Chapter 4
Connor
“Why the hell did Mr. G pick me for this damn job?” I mutter, unimpressed and already feeling like Luke is going to be a problem.
The West Quay sun is a relentless bastard, baking the boulevard in a haze of heat that makes the air shimmer.
I keep my distance from Luke, my eyes scanning the crowd as the boy strides toward some seedy bar a few blocks from the cafe.
One meeting down, another coming up.
Luke’s backpack bounces with each step, and he’s got that determined look, the one that says he’s chasing a story and nothing’s gonna stop him. Not even me.
But I’m not here to stop him.
I’m here to keep him alive.
And I’m really starting to wish that the boy could get that into his head sooner rather than later.
I sip my bottled water, then adjust my sunglasses, keeping Luke in my peripheral vision. He’s moving fast, his sweet ass tight but flexing just a little, and I can tell he’s trying to lose me.
Good luck with that, Little Scoop…
I’ve been tailing targets since he was probably still in high school, dreaming of whatever the hell Littles dream of.
That guy I clocked outside the café—dark jacket, too still, too watchful—isn’t some random asshole. He’s got the look of hired muscle, someone who knows how to move without drawing attention. He’s not official city security either, everything about him reeks of criminal activity.
I spotted him again on the walk here, lingering across the street, his eyes locked on Luke. He’s in deep, way more than he realizes, and his reckless streak is gonna get him in trouble if I don’t stay sharp.
I keep a good twenty feet between me and Luke. Close enough to intervene, far enough to stay discreet. He’s weaving through the bustle, his phone out, probably cursing Google Maps again.
I smirk despite myself.
The boy’s got no sense of direction, but damn if he doesn’t make up for it with guts.
As I walk, I decide to keep my mind on the game, see if I can play my part beyond simply overseeing the boy. I tough my earpiece, and Mr. G’s voice comes through, low and steady, feeding me more intel on Luke’s target, Senator Haynes…
Haynes’s got himself involved with some serious players.
I know you have cartel experience. You know how it works.
Extreme caution, leave nothing to chance.
What we’re still trying to figure is whether Haynes sees himself as playing the cartel, or whether they’re threatening him to do their bidding.
Either way, the client needs to be kept out of the crossfire…
“Understood,” I mutter to myself, my voice barely audible over the street noise.
I don’t need Mr. G to tell me this is a shitstorm waiting to happen. Haynes’s a smooth-talking senator with a smile that could charm a snake, but I’ve seen his type before…
Power-hungry, dirty as hell, and backed by people who’d rather bury a problem than solve it. Luke’s got his nose in it, and that text he got—I know he got one, I saw him flinch at his phone—means someone’s already onto him.
He veers off the main boulevard, cutting down a side alley.
My jaw tightens.
Bad move, Luke.
This part of West Quay’s got a reputation—yachts and mansions on one side, dive bars and shady deals on the other.
I pick up my pace, my boots silent on the pavement, and follow him into the alley. The walls are graffitied, the vibe is scuzzy, and I already feel like I’m surrounded by rats…
I pause at the alley’s mouth, scanning for the guy in the dark jacket. He’s there, across the street, pretending to check his phone.
Amateur.
His posture’s too stiff, his eyes too focused. This doesn’t look like cartel to me, but that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous. Far from it, in fact. I clock his build—six-foot, maybe two hundred pounds, carrying a piece under his jacket, judging by the way his left arm hangs.
He’s not alone either.
Another guy, shorter, with a baseball cap pulled low, is lingering near a dumpster further down.
Two on Luke’s tail, and he’s got no clue...
My Daddy instincts flare, that protective urge I’ve been shoving down since I saw him in the hotel lobby. Luke’s always been a firecracker, all sass and spark, but he’s also a Little, and that part of him makes me want to scoop him up and lock him somewhere safe.
Not that he’d let me.
He’d probably kick me in the shins, call me bossypants again, push and provoke me until his briefs were around his ankles and I was making his cheeks wobble with the flat of my palm until I’m satisfied that he’s learned some damn respect.
Fuck. Keep your mind on the job, Connor…
I shake off the thought and focus. Luke’s almost at the bar, a dive called The Rusty Anchor, its sign half-burned out.
I slip into the side alley, sticking to the shadows, and position myself near a stack of crates where I can see the entrance.
Luke pushes through the door, his backpack bouncing, and I settle in to wait.
My job’s to watch, not interfere—unless he’s in immediate danger.
But the way those two guys are moving, closing in on the bar, tells me I might not have long to play spectator…
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I glance at it. A text from Cole:
COLE: Haynes has got a rap sheet longer than my arm, but it’s buried deep. Cartel’s involved, no question. Watch your six, man.
I grunt, pocketing the phone.
Cole’s intel is always solid, but it’s not telling me anything I didn’t already suspect. What I need is to know what Luke’s holding back. He’s got something—evidence, maybe—that he’s not sharing. I saw it in his eyes at the café, the way he deflected when I got too close to his game plan.
The bar door swings open, and a drunk stumbles out, muttering to himself. If only he was the worst of our problems we’d be on easy street. But that’s not the reality of what we’re looking at sadly.
I use the distraction to shift closer, leaning against the wall like I’m just another guy waiting for a ride. The guy in the dark jacket’s still across the street, but the baseball cap guy is gone.
Shit. I scan the alley, my senses on high alert, and spot him circling around the back of the bar. They’re boxing him in.
My earpiece crackles again, a call from Mr. G this time…
“Connor, you got eyes on him?” Mr. G’s voice is clipped, urgent.
“Affirmative,” I reply, my voice low. “Two bogeys, one front, one circling back. Possible threat.”
“Neutralize if necessary, but keep it clean,” Mr. G says. “We don’t need a mess in West Quay.”
“Copy that.”
I ease off the wall, my hand brushing the concealed Glock at my hip. I don’t draw unless I have to, but my gut’s screaming that this is about to go sideways.
Inside the bar, through the grimy window, I see Luke at a booth, talking to some guy—his source. He’s got a whiskey in hand, his face pale, like he’s seen a ghost.
Luke’s leaning in, all business, but I can tell he’s on edge, his eyes darting to the door every few seconds.
Good.
At least he’s got some instincts.
The guy in the dark jacket starts crossing the street, his pace deliberate. My muscles tense, ready to move, but I hold back. If I barge in now, I’ll blow his cover for sure, and he’ll never forgive me. But if I wait too long, he’s a sitting duck.
Then it happens.
A shadow moves fast outside the window—baseball cap, slipping around the side of the bar. I’m moving before I think, my boots hitting the pavement as I sprint toward the back entrance. If they’re planning an ambush, they’re not getting the drop on him.
Not on my watch.
I round the corner, my hand on my Glock, and catch baseball cap prying open the bar’s back door with a crowbar. He freezes when he sees me, his eyes wide, but he’s quick, dropping the crowbar and reaching for his waistband.
I don’t give him the chance to do anything else.
I close the distance in two strides, grab his wrist, and twist, hearing the snap of bone before he can scream. The thug drops, clutching his arm, and I kick his gun under a dumpster.
“Stay down unless you want me to snap that neck right here and now,” I growl, zip-tying his wrists with a tie from my pocket. He’s not going anywhere, but his buddy’s still out front, and I need to move.
I slip back to the front of the bar, my heart pounding but my focus razor-sharp.
Dark jacket’s gone, but I spot him through the window, inside now, heading toward Luke’s booth.
Shit.
He’s still talking to his source, oblivious, his recorder probably catching every word. I push through the door, keeping my movements casual, but I know we’re running low on time. Something is about to go down, and I need to protect Luke at all costs.
A quick back and forth and we’re outside, the boy unimpressed but seemingly now a little more aware of the severity of the situation. He might not like my way of doing things, but Luke definitely knows he’s in choppy waters right now.
“Stay alert,” I growl.
The alley’s quiet, too quiet, and I spot movement in the shadows—a third guy, stepping out from behind a dumpster. My instincts scream, and I’m moving before I think, closing the distance to Luke in three strides.
“Stay close,” I bark, my hand on his arm, steady and warm.
Luke freezes, his eyes wide, but for once, he doesn’t argue. The guy in the shadows hesitates, then melts back into the darkness, like he knows I’ve clocked him. Dark jacket’s still behind us, but he’s keeping his distance now, wary.
Luke’s heart is pounding—I can feel it through his arm—and I know he’s spooked, even if he won’t admit it.
“Move,” I say, guiding him toward the main boulevard, my senses on high alert.
Luke’s clutching his backpack like it’s a lifeline, and I know he’s hiding something—something big.
But for now, my job is to get him out of this alley and somewhere safe.
And when we’re clear, me and the boy are gonna have a serious talk about what he’s not telling me.
Because if this Little journalist thinks he can keep secrets from a Daddy Guard, he’s got another thing coming…