Chapter Ten #2
I smirk. “Good. Swing back here. We’ve got an additional problem.”
“Location?” Emerson asks.
I glance at the house. “Suburban hideaway on Willowcrest. Third house on the left. Quiet. Too quiet. Park a block away. I’ve dropped our location.”
“On our way,” Ronan says.
Berk doesn’t bother looking up as she scrolls, her thumb moving fast. “His name is Matthew Riker. Thirty-nine. Former Army Recon. Lives alone. Eight years at this address. No spouse, no kids, no criminal record. Works private security for a shipping company that is… Horizon Logistics.”
My eyebrows jump before I can stop them. “Horizon Logistics. Seriously?”
She just keeps typing.
I let out a low whistle under my breath. “They kept this one completely off our radar,” I mutter, half to myself, half to the universe. “Slippery sons of bitches.”
“Definitely.” She scrolls again, her mouth tightening. “He has enough combat training to be dangerous, but nothing in his public profile screams dirty. Which usually means they’ve scrubbed him clean.”
I glance back at the house. “So, he’s buried deep.”
She finally meets my eyes. “Most likely. If he’s handling drops to Jory, he’s not a minor player—but he’s not their right hand, either. An in-between. Middleman, maybe.”
There’s something in her tone—cold, certain—that twists in my chest. She’s sharpening again. Coming online in a way that terrifies the men who raised us.
Emerson’s voice crackles softly through the comm in my ear, steady and controlled. “We’re set. Move when you’re ready. Two blocks south, then one west.”
We’ve got what we came for—for now. Berk slips her phone into her pocket, and I give the quiet suburban street one last scan.
No neighbors peering through blinds, no bored dog walkers lingering, no engines idling too long.
Just the hum of daytime stillness and the sharp, damp bite of over-watered lawns.
I lace my fingers with hers and tug her close, letting our bodies fall into the peaceful rhythm of a couple wrapped up in each other.
It’s not exactly acting. Not for us. Her hand slides up my chest, my arm drapes around her waist, and we stroll down the sidewalk like we don’t have blood on our hands and vengeance in our souls.
No one looks twice. If anyone’s watching at all, we’re just two lovers heading home. But beneath the surface, we’re already vanishing—two predators slipping back into cover.
When we reach the van, Ronan leans over from the driver’s seat with a nod, and Emerson looks back with that expression he gets when he’s already playing out a fight three steps ahead like a chess match.
Before I climb in, I ask quietly, “You good?”
Berk’s jaw shifts, her expression closed off for a beat. Then she nods. “I’m fine. Just calculating.”
We slip into the van, the doors closing with muted thuds.
“They can’t hide behind go-betweens forever,” Emerson says. “Eventually one of these assholes is going to slip.”
“They already did,” Berk counters, lifting her phone. “Riker led us straight to his house on his first run. He’s either cocky or stupid. Either way, he’s useful.”
Ronan starts the engine, pulling us away from the curb. “What’s the plan, Pix?”
Her eyes stay glued to her screen, voice cool as ice. “First, we go home. I need full access to dig deeper into Riker’s financials, employment, and personal contacts. Once I find the gaps—and there will be gaps—we grab him.”
I nod. “And then we make him talk.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. “We don’t have time to sit on this for days. Kimber doesn’t have days.”
Silence fills the cab for a long breath before Ronan says what we’re all thinking. “Then tonight… he bleeds.”
Berk exhales slowly, steady and sure, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. “Tonight,” she repeats.
Hours bleed together as we unpack Matthew Riker’s life piece by piece.
Berk works like a machine built from rage and brilliance, leaning toward the screen as line after line of data scrolls past her eyes.
Every few minutes she murmurs something under her breath, a curse or a triumphant “there you are,” and each one draws us a little closer to the truth.
By evening, she’s mapped his entire world. Eight years in that quiet little house, a spotless military record in Recon, steady security work afterward, no family, no close friends, nothing remarkable on the surface. A man who disappears into the background so completely he feels built for it.
But the money—that’s where the truth turns foul.
Horizon Logistics payments start small. Clean.
Almost harmless. Side-job numbers. Then they scale up—slow at first, the kind that slide past alarms unless you’re paying close attention.
Berk was. Now, the recent deposits tell a different story.
Bribes layered over blood money. Thirty grand here. Fifty there. Even more last week.
Ronan whistles low under his breath. “He’s definitely in deep.”
Emerson crosses his arms, jaw ticking. “Deep enough that he’s seen things he shouldn’t.”
“And deep enough to talk,” I add, pushing back from the table. “With the right persuasion.”
We all know what that means, and none of us flinch.
Bringing him here isn’t an option. Not to the safe house.
Not to any location tied to us or to Berk’s network.
Too many people have already suffered because of Dean and Bryce.
We won’t risk adding more names to that list. So, the van becomes our temporary black site—steel, shadows, restraints already waiting.
Emerson loads extra ties and gags. Ronan tests one of the new cuffs until it creaks. I check the doors, making sure the reinforcement bars are still holding strong. The place smells like gun oil and vengeance—sharp, metallic, and ready.
Berk wipes down each of her knives one by one, her grin sharpening with each gleam of polished steel. She’s humming again. A soft tune. Almost playful. It’s her hunting song, and it curls heat deep in my stomach.
Ronan catches her smile and bumps her shoulder. “You ready to make someone bleed?”
She kisses one of her blades—actually kisses it—and says, “I’ve been ready for days.”
We move back through a maze of alleyways and side streets, keeping clear of cameras and predictable paths.
By the time we slip into Riker’s neighborhood again, the sky has faded to the color of dying embers.
Everything is quiet. Too quiet. It’s the kind of street where people keep their heads down and pretend the fractures don’t exist.
But we see all of it.
Berk’s voice is soft when she says, “He hasn’t left since we tailed him. Cameras show zero movement outside the house. He’s in there. Alone.”
We park three houses down. Engine off. Lights cut.
Ronan cracks his knuckles. Emerson pulls his hood up. I check the edge on my knife, feeling the weight of the night settle into my bones. Berk slides the van door open and the cool dusk air rushes in, carrying with it the scent of cut grass and the faint hum of distant traffic.
We step out as one.
No hesitation. No fear. No mercy.
The moment our boots hit the pavement, the van behind us becomes a shadow. The street becomes a hunting ground.
We move toward Riker’s house, silent and focused, every step a promise.
Tonight, someone is going to tell us where she is, and if they don’t…well, Berk did bring her knives.
Berk moves first, slipping into character like she’s shrugging on a second skin.
From our place in the shadows halfway down the block, she might as well be a stranger.
Shoulders rounded. Steps light and hesitant.
Hair partially shielding her face. A damsel wrapped in vulnerability instead of the lethal, razor-edged woman she actually is.
I hate it.
But she’s good—too good—and that’s why she’s the one knocking on Matthew Riker’s door while we stay out of sight.
Her knuckles rap against the wood. Soft. Uncertain. Perfectly docile.
The porch light flickers overhead, buzzing faintly.
The street is quiet enough to hear the tick of a sprinkler down the block.
My brothers and I hold our breath without realizing it.
Emerson is coiled beside me, tight as a sprung trap.
Ronan’s fists flex at his sides, both of them humming with the same tension wired through my body.
The door opens.
Riker fills the frame, a thick slab of ex-military bulk, jaw lined with old stubble, eyes sharp but dulled at the edges from too many lonely nights and too much cheap whiskey. He looks like a man who takes orders for money and pretends he doesn’t notice the blood on them. A functional monster.
“Yeah?” His voice is gravel and impatient.
Berk blinks up at him, breathy and frail.
“Hi.” She gives a shaky laugh, hugging her arms to her chest like she’s cold.
“I’m so sorry, I… my car broke down and then my phone died and I tried knocking next door and—” she gestures vaguely toward a house where no one is home “—I’m just stuck, and I don’t know what to do… ”
Riker’s expression changes instantly. Not kindness. Hunger. An opportunity for a lurking predator.
It’s the look men like him get when the universe hands them exactly what their sick little minds crave.
“Sure,” he says, smoothing his voice like he’s trying to sound gentlemanly. “Sure. Come on in. I’ve got a phone you can use. And if that doesn’t work out, I can drive you. No trouble at all.”
She sniffles, nodding, her lower lip trembling just enough to sell the role. “That would be amazing. Thank you so much.”
She steps into the house.
My vision tunnels.
Emerson mutters, jaw tight. “If he touches her, I swear—”
“He won’t,” Ronan cuts in, though the way his fingers twitch says he’s seconds from charging the door.
I stay silent because the rage sits too high in my throat. I don’t trust my voice not to shake. Berk’s breathing filters through the comm, light, careful—her way of telling us she’s fine. She knows exactly how on edge we are.
Inside, the conversation continues.