Chapter 42
ABOUT A WEEK LATER
Cillian and I spent the day visiting our businesses and making sure all the strip clubs are still running smoothly with the new mixed-family management. I dropped him at a restaurant down the block to grab takeout for him and Nikolai.
The second I step from my G-Class in the parking garage, I can feel it.
Someone is watching . My eyes dart between cars—and occasionally over my shoulder—as I walk toward the elevator bank.
I tread past a black Suburban parked in the shadows, and something about it doesn’t feel right.
I glance at the plate and my stomach drops.
It’s the same one Hawk noticed circling the building five nights ago.
My gaze rises over the hood, and even in the dimly lit interior, I spot the man in the backseat. He looks up and our eyes meet—both of us immediately realizing we’re fucked. My heart rate skyrockets.
I race toward the driver’s door as he clamors over the center console to get behind the wheel, yanking it open before he can turn over the engine.
As I pull him from the driver’s seat by the lapels of his jacket, he throws wild fists.
A solid punch lands against my jaw, and I grunt in pain as I throw him to the concrete.
He scrambles to get to his feet while reaching for his waistband—for a gun I didn’t notice at first.
Driving at him with the full weight of my body, we hit the side of the Suburban with a loud thud, denting the rear panel as I tackle him against it.
The impact causes him to drop his gun, and it clatters against the ground at our feet.
With my forearm shoved into his throat, I pin him to the side of the SUV with the full weight of my body and grit, “What the fuck do you want?”
He stares back at me with dark, cold eyes, not a word passing over his lips. I shove into him again—any harder and I’ll likely collapse his windpipe—and pull my gun from the waistband at the back of my pants. He grunts when I jam the muzzle into his gut.
“Who the fuck are working for?” I snarl, painfully grinding the gun into his stomach .
His expression is stoic, and his eyes are full of conviction as he stares back at me, unwaveringly. “Fucking kill me,” he spits, unable to hide the tinge of Armenian accent.
Fuck this…
“By the time I’m done, you’ll be wishing I had,” I snarl, yanking him from the side of the SUV and shoving him forward.
Fisting the back of his jacket, I walk him the length of the garage toward the elevator with my gun pressed firmly against the nape of his neck.
If he won’t talk here, he will in the basement. Everyone talks in the basement.
The musty dampness and heating oil smells of the basement fill the elevator the second the doors open.
Jagger is at the rear wall, his back toward us, his sleeves rolled up and headphones on, cleaning a weapon.
He doesn’t flinch when I shove the man out of the cab and drag him deeper into the cool space.
“Sit,” I bark, throwing him onto a metal chair in the middle of the room, causing the legs to screech against the concrete. Jagger spins around at the sound, his hand pulling his sidearm from his hip with Wild West quickdraw speed.
“Jesus. That’s how you get fucking shot!” he exclaims, lowering the pistol and slipping the headphones down until they’re resting around his neck. His eyes roam over the man in the chair between us. “Who the fuck is this?”
“Don’t know yet.” Jagger hands me a few zip ties, and I bind the man’s hands behind the chair and his feet to the legs. “Found him in the garage. Black SUV. Same plates as the one Hawk kept spotting. ”
Jagger yanks the headphones off and tosses them with his rag onto the workbench and strides over, his eyes sharp with intrigue. “Anyone with him?”
“Didn’t see anyone else. But that doesn’t mean he’s alone.”
The man shifts in the chair, testing the restraints. He eyes us both—me standing over him and Jagger circling like a wolf about to pounce.
“I know you’ve been watching us,” I inform him. “Just know that this will go a whole lot easier for you if you explain why you’ve been spending so much time outside our building. And exactly what it is you’re planning.”
Nothing from him—not even a twitch.
Jagger throws a punch, and blood spews from the man’s mouth. Without hesitation, a second lands just beneath his eye. He grumbles something in Armenian and Jagger chuckles. “Armenian. That narrows things.”
Not holding anything back, Jagger plunges a fist into the man’s gut—forcing every bit of air from his lungs. He chokes and sucks in desperately as another fist rattles his jaw, but still… nothing.
Jagger leans on his workbench, arms crossed, waiting impatiently to swing at him. I crouch in front of him, meeting his stare and holding it. “We know you’re not working alone. So, here’s your shot. You talk now, maybe you’ll walk out of here.”
The man’s breath wheezes between split lips, a rattling sound that’s half pain, half spite. Blood mats the edges of his beard, and one eye is already swelling shut. He spits, blood splattering onto the floor, and licks the remnants from his lip as a Cheshire Cat smile spreads across his face.
“You’re already too late,” he grumbles with condescension, his eyes flicking between me and the clock on the wall.
Confused, I tilt my head as my brows furrow. “Too late for what?”
He gives a faint, humorless laugh. “We aren’t playing the same game. You’ve fallen moves behind,” he rambles smugly. “We’re not waiting outside anymore.”
Jagger’s face tightens as he steps closer. “You saying you’ve got people inside?”
He nods once. “Inside your lives. Your routines. Your secrets. You think you’ve got control?” he scoffs, his accent growing deeper. “We’ve been watching. Listening. Waiting.”
His words cause my stomach to knot. “What do you mean, you’ve been watching?” I ask. “And listening?”
“Your little messages to your princess?” he sneers, a sick grin curling one side of his busted mouth.
“Every word. Every time stamp. We read them before she did. We know everything. You thought you were protecting her. But the Monte Melkonian Cyber Army”—he laughs, then winces—“they’re smarter than you. ”
Eavan.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and the cold shiver that follows slices through my thoughts .
“How long?” I grit, barely able to push the words past my clenched jaw. He doesn’t answer right away, but the shit-eating look of victory on his face is more than enough to help me piece it together.
The glitching phone.
“Long enough. We cloned your phone a couple of weeks ago when you met with Narek.” I should’ve noticed, and his tone only drives the fact home. One of us should’ve noticed. I step back and drag my hands down my face, my thoughts already spiraling. What do they know?
“My vision is a little blurry,” he informs before suddenly asking, “What time is it?”
“What the fuck does it matter what time it is?” I bark.
Jagger, silent until now, glances at the clock hanging on the wall behind us and hesitantly answers his question. “Three seventeen.”
The man scoffs arrogantly, like he knows something we don’t. “You’re already too late.”
Eavan…