I’m Not Christian Adler

The Adler Squad

“Are you even listening?” Everett glares. “One wrong move and we’re dead.”

“We’ve gone through this plan thousands of times, Evie,” Christian smiles reassuringly, tapping the table with his knuckles.

Drawings and photos of the mansion’s layout are scattered all across the table between them after weeks of preparation.

“We have the ins and outs,” he continues.

“Eyes on every exit. We know the numbers in each room, the positions of all the guards, when they’ll be switched out, and we’ve got eyes on the big guy’s every move. ”

Christian looks around at the rest of the team, scattered around the RV. “By the time they figure out what’s going on they’ll be dead.”

Max and Mitch nod. They’d joined the team no more than two years ago but already they’d become invaluable.

Mitch is the eldest of the two brothers, with deep-set brown eyes, and a handsome face, even with the scar running from his left eye to his jaw.

He’s the talker of the two, the first to party and the first to piss people off…

but he’s also a damn good fighter and wicked with a blade.

His little brother, Max, is his polar opposite.

His voice is the quietest, but Christian is convinced there isn’t anyone in the world who can best him in a gun fight.

He’s only 24, but his precision and speed are already considered top tier, and the ladies are always gushing about his ‘mysterious’ personality, his cute face and wavy black hair.

The shy ones always steal the show.

“We’ve done bigger operations than this and we know it,” Christian nods at them with excitement and bloodlust prickling beneath his skin. “Don’t go freezing up just because the Family is watching. This chance didn’t just drop into our laps; we earned it. Because we’re the best.”

The barest trace of a smile can be seen at the corners of Max’s lips.

Even Everett, the insufferable bastard, looks less tense as he huffs through his nose.

Compared to the other two, Everett’s face is rugged, but his grey eyes always draw attention.

His brown hair is pulled into a ponytail and a frown is permanently etched onto his face to scare off civilians.

The man wouldn’t know fun even if it impaled him between the ribs, but even though he’s caution’s number one fan, he’s the team’s co-leader.

Christian wouldn’t trust anyone else to have his back.

Each of them makes up the Taiga family’s best team on this side of the Portland River—one of the major branches of the state’s ruling crime family—but if they could pull this operation off successfully, it would be a one-way ticket to Seattle. To report directly to the Don and his most trusted men.

A meow sounds from beneath the table as if in agreement, and Christian grins at the small black cat sitting leisurely between his feet, tail swishing back and forth with excitement.

The rest of the team groans.

“Why the fuck is the cat here?” Mitch, the eldest brother, sighs.

“How does it get in the van?” Everett scowls.

“They’re just jealous because you’re damn adorable,” Christian grins, pulling the cat up by the scruff to sit on the table.

“‘Adorable’ isn’t the word,” Mitch snaps. “The freak dodged Max’s bullets like a monkey.”

Max’s eyes are drawn tightly together, as if accepting the challenge, “I won’t miss next time.”

“Don’t you dare,” Christian glares.

“I don’t care where it’s from, get that thing off the table,” Everett throws his hands out to knock the cat off, but the animal only jumps into the air, in a somersault over his hand, before sitting back down and licking its paws.

“Circus freak,” Everett mumbles.

“Be nice,” Christian warns with a growl, before petting the small animal’s head with gentle eyes. “Come on down, Beau. You’re accompanying us again today?”

Beau meows in response, tail still flicking happily as it jumps down from the table and rubs along his leg.

“Like hell it is,” Everett snaps.

“He’s been pretty useful on missions before,” Max mutters quietly.

“It saved Everett’s ass in the last operation,” Mitch smirks and Everett’s ears turn a shade pink under the RV’s ceiling lights.

“Don’t talk nonsense—”

“It sounds like you guys are having fun in there,” Harvey, their last member, interrupts them through the coms from the front of the van, with a sigh. “You always forget to include me in the pep talks. I keep saying we need a driver so I can sit in the back.”

“And I keep telling you Dahlia isn’t paying for a driver when you’ve already got the skills,” Christian says for maybe the thousandth time with fresh amusement, and there’s a pause on the line.

“Then I think I should be paid twice.”

Max and Mitch groan at the repeating conversation.

Harvey is their reliable tech wizard, but much to his word, his driving skills are on another level.

He knows the backstreets, hiding places and shortcuts like the back of his hand.

He leads them in and out of tight spots without a sound or alarm being set off—their constant eyes and ears while they’re on the field.

But like Mitch, he’s always talking nonsense.

“Alright, focus,” Christian pulls them together with a single firm command and within seconds, the atmosphere changes. Until four trained killers are all waiting for their leader’s order, filling the van with a cold almost sharp enough to cut.

“Are we ready to go?” Christian questions.

“We’re ready to go,” the team choruses firmly and Christian looks over his team one last time, meeting each of their eyes. When all he can see is the excitement and bloodlust staring back at him, he nods, satisfied.

“Don’t assume you’re safe because you’re in the van, Harv.” Christian gives his last instruction to the man he leaves behind. “Your focus is on the screens but stay aware of your surroundings.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re moving.” The moment Christian gives the order they’re in motion, like practiced clockwork.

Four men and a quiet black cat stealing through the night.

Christian treads further into the house on light feet. It’s insanely huge, but maybe that’s expected of a man like Geoffrey Nash. He’d been an accredited soldier for the main family before moving out of Seattle to settle here in Portland.

The Taigas had trusted him for many years and never bothered to look into him when they realized someone was skimming from the top, the barest traces of their money going up in smoke every year.

It’d been the work of a ghost. No leads, no explanations, just dead ends and broken trails.

Until suddenly there was a gaping hole where money was supposed to be; the snake was getting bolder, taking more and more.

Then one day, an anonymous call pointed all the fingers at Geoffrey Nash.

The Taigas had missed a snake in their own bed, high up in their ranks. It was a humiliating revelation for what was supposedly the state’s ruling crime family, which is why Christian and his team were sent out to deal with it quickly.

With a controlled breath, Christian darts out from the shadows of the hallway and towards one of the guards.

With Harvey’s help, getting onto the grounds and into the house was easy.

A simple trick with the video feed and no one on the inside would notice any changes.

Christian snaps the guard’s neck, and Mitch drags his dagger along the other’s throat before he can make a sound.

If they can kill this traitor and recover the stolen funds, not only will they get the main family’s attention, they’ll have earned their seats closest to the Taiga clan.

Granted, they love their Boss and all—Dahlia Taiga is a force to be reckoned with on this side of the state—

But Reuben Taiga…

His team is supposedly the best in Seattle.

The thought makes Christian smile to himself.

Because he can’t wait to see exactly which team is better.

Everett and Mitch should be going through the back with their silencers, so Christian nods to Max once and the two of them split up, with Mitch taking the ground floor and any other guards, while he heads up the stairs, towards Nash’s room.

The house is dark and quiet, the silence made only more unnatural by the ticking of the antique clock at the end of the hall, and it makes Christian pause.

His pulse is loud in his ears, louder than it should be, and there’s a vague sense of apprehension tickling his senses.

He’s snuck into more than a handful of houses like this one.

And not once has it ever felt like this.

But Harvey made it clear Nash was here—he should be on the cameras right now, holed up in his room with his favourite cognac after coming home from golf with some of his old connections.

But still, there’s a sinking feeling in his stomach as he treads further into the house.

One that drops to the tips of his toes when he opens Nash’s door.

Empty.

Christian’s pulse spikes, and there’s almost little care for noise as he opens the door beside it, a large office emboldened with expensive furniture and smooth wood.

Because he knows by now it’s a trap.

Fuck.

“He’s not here.” Christian can barely hear himself speak. His voice is a knife through the silence, the only sound breaking the stillness of the night.

“What do you mean he’s not there?” The horror in Harvey’s voice is tangible. “I’m looking at him right now—”

“Harvey, get out of there—” The command is barely out of his mouth when a strange sound snaps through the comms.

“Oh.” There’s a sudden defeat in Harvey’s voice, raw and unfamiliar, and from the other side of the compound, Harvey shuts his eyes tightly.

The spyware is sending a message through his monitors in the RV.

A virtual timer in the form of a white ghost, spamming his displays and counting down his last few seconds.

“Sorry.” He can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Guess second place doesn’t get a re-do, huh?”

An explosion shatters the air and Christian runs to the window, only to see a billow of smoke and flame on the other side of the compound.