Chapter 18
Tonight’s target lives in a high-rise downtown, on the top-floor apartment with security that would intimidate anyone who hadn’t grown up in the shadow of Rockford Holdings.
Victor Serrano.
The name has lived on my list for six months. Aaiden always had reasons we couldn’t touch him. Too connected. Too protected. Too visible.
Avery didn’t hesitate when I put the name forward.
I check my watch as the elevator climbs. Service entrance, maintenance uniform, ID badge cloned from a real employee who called in sick.
Simple.
Clean.
The kind of operation I could plan in my sleep.
My heartbeat remains steady, breathing controlled. No micromanager in my ear asking for status updates. No team waiting to extract me. Just me and the job.
The elevator opens onto the utility floor below the penthouse. I move past the humming machinery, using my stolen keycard to access the maintenance ladder. This is how I’ve always performed best. Like the bullet from a well-oiled gun, trigger pulled and allowed to fly free until I reach my target.
Sure, I’d gotten a little reckless in my vendetta, but some of that recklessness had come from Aaiden’s micromanaging attempts to let me do my job while surrounding me in the bubble wrap of his protection.
It had taken leaving and being allowed to fly free again under Avery’s command to drive home just how much Aaiden’s methods weren’t working for me, no matter where his intentions came from.
The penthouse roof access is supposed to be alarmed, but money breeds carelessness. Serrano’s security relies too much on the front desk and his private elevator. They never expect anyone to come from above.
The night air hits me as I emerge onto the rooftop garden.
Imported trees in massive planters cast shadows deep enough to hide my approach.
Through the glass walls of the penthouse, Victor Serrano holds court in his living room, gesturing with a glass of amber liquid as he speaks to two women in evening wear.
His security detail stands near the entrance to the suite, faces forward, attention on the elevator and front door. Not on the garden doors that open for ventilation on warm summer nights.
I sink into the shadows of a Japanese maple, watching.
Waiting.
This man signed off on the transport that moved me from the initial grab site to the warehouse. His money paid for the cages. The guards. The cameras that recorded when Omegas went into Heat.
The women leave forty minutes later. The security detail escorts them to the elevator, leaving Serrano alone for ninety seconds. More than enough time.
I’m through the garden door and behind him before he registers the change in air current. My hand clamps over his mouth, knife already positioned at the angle needed for a silent kill. One clean thrust upward, behind the ribs, into the heart. His body jerks once, twice, then goes still.
I ease him down to the floor, careful not to let blood spill onto my clothes. His eyes stare upward, already glazing over. I study him, waiting for the satisfaction to hit, for the knot in my chest to loosen a little.
Nothing comes.
The emptiness leaves me frozen next to the body. This was supposed to matter. This name has lived in my head for months, driven me through physical therapy, through nightmares, through the slow crawl back to myself.
The security team’s voices reach me from the hallway.
Time to go.
I exit the same way I came in, wiping prints, resetting the garden door to appear undisturbed. The maintenance ladder takes me back down to the service floor, muscle memory guiding me through the extraction route I planned.
Cautiously, I exit through the loading dock. No sirens yet. No commotion. Security will have discovered the body and be in cleanup mode, wiping anything that could point back to Serrano’s illegal activities before they report the murder.
By then, I’ll be long gone.
I make it three blocks before I sense a shift in the flow of pedestrians around me. A pattern that doesn’t match the random movements of strangers passing each other.
My pace doesn’t change, but my awareness sharpens. I catch a glimpse in a shop window’s reflection. Two men, moving with too much purpose, maintaining distance but keeping pace.
Not police. Not Serrano’s people. They’re too controlled, too patient.
Rockford men. After lying low for a week, I expected it to take them longer to locate me.
I cut through an alley, testing the theory. They adjust course, one continuing past the entrance to the alley while the other circles to the opposite end. Classic pincer movement. Caleb’s favorite.
My stomach tightens as I slip through the back door of a restaurant kitchen, startling a line cook. Through the dining room, past confused waitstaff, out the front entrance. The timing is perfect to catch a city bus right as its doors are closing.
Through the window, I spot one of the men cursing into his comm unit as the bus pulls away.
Four stops later, I exit and enter a crowded hotel lobby, walking straight through to another exit. The service corridors of buildings in this district connect in ways most people never notice.
Three buildings, two alleys, and one rooftop crossing later, I’m confident I’ve lost them.
For now.
I wait in the shadow of an HVAC unit, watching the street below for any sign of pursuit. My breathing remains controlled, but my mind races.
There were still a handful of targets on my hit list, but Aaiden knew who I’d target once I had freedom to move. He predicted this, anticipated my choice, and had men in place waiting for me to make this move.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Raphael and Avery both warned me he would come.
I just hadn’t believed them.
As I enter the safe house, I pause at the clatter of dishes and the murmur of voices from the kitchen.
After six hours of driving random patterns to lose any tail, paranoia still rides me, but beneath that, hunger gnaws at my stomach for the first time in days.
I should go scrub the night from my skin and dispose of my clothes, but the rich pull of garlic and spices wraps around me, dragging me forward before I can retreat to my assigned room.
Avery had moved me again after that first night, bringing me to the location where his inner circle shares a converted warehouse, so I wouldn’t be left alone to reconsider all of my choices and fall into depression.
Meeting Lena, Rico, and Jace had been eye-opening. Avery’s inner circle is his family, all up in their boss’s business, but in a down-to-earth way, the Rockfords never are, with no clear hierarchy outside of the job.
Light spills across the concrete floor in the kitchen, where Jace stands at the industrial stove, his massive back to me as he stirs something in a deep pot. Steam rises around his head and the tattoos on his neck that disappear beneath his tank top.
Rico leans on the counter beside him, a beer bottle dangling from his long fingers, gesturing animatedly as he tells a story I’ve entered halfway through.
Lena perches on a barstool at the island, one combat boot propped on the bottom rung, the other swinging free. Her plate balances on her knee as she picks at the pasta, her brunette hair falling in a curtain that obscures half her face.
Rico spots me and lifts his beer in greeting. “The ghost returns.”
Jace grunts as his giant spoon keeps moving through whatever has my stomach growling loud enough to stop me from heading straight to my room.
Lena tips her chin up at me in greeting, tracking my progress across the kitchen with the careful assessment of someone who trusts very few people. I’ve seen that look before. I wear it myself most days.
“Thought you might be hungry.” Jace lifts the spoon, blows on it, then samples it before reaching for more salt. “Sit.”
It’s not a request. The command reminds me so much of Aaiden that my jaw clenches. But Jace isn’t an Alpha. He’s just a man, skilled in the kitchen, who expects his food to be appreciated.
I slide onto a stool at the island, keeping space between myself and Lena. A plate appears in front of me, sliding across the counter. Steam rises from a mound of pasta coated in red sauce, chunks of sausage, and vegetables scattered throughout.
“Thanks,” I say, sounding rusty.
“Less talking, more eating.” Rico plunks down an unopened soda next to my plate. “You need all the calories you can get if you want to build up more muscle.”
I take a bite, and the world stops.
Flavor explodes across my tongue. Acidic tomato and rich garlic. The bite of chili flakes. Salt and fat from the sausage. It’s so intense I almost choke.
When was the last time food held any flavor?
Months ago, before my capture. Everything since has been ash in my mouth, calories forced down without pleasure or interest. The only other time it came close was when Aaiden was filling my plate, and each bite I took pulled a rumble of approval from him.
I take another bite, bigger this time, chasing the sensation. Heat spreads down my throat and through my chest, warming places that have been cold for too long.
Lena smirks, nudging Jace with her foot. “Look at that. Thought you didn’t eat much.”
“I don’t.” I take another bite, embarrassed at how fast my plate is emptying. “Usually.”
“Well, you’ve found the right place to change that habit.” Rico pushes himself upright to grab another beer from the fridge. “Jace stress-cooks. The more shit goes down, the better we eat.”
Jace snorts. “Better than your coping mechanisms.”
“Hey, my coping mechanisms are top-tier,” Rico protests, popping the cap off his beer using the corner of the counter.
“Sleeping with anything that moves isn’t coping,” Lena counters, scraping the last bit of sauce from her plate. “It’s avoiding.”
“Says the woman who hasn’t gotten laid since the last presidential election.”
Lena flips him off without looking up.