The Intelligence Unit Series

Archer Whitlock didn't give a f**k about much. Societal norms, like school and work and two-point-five kids? Shit like that gave him the shakes. Sure, he could have gone to college and aced whatever classes he'd decided to take. U.S. History, Language and Literature, Biology, Trigonometry-traditional learning came to him so easily, he was almost always bored with it after about five minutes. But the only thing a higher education would have gotten him was a great, big stack of debt and a bunch of knowledge that, while maybe kind of fun to trot out on trivia night, wouldn't do a damn thing to get him any farther in life. He'd learned early on how to game the system, how to examine scenarios and situations and facts and manipulate them to his advantage. His actions weren't always above-board, which probably would've bothered someone with a solid moral compass, so he'd learned to alter his accordingly. But just because Archer had adjusted his values to meet his "work smarter, not harder" mentality didn't mean he was heartless. In fact, he'd never been able to bring himself to be cruel for the sake of cruelty, much to his friend Thorn's dismay. There were things Archer cared about. His sister, Portia, for one.

The duffel bags stuffed with cash that the three of them had just stolen from the vault in Remington Financial?

Definitely another.

Thorn let out a whoop, giving the passenger-side doorframe of the Nissan Sentra he'd stolen from a commuter lot earlier that morning a gleeful slap. "Man, ripping off banks is such a f*****g rush!"

Archer's pulse kicked its age-old warning, but he smoothed over it, refusing to give the instinctive worry any airtime. Thorn St. James was who he was. Had been ever since he'd bullied kids out of their lunch money in the fourth grade-which was, incidentally, as long as he and Archer had known each other. As uneasy as Thorn's tendency toward violence made him, Archer needed the guy for that very reason. Plus, Thorn wasn't exactly a mastermind. Archer had been keeping him managed for decades. "It's a good payday," Archer said, keeping his voice intentionally mellow to try and take Thorn's power trip down a notch.

Thorn snorted, running a hand through his dark, shoulder-length hair. "Your brother's a comedian," he said, aiming the words at the backseat.

Portia, who had never quite gotten the hang of controlling her adrenaline during these robberies, didn't move her gaze from the rear windshield. "No one's following us."

Archer's gut panged. He'd been hesitant to bring her in on these robberies when he'd first hatched the idea to rip off banks last year. Not that she wasn't tough enough to handle herself. God knew she'd been served enough shit sandwiches to be a connoisseur. They'd come up rough to begin with, their biological father having done a disappearing act when Archer was five and Portia was just an infant-not that he'd contributed much either financially or emotionally before that. Their mother had tried, at least in the beginning. But by the time Portia had gone to kindergarten, it had become clear that she'd wanted as little to do with either of them as possible.

Archer had never much given a shit that she'd emotionally abandoned him. Thick skin was just one of the many survival skills he'd mastered by the time he was ten, and anyway, it was tough to miss something you never had. He and Portia had always been as close as two siblings with defenses like Fort Knox could, which was to say they'd been allies. But the vulnerability that went with caring was a luxury neither of them could afford. Even then, Archer had been practical enough to know it.

Their mother had married their a*s-weasel of a step-father when Portia had been twelve. Archer had only had to put up with Decker for the six months before he'd turned eighteen and blazed a path out the door. That was before Decker decided to smack around both Portia and their mother on the regular, a little nugget that Archer had only discovered after Decker had had the courtesy to be stabbed in a bar fight and die five years later. Portia, being Portia, had never blamed Archer for any of it, even though Archer sure as hell had. He'd been able to read Decker like a f*****g billboard. He'd known the guy had a mile-wide mean streak, and he'd been so desperate for daylight, he'd left anyway. He hadn't known for sure that the guy would hit his sister or his mother-Decker hadn't been stupid enough to do it before Archer had left. But deep down, Archer had known better than to leave Portia there, defenseless, and try the odds.

Archer had felt responsible for her ever since. Ironic, really, since this sense of obligation was the only kernel of decency he carried beneath an otherwise selfish existence. But still, he did, and even though they hadn't always remained close, he'd always tried to be there for Portia when she'd let him. So, when her deadbeat ex took off at the same time Thorn had been sprung from prison last year and Archer had come up with the idea that robbing banks could be lucrative as f**k as long as they didn't get caught? He didn't believe in anything quite so kitschy as fate, but when life presented a chance for him to game the system, he sure as hell took it.

"Of course no one's following us," Thorn said, tugging Archer back to the moment. Good Christ, the guy's balls grew as big as Jupiter after a job. "It's been fifteen minutes since we left those assholes pissing in their pants. We're f*****g invincible." It was rare that Archer chose to argue, especially with Thorn, but here, he had to. "We're smart, not invincible." He caught Portia's gaze in the rearview mirror and held it for a beat. "Awareness is important. Double-checking lets us keep the advantage." "You and your strategy." Thorn rolled his eyes. "If I had my way, we wouldn't leave any witnesses. Now there is a solid strategy. It would keep us a hell of a lot safer than double-checking and watching our backs. No one can chase us if they're dead." Archer shrugged. If he fought too hard, Thorn would fight back, and this wasn't up for debate. "That's true. But body counts heighten security. I think we can all agree that wouldn't work in our favor. Anyway, we've successfully robbed thirteen banks in five different states without killing anyone or getting anywhere close to caught. The plan is solid. Trust me, I wouldn't steer you wrong, man."

Thorn almost let it go. But then... "The plan is only solid until something happens to f**k it up. We were almost screwed today with that bank manager."

Ah, the goddamned asthma attack. He'd known this was going to come back to bite him. But for all the covert research he did on a bank's employees, he wasn't goddamn clairvoyant.

Time to keep it level. "We just had to improvise a little," Archer said. "But we got everything we went in for and we got out clean."

"Thorn, seriously. It was no big deal," Portia started, but Thorn cut her off with a look.

"Right. No big deal." He spat the words as if they'd been coated in battery acid, turning back toward Archer. "What about the bitch you sent back to the vault?"

Archer's mind spun. "Camila? What about her?"

"Thorn's just pissed because she got a little shitty with him about the bank manager not being able to breathe," Portia said, her shoulders lifting halfway before falling in a non-committal shrug. "But, really, it was fine."

God damn it. He'd always known it was a calculated risk to send Thorn into the vault unsupervised on these jobs. "What happened?"

Portia said, "She mouthed off about Rosalie. Said if she died, things would be worse for us. We let her give Rosalie her inhaler, just to shut them both up. We needed the time."

Archer's knuckles tightened over the steering wheel as he pulled into the nondescript driveway of the equally nondescript house they'd rented ten days ago, not speaking until they were in the one-car garage with the door shut tight. "That sounds like a smart strategy. Camila obviously helped you after that."

A disgruntled noise sounded off from the back of Thorn's throat. "I had to talk to her."

Shit. "But you didn't say anything, did you?" he asked Portia. They took a lot of precautions to keep their identities hidden. But every news report so far-and Archer was too smart not to read all of them-had labeled them as three armed men. Keeping it that way was an added safety precaution he wanted to hold onto.

"I'm not stupid," she said, one dirty blond brow arched.

"She still had to get close enough to make sure Camila didn't try anything," Thorn argued.

"It was only for a second. All I did was take the inhaler out of Rosalie's pocket." Portia looked at Archer, his eyes meeting her kaleidoscope stare in the rearview mirror. "I didn't say anything. Plus, Thorn knocked Camila out, anyway. I doubt she'll remember her own name before next Tuesday." Archer's pulse kicked. "You hit her?"

"You're lucky I didn't f*****g shoot her," Thorn said, his voice as cold as his stare. "She could be trouble. Look, we know her full name. Finding her wouldn't be hard, and it wouldn't take much for her to have an 'accident'. Then we'd know for sure that our asses are covered."

"No." Archer bit back his irritation that Thorn had gone off-script and hurt Camila. He didn't like giving the guy any more leash than was strictly necessary, but in this case, his actions worked in their favor. "Knocking her out will do the trick. Assault f***s with your head. Plants a lot of fear." He tapped his temple. "Between that and the robbery, she'll be traumatized enough to mentally bury anything she might've noticed."

"What if she isn't?" Thorn pressed.

Here, Archer shrugged. "I didn't ask her name because I was trying to make friends. If she becomes a problem, she's all yours."

Contrary to what Thorn believed, Archer didn't hate the thought of a body count because he didn't have the stomach for it. Killing people was messy, yeah, and mostly unnecessary. But he'd do it if he had to-for f**k's sake, it was half the reason he'd brought Thorn into this deal in the first place. Everyone had a skill set.

It was time for Archer to use his to distract Thorn, once and for all.

"But I doubt that'll happen. She was scared," he said, and meant it. He knew how to read people and use them to get what he wanted, and Camila Garza had reeked of fear. It was why he'd chosen her to go help in the first place. "She knows we know her name. You knocked her on the head, and I'm guessing it wasn't a love tap. Add the physical trauma to the fact that she's probably terrified we'll come after her if the cops get within a mile of us?" Another shrug, this one to hammer it all home. "She's not a threat." Thorn paused, and bingo. Archer had him. "I did hit her pretty hard," Thorn said, a slow smile expanding over his face.

"There you go." Archer jerked his head toward the trunk as his own smile spread out. "Now, help me drag this cash into the house, would you? We need to get it counted and ready for the drop before we can plan the next job, and I know you better than to think you're not already itching for more."

"No such thing as too much money," Thorn said, getting out of the car.

Portia waited until Thorn was elbow-deep in the trunk before she murmured, "It really was fine, Archer. He's just blowing smoke."

"He does that," Archer said by way of agreement.

For Camila Garza's sake, he hoped his sister was right.