Free Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) by Maegan Beaumont Page B

a few moments for the digitalized cuff to download its reading to his computerized medical file before removing it. “Mr. Shaw has spent considerable resources on your procurement. He protects his investments.”
    Considerable resources —he’d heard that one before. How many favors did Livingston Shaw have to call in or promise to get him scrubbed off the FBI’s ten most-wanted list? How many millions in bribes to bury the Interpol red notices on him? As El Cartero he’d been wanted in twelve different countries and with the snap of his fingers, Shaw had turned him into a ghost. Whatever it cost him, Michael hoped it hurt.
    Mary dropped the cuff in favor of what looked like a portable scanner Wal-Mart minimum-wagers used to price-check shit. She placed it over the spot she’d been poking at and waited for the beep.
    The device in his back not only tracked his whereabouts, it would kill him if he didn’t come back. He was the sole property of FSS and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
    “Everything seems to be in working order,” she said behind him.
    He turned to face her. “Thanks. Bye.”
    She didn’t move, instead tracing a remote gaze over his body, taking in the cluster of contusions hovering above three cracked ribs. More nicks and bruises than he could count. Abrasions scattered across his back and shoulders. A laceration across his left tricep. Another across his outer thigh. “You’ve sustained some injuries I’ll have to catalog.”
    This was regular business when it came to the security firm he worked for. Security firm —the term Livingston Shaw used to describe the sizable army-for-hire he’d amassed over the past decade. While most Americans were jumping at the chance to trade their freedoms for the illusion of safety, FSS had crept in like a cancer. Fed by fear and funded by the Department of Homeland Security, FSS had its fingers in every single one of Uncle Sam’s pies. It was a conspiracy nut’s worst nightmare—fifty thousand boots on the ground, and not a single one of them answered to the U.S. government. Livingston Shaw had a higher security clearance than the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
    And he was still climbing.
    Michael looked down, watched while she walked her fingertips along the slats of his ribs. She landed on one of the cracks and he hissed in a breath. Most times he was able to force himself to submit to the poking and prodding, but not today. “What happens in Pakistan, stays in Pakistan,” he said as he brushed her hands away from his chest.
    She didn’t even crack a smile, just started spouting corporate policy. “Per FSS policy, all operatives are examined after an assignment, before they’re released on leave, and upon returning from leave—”
    He tuned her out, just waited for her to shut up and get on with it. She finally stopped talking, traded her scanner for a camera, and started taking pictures. “Your partner provided medical care in the field?” she said after a few dozen photos.
    He took another look at the door Ben had disappeared behind. “The kid’s pretty handy.”
    She made a noise that sounded like an agreement and took a final round of pictures before stepping back. “You can get dressed now.”
    “Is this the part where you give me cab money and tell me you’ll call me in the morning?” he said while yanking his pants back on.
    She flashed him a cool, professional smile. “See you in thirty days, Mr. O’Shea,” she said as she headed for the door, letting it slam behind her when she left.
    He couldn’t help but think of Sabrina. If he’d talked to her the way he did Shaw’s fem-bot, he’d have swallowed a couple teeth for his trouble. The thought made him smile, but it faded quickly.
    He considered calling her—something he did at least a hundred times a day—but in the end, he left his phone where it was. He couldn’t call her. What was there to say? Sorry I left you to fight off your psychotic half-brother alone …