Breaking Point Read Free

office supply loincloth as the hostages had rushed outside and the police and FBI rushed in.
    Smitty Durkin brought Max’s things into the bank—except his underwear wasn’t with the rest of his clothes. Max could only hope that they’d fallen out of the leg of his pants, and that a strong wind had pushed them underneath some car, and into a puddle still standing from last night’s rain.
    “I admire you, sir,” Max told Shaw now. “Very much. Your record as a team leader is remarkable. And I would never say this outside the privacy of your office, but it’s my opinion that you made the wrong call out there today. You should have given me permission to go to that bank. I think you know that, sir.”
    If Leonard D’Angelo had died today, it would have been on Shaw. Completely. And Shaw had Max to thank for preventing that tragedy.
    But Shaw didn’t say a word. He just sat back in his seat, gazing up at Max. His eyes were icy cold, and, if he hadn’t had the reputation for being a fair-minded leader, or if he hadn’t given himself away with that bark of laughter, Max might’ve been worried that he’d said too much.
    As it was, Max used the lengthening silence to study the subtle way Shaw made himself completely unreadable, totally unapproachable. It was more than a flat lack of emotion in the man’s eyes, more than the stony stillness of his facial expression. It was in his body language, too. He held himself open, elbows on the arms of his chair.
    Interesting. That nondefensive pose actually added much to the hardass flavor of Shaw’s entire unspoken message: “Quake in your shoes, underling, for you have no idea what I’m going to say or do next.”
    Except Max did know. Despite all the shouting, Shaw had finally noticed him.
    It was a solid three minutes before Shaw spoke, but Max just stood there, holding the man’s gaze, fighting his swallow reflex by sheer force of will.
    “My replacement is Kurt Herdson,” Shaw finally said.
    Max didn’t let himself so much as blink at the change of subject. “Yes, sir. I’m aware of that.”
    “Do you know him?”
    “No, sir.”
    “He’s a number cruncher.” The smile Shaw gave him wasn’t particularly nice. “You seem to like balls-out honesty, Bhagat, so I’ll put it to you plain: He’s going to hate your fucking guts.”
    “Yes, sir, he probably will,” Max agreed evenly. He smiled, too. “I’m looking forward to the challenge.”
    Shaw laughed again. And again changed directions. “You married, son?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Some unsolicited advice? Get married. Soon. When you make team leader you won’t have time to chase women. Hell, you won’t have time to breathe. If there’s someone out there that you can’t live without, leg shackle yourself to her before she gets away. You know the old saying? Wives wait but ladyfriends leave? It’s true. Especially in our line of work.”
    Max shook his head. “I’m not . . . I don’t . . . I appreciate the advice, sir.” If there was someone out there that he couldn’t live without, he hadn’t met her yet.
    “Even if you’re a player,
stud . . .
” Shaw leaned on the word.
Oh, Christ.
“You’re better off having one than none, especially when that one is waiting for you at home, doing your laundry and cooking your dinner.”
    Now Max was internally wincing for a different reason. He was glad that one of the women who worked in the office hadn’t overheard. “I’m pretty good at doing my own laundry, sir. And, uh, speaking of laundry . . .”
    But Shaw was waving him away. “Your secret’s safe with me. Get out of here, I have work to do.”
    Max headed for the door, but Shaw stopped him before he closed it behind him.
    “Bhagat.”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Thanks.”
    Max nodded. Leonard D’Angelo’s unnecessary death would’ve been a hell of a thing for Shaw to carry around for the rest of his life. “You’re welcome, sir. Thank you, too,” he said, and shut the door behind him.
    He