The suits bob their heads together on that one, then regroup. “Do you live at Chaput Studios in Five Points?”
“Yes.”
“Do you live in LoDo?”
“Yes.” I blink and breathe to give them something to think about besides my lie. I can do this all day long.
“OK, Mr. Flynn,” the older man running the machine says. “Let’s get down to business. Are you aware of any
