Chapter Ten
Pace
It’s just after midnight.
Jude is home asleep.
I stood over him before I left, watching him curled up in the middle of his nest. Blankets piled around him.
One of my shirts twisted in his hand. I made sure the windows were locked and the alarm was set before I left.
I told him I picked up a security gig tonight and that I would be back before morning.
He tried to act calm about it, but I felt the tension sitting under his skin through the bond.
Ever since Marcus stood in my living room and tried to drag him out by force, Jude has been on edge. He checks the locks all the time, and he keeps the curtains closed. He wakes up some nights and presses himself into my chest like he is making sure I am still there.
He is scared his father will kidnap him or that he’ll kill me.
But neither is happening.
I stand across the street now, looking up at the building in front of me. It rises high into the night sky, all glass and steel, lit from within by a few office lights that people forgot to turn off. The name “Thorne Enterprises” is plastered over the entrance in cold, silver letters.
Tipping my head all the way, I see the light along the very top floor flicker off, and I move my feet.
Time to get to work.
I pull my hoodie lower over my head and adjust the brim of the baseball cap underneath it. My face stays shadowed. I keep my posture relaxed and my pace steady as I walk toward the parking garage next to the building.
The garage is mostly empty at this hour, but there are a few cars scattered across some of the levels. The concrete smells like oil and damp dust. My boots make a low echo as I move toward the stairwell door.
I open it and step inside.
The air in the stairwell is stale and cooler than the garage. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. I pause on the first landing and look up into each corner.
No cameras.
I can’t help but roll my eyes at the stupid shit companies do to save money. If they just put a few cameras in the staircases, they’d be able to solve hundreds of cases, but men like Marcus Thorne are too cheap and stupid to think that far ahead.
I start down the stairs at a controlled pace, keeping my steps light and even. The sound of my boots blends into the hum of the building. I move quickly but not recklessly, taking each flight without rushing.
By the time I reach the basement level, the air smells different. There is a faint metallic tang mixed with warm dust and old wiring.
I push through the basement door and step into a narrow service corridor. The walls are unfinished concrete. Exposed pipes run along the ceiling. At the far end, there is a gray utility door with no label.
I pull on the leather gloves from my pocket before I crouch in front of it.
The handle is cool and slightly worn. I take out a slim pick set and insert the tension wrench into the bottom of the lock. The mechanism is simple. I apply steady pressure and feel for each pin in turn, lifting them carefully until they set.
There are faint footsteps somewhere above me, likely several floors up. The vibration travels through the structure of the building, but it’s distant enough that I don’t need to panic.
The final pin clicks into place.
I turn the wrench, and the lock gives.
I pocket the tools and ease the door open slowly so the hinges don't squeal, then I step inside. The utility room is small, dark, and warm. Electrical panels line one wall. The air smells like heated plastic and dust.
In the back corner, behind a waist-high barrier, several server racks stand in a row. Small indicator lights blink in steady patterns. Cooling fans whir constantly, filling the room with a low mechanical noise.
I pull a folded piece of paper from my back pocket and unfold it. The server designation and rack number are written clearly. I scan the labels along the side of each unit until I find the correct one.
Once I confirm the number, I kneel and release the side panel with a controlled press.
The metal cover swings open, exposing the internal components.
Then, I grip the motherboard firmly at both edges and disconnect it with one solid jerk.
The cables detach, and the plastic cracks as I slide the board out in one smooth motion.
The fans continue spinning for a few seconds before the system powers down.
The lights on that rack go dark. Someone is bound to notice, but they won’t be here for at least an hour. I’ve spent the last week testing the on-site response time, and this building is a fucking joke when it comes to security.
I reach back into the open server and pull the RAM and two processors free, then I slide them into the inside pocket of my hoodie. I scuff the interior with the edge of my pocket knife and leave the panel hanging loose so it looks rushed.
Then I move on to the next server, popping open the side panel and repeating the process. I grab another set of RAM and processors, tucking them away securely. I make sure to leave each server in a state of disarray, panels hanging and cables dangling, to sell the illusion of a botched robbery.
A simple break-in.
Then I check my watch.
Right on time.
I close the utility room door behind me and head back into the stairwell.
It’s darker on the way up. Only every other light seems to be working. My boots echo sharply against the concrete as I take the steps two at a time. I move fast but controlled, breathing steady. Years of this kind of work have trained my body to stay calm under pressure.
By the time I reach the fifth floor, I slow.
Marcus always parks on five.
I push the stairwell door open just enough to slip through and catch it before it slams. The parking level is dim, shadows stretching long between concrete pillars. There’s only one car on this level.
A black luxury sedan.
Polished, expensive, and very obnoxious.
I edge along the perimeter wall, keeping to the darker side of the structure. My eyes flicker to the camera mounted above the space directly across from Marcus’s car.
The tiny red indicator light is off.
Good.
That confirms I dismantled the right server.
An elevator dings somewhere behind the row of concrete columns, and I flatten myself into the shadows about twenty feet from the car and wait.
The double doors on the far side of the garage shove open.
Marcus steps out, phone pressed to his ear, voice already raised.
“What are my options?” he barks. “No, that’s not good enough.”
He strides toward his car, fumbling in his pocket for his keys.
“Then fucking take care of it!” he roars into the phone.
I stay perfectly still.
He keeps walking.
“I will not lose this deal with Sterling Tech,” he snaps. “Bruce is being more than accommodating. He’s still willing to mate the boy as long as he isn’t with-child. And if he is, we’ll take care of it.”
Take care of it?
A cold, black rage washes over me, so potent it’s a struggle to stay in control.
This motherfucker is planning to kill my baby. Our baby.
I see red, a haze of fury that threatens to consume me. I force it down, channeling it, focusing it into the single point of the man in front of me.
“That’s fine,” Marcus growls as he stops next to his car. “We can go over the specifics tomorrow.” Then he hangs up.
Rage pounds in my veins as I watch this asshole just stand there for a second, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He sucks in a quick breath, then clicks his car fob.
The headlights flash.
I move.
I close the distance between us with lightning speed, boots silent against the concrete. Before Marcus can turn fully, I grab his collar and slam him hard into the side of the car. The metal dents with a sharp thud.
“What the—”
He swings at me, but I block it and drive my fist straight into his face. Bone crunches under my knuckles, and blood spills instantly.
Marcus stumbles.
Before he regains his footing, I hook my arm around his throat and wrench him backward, kicking at the back of his knee. The fucker drops hard onto the concrete, but I’m on him before he can recover.
I grab the asshole by the hair and slam his face into the ground once. Twice.
He thrashes hard on the second hit and manages to twist under me, shoving at my chest with both hands. I let the momentum carry me back a step instead of fighting it, boots sliding slightly on the concrete as I reset my stance.
Marcus rolls onto his side and pushes himself up slowly. One hand stays braced on the floor while the other presses against his ribs like he’s checking for damage. His movements are stiff and uneven, clearly hurt.
I stay where I am.
My fists curl tight, shoulders squared, weight balanced on the balls of my feet. Ready.
Marcus finally gets upright, then he slowly turns and faces me. Blood runs freely from his broken nose, streaking over his lips and dripping down onto his collar. One eye is already swelling, the skin around it darkening fast. His expensive suit jacket is smeared with red and concrete dust.
His expression shifts the second he really looks at me.
Recognition settles in.
He laughs. “You’re so fucking stupid,” he says through blood. It coats his teeth. “You think you’ll get away with attacking me?” He spits blood to the side. “There are cameras everywhere.”
I don’t react.
He thinks I work security at local bars and bounce drunks. He thinks this is well outside my skill set. Good. Let him think that.
“I don’t care about getting away with shit,” I tell him calmly. “I care about you never coming near Jude again.” I pull the gun from my belt, the metal cool and heavy in my hand, the weight a little awkward because of the silencer screwed onto the end. Then I point it right at Marcus’s face.
I see his throat work as he swallows hard, all the cockiness draining from the fucker’s face.
“Wait,” he says as he slowly raises his hands in defense. “Let's not rush things here. This can be smoothed over,” he says quickly. “You want money? Name your price.”
“You couldn’t fucking afford me,” I say, playing with the fucker.
He laughs again, shaky but arrogant, despite the fact that his hands are still raised in surrender. “Try me.” He looks me square in the eyes, clearly confident he can get out of this. “What will make you go away?” he demands.
“Go away?” I repeat, then cock the trigger.
Marcus tenses at that, but he doesn’t back down.
“What I want,” I say slowly, making sure he hears every word, “is for you to feel every ounce of fear and pain you’ve inflicted on Jude.” My voice is dangerously quiet. “But there’s no way for a monster like you to ever feel that kind of pain. So I’ll settle for death.”
His eyes go wide, and he opens his mouth, but before he can get a word out, I shoot.
The sound is a dull, metallic phut that’s swallowed by the cavernous garage. The recoil is a familiar kick against my palm. A splatter of blood and brains hits the luxury car’s driver-side door as the bullet enters right over his right eye.
Then the asshole falls over dead without making a single sound.
I calmly push the gun into my pocket, take out a folded piece of paper I typed up earlier, and slip it into the breast pocket of Marcus’s expensive suit.
Then I turn, ready to get home to my mate.