Chapter 25 – BEAU
BEAU
The radiator is cast iron and plumbed into the wall. Bracing my boot against the tile, I pull with everything I have. The pipe groans. The wall cracks. But it holds.
My bear is frantic, vision flickering between human and shifted, the room sharpening to gold at the edges before I drag myself back.
"Beau?" Van calls through the door. "It's been about six minutes."
"Get in here. Keys are on my utility belt. Side pouch."
The door opens. Van finds the belt and crouches beside me.
The second the cuffs click open, I'm on my feet, pulling on a shirt and dropping into the chair in front of his laptop to cycle through the camera angles.
Parking lot’s filling up, a mix of high-end SUVs and beat-up trucks. Warehouse exterior, a couple of heavies flank the main door, men in groups of two or three heading for a side entrance. Inside, the feeds show a cavernous industrial space, stripped back to concrete and steel beams.
A makeshift ring sits in the centre under rigged-up floodlights, surrounded by tiered seating that’s been cobbled together from scaffolding and wooden pallets.
In one corner, fighters are warming up on heavy bags, the dull thud of fists on leather cutting through the noise.
The crowd is already thick, pressed shoulder to shoulder, and even through the grainy feed, the atmosphere reads volatile.
Sawdust on the floor, a haze of cigarette smoke drifting through the floodlights, a bar along the far wall doing brisk trade.
Then the SUV pulls into frame, and my bear hits me so hard, I grip the edge of the desk.
Tripp gets out first, walks around to open the passenger door, then Lisa steps out.
She looks fucking incredible, and my bear loses his mind.
Mine.
The word detonates inside my skull, and my vision whites out for a full second. My bear drives forward with a force that shifts my hands, nails elongating, knuckles cracking, fur rippling across my forearms before I wrench myself back.
"Beau." Van's hand goes to my shoulder. "Stay with me.
" He nods at the screen where a handful of women are filtering toward the entrance, all heels and tight dresses.
"Nobody's bringing their girlfriend to this thing in leggings and a hoodie.
She needs to blend in to stay safe. She's doing it right. "
There are gouges in the desk now, four parallel lines from each hand carved into the laminate. Breathing hard, I grip the arms of the chair and keep my eyes on the screen.
Van pulls his chair up beside mine and puts his earpiece in.
On screen, Lisa tucks her hand into the crook of Tripp's arm, another sight my bear despises, and they walk toward the entrance. A bouncer gives them a once-over, his beady eyes lingering on Lisa’s impressive cleavage a little longer than is gentlemanly.
Tripp says something, the sleazy bouncer grins and nods, then they're through.
His hungry gaze follows her ass as she passes, and when he adjusts his pants, I curse, thumping the desk hard.
“When this is all over, and we have Amber, you can come back and claw his eyes out,” Van assures me.
Inside, the noise bleeds through Tripp's mic. The crowd’s baying for the first fight, music thumping from rigged speakers, the smack of taped fists hitting heavy bags in the warm-up corner.
Lisa and Tripp find a spot at the bar where the camera catches them in profile.
She orders a drink, holds it without sipping, and leans into Tripp while her eyes work the room.
There are two exits visible from their position. One behind the ring, one past the warm-up area. At least four men on the doors. A roped-off section to the right of the ring with better seating, reserved for people who matter. That's where Mr. Black will be, if he's here.
Van's eyes are on his second screen, cross-referencing faces from the feed against his database. "No sign of Dimitri yet."
The first fight starts, and the crowd crushes forward.
Through the mic, the impact of bare fists on flesh is a wet, heavy sound that makes my teeth clench.
Lisa shifts closer to the bar to avoid being swept into the press of bodies, her hand on Tripp’s arm constantly as he makes a few bets and pretends to knock back his beer.
The fights come and go, and the jeering crowd gets louder and drunker. Cash changes hands in thick rolls. Women perch on the laps of men who barely seem to notice them, business and pleasure and the appetite for violence all running together in one room.
"Van." I tap the screen. "VIP section."
There’s a shift in the crowd near the roped-off area.
Men straighten up, conversations pausing mid-sentence, and every set of eyes swings toward the rear entrance.
Three heavies come through first, scanning the room, positioning themselves before their boss appears.
Then a fourth holds the rope aside, and a man walks through with unhurried confidence, nodding at the men who greet him as he passes.
Silver-haired and tanned, he's tall but not that big. He’s not physically imposing like his security guards, but the way the crowd parts for him, how every head in the VIP section turns, says everything about how respected and feared he is.
A young woman, blonde, late-twenties at most, is draped on his arm, and he ushers her past the rope first.
Behind them, trailing a few steps back like she'd rather be anywhere else, is another woman. Younger, dark-haired, gorgeous but understated, she’s dressed in black jeans and a pale silk blouse, an expensive purse tucked under her arm, but no bling and natural makeup.
She sits down obediently beside her father, and her eyes go straight past the men already falling over themselves to shake his hand, and hers, before fixing on the door at the back of the warehouse where the rest of the fighters are waiting for their turn in the ring.
Van zooms in, pulls up a file on his second screen, and nods. "Confirmed. Arlo Black, the new Mrs. Black. And Sophia Black, his daughter, twenty-three."
As the main card is announced, the energy in the warehouse shifts, the atmosphere buzzing with anticipation. Bigger money starts moving now, and the men in the VIP section lean forward. This is what they came for.
Then the announcer's voice cuts through the speakers, distorted and booming.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the Main event.
" He pauses, letting the noise swell, the stomping and whistling building until the floor shakes.
"Tonight, we have a real treat for you. First up, brought here straight after completing his stretch in a maximum-security prison, and his first foray back into polite society, The Jailer.”
Covered in tattoos, head bald and a manic look in his eyes, a giant brawler of a man ducks under the ropes and shadow boxes his way across the ring.
“And his opponent… you know who's coming, you know what happens next." The roof nearly lifts off the venue as the crowd erupts. "Still undefeated, still absolutely terrifying, it’s THE BEAST."
The chorus of cheers and boos is deafening and split roughly down the middle as the door opens, and a massive figure emerges, ducking his head to walk through.
He's huge. Even on the grainy feed, the size of him is staggering.
A loose sleeveless hoodie covers his upper body, hood pulled up to hide his face but does nothing to disguise his immense size.
His hands are taped, hanging loosely at his sides, and he walks with the slow, rolling gait of a man who knows exactly what he's about to do while enjoying taking his time.
In the VIP section, Sophia Black sits forward in her chair, hands clasped tightly together.
The fighter reaches the ring, steps through the ropes without any fuss, and stretches his neck from side to side. The crowd noise builds, boos and cheers echoing off the walls, and the stomping of feet that shakes the camera feed.
Van continues to tap on the keys, letting his programs work their magic, scanning for Dimitri or his known associates, looking for any trouble.
But I can’t stop staring at the screen, breath caught in my throat as the fighter pulls his hood back.
"Beau..." Lisa's voice through the earpiece is barely a whisper. "That's… that has to be a Lennox."
Blinking hard, I nod as Van twists in his chair to see my reaction.
"My brother. Caleb," I whisper.
Van waits for more, but the question he's not asking hangs in the air between us: Whether this changes things and if I'm about to blow this whole operation to go and get the little brother we’ve been trying to find from that ring.
“It doesn't change anything. Caleb can look after himself. Amber is the priority.”
“Got it,” Lisa confirms, but Van’s lips press into a thin line.
He knows it’s not that simple.