Chapter 9
The bass line from Foundation burrows into my bones as I adjust the earpiece in my left ear and move toward my post, scanning the early crowd.
After setting the bait for Diaz, Gabriel and I returned to my apartment, where he made phone calls to dig up information on Darrow while I got ready for work.
What he found wasn’t good for us.
Gregory Darrow is ex-military turned private security. On paper, he’s an asset protection consultant for shipping companies. Off paper, according to Gabriel, he runs interference for black market operations.
Gabriel was still trying to find a picture of the man when I needed to head into work, so I had brought him with me and placed him in the VIP section, with much speculation from my coworkers.
Marcus sidles up to me. “Couldn’t you have held out another week?”
My jaw clenches tight enough to crack teeth. “Fuck off. It’s not like that.”
“I’m starting to think you’re protesting a little too much.” He claps me on the shoulder as he passes, a stinging slap I don’t flinch from. “Rox is crowing her victory, so expect to hear from her tonight.”
I shove him away and settle into my position near the entrance, back to the wall, arms crossed over my chest. The music pulses, lights flashing as I scan the crowd, like any other night.
But it’s not any other night, and my attention keeps drifting to the VIP section.
I force myself to focus on my job, on the new arrivals stepping past the pay counter, on the bartenders signaling when a customer gets cut off. But my awareness of Gabriel remains, a low-level current humming in my blood.
An hour into my shift, Rox brings me a water bottle, condensation dripping over her fingers. She passes it to me. “You look like shit.” Her eyebrows waggle. “Late night?”
The bottle cools my sweaty palm. “I’m not in the mood, Rox.”
“I bet that’s not what you said last night.” She tilts her head toward VIP. “How’d he finally bag you?”
I twist the cap off the bottle and drink half in one go, the cold shocking my system, and ignore her.
Rox snorts and turns away. “Fine, keep your secrets. But I’m going to collect that pot. Don’t even pretend you didn’t do the deed with him.”
As the night progresses, the crowd thickens. Bodies pack the dance floor, heat radiating from their movements. Sweat dampens the back of my shirt, and I roll my shoulders to ease the tension gathering there. I continue to scan the club, returning to the VIP area more often than I want to admit.
Gabriel sits with his back to the wall, much as I do. He’s nursed the same drink for almost two hours, and while Omegas and Betas approach him with interest, drawn to his obvious wealth, he dismisses them with polite indifference.
Three hours into my shift, a patron at the bar snags my attention, sending all my instincts on high alert.
The man is of average height with close-cropped brown hair and the rigid posture of someone who’s military-trained. His drink sits untouched before him, his attention fixed on the VIP section.
On Gabriel.
My hand drops to the radio at my belt, fingers tightening around plastic. The man’s focus never wavers, his body angled for optimal viewing despite the crowd.
I push off from the wall, weaving through bodies with single-minded purpose. People step aside, sensing my mood in the set of my shoulders and the stiffness in my stride.
Gabriel’s head turns as I close the distance, alertness tightening his frame.
“We’ve got company,” I tell him, bending close enough to be heard over the music.
His pheromones fill my lungs, mingling with the subtle scent of my soap on his skin from an earlier shower. No more cologne to muddle his scent, and my stomach tightens in response.
I push the reaction down. “Bar, two o’clock. Brown hair, black shirt, military stance.”
Gabriel shifts without turning his head, subtle enough not to alert his observer, and recognition flashes. “That’s Darrow.”
He pulls his phone from his pocket and taps the screen twice, bringing up an image of the same man, in a suit, photographed from surveillance footage.
I turn to check again, and my blood runs cold. Darrow has abandoned all pretense of subtlety. His phone is raised, lens pointed at our table, capturing images with open disregard for discretion.
Our eyes lock across the crowd, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a sneer. He adjusts his angle, taking another photo, cataloging not just Gabriel but me beside him.
Rage floods my system, rising so fast my vision tunnels. Every muscle in my body coils tight, ready to spring across the club and slam that smug face into the bar until it breaks.
“Saint,” Gabriel says, cutting through the red haze of my anger. “Don’t.”
But it’s too late.
People scatter as I cut through the dance floor, their faces blurring into streaks of color and shock. Darrow spots me approaching, and his stance widens in anticipation, phone still raised between us.
Behind me, I hear Gabriel curse, the sound swallowed by the music.
My hand finds Darrow’s collar before he can step away, bunching the expensive fabric in my fist as I slam him back against the bar counter. Glass bottles rattle, and someone behind us gasps. His body absorbs the impact without flinching, his calm driving my rage higher.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss, crowding him until there’s nowhere to retreat.
Darrow assesses me with detachment, and his phone clicks again, capturing my snarl from point-blank range. “Taking some pictures for my employer. He likes to know who’s interfering with his business.”
The bartender backs away, hand reaching for the security button under the bar. Around us, the crowd forms a widening circle, music still pounding while conversations hush, and their attention prickles across my skin.
I tighten my grip on his collar until the fabric strains. “Put the phone down.”
Darrow complies with infuriating slowness, sliding the device into his pocket. “Samuel Ortiz,” he says, my legal name sounding wrong in his mouth. “Juvenile record sealed but not erased. Assault charges. Nine months in detention. Foster care before that.”
His mouth curves into what might pass for a smile. “Saint to your friends, though. How quaint.”
How the fuck did he find out about my background?
He smirks. “What, you don’t think you’re the only ones who had Diaz’s house under surveillance, are you?
But don’t worry, I took care of the loose end earlier.
The fool was seriously going about his regular business as I told him to.
No sense of self-preservation. Did he not realize who he was fucking over?
I saved you guys the hassle of dealing with him. ”
My blood runs cold. “What do you want?”
He holds up his hands. “It’s not about what I want.”
My free hand balls into a fist. “Tell Tony to go fuck himself.”
“I’ll pass along the message.” He tilts his head to study me. “But I have one for the Rockfords. Tell them to back off, or Tony starts going after their mates.”
The words steal my breath. Micah. Tony’s people had already tried once with Micah. And the threat now extends to other Omegas under their protection.
“That’s not a message,” I snarl, shoving him harder, “it’s a death wish.”
“It’s business.” Darrow remains calm in the face of my fury. “Your friend Micah got lucky last time. Travis underestimated him. The next attempt won’t be so… amateur.”
Bile rises, and my vision narrows to a pinpoint. “I’ll kill you before you get near him.”
Darrow tilts his head. “I’m not the one you need to worry about. Tony has people everywhere.”
He tracks movement past my shoulder. “Even in places you think are safe.”
“Saint!” Gabriel’s warning shout cuts through the fog of my rage, and I spin to search for danger.
The half-second of distraction costs me. Darrow twists beneath my grip and breaks my hold on his collar. His elbow connects with my solar plexus, the strike landing with enough force to drive the air from my lungs.
As I stagger back a step, he moves, slipping into the crowd.
“Security! Stop!” Rox’s voice carries over the music as she pushes toward us, Marcus at her heels.
I lunge after Darrow, but people close around him, their bodies becoming unintentional shields as the crowd reacts to the disturbance.
Gabriel’s hand catches my arm, his grip firm enough to check my momentum. “You won’t find him. People like Darrow always have an exit strategy.”
“Dammit!” I punch the bar, and pain flares as my knuckles split.
Marcus reaches us, his large frame filling my view. “What the hell, Saint?”
“Guy was harassing patrons,” I lie, the words automatic. “Taking unauthorized photos.”
Marcus frowns, not buying it. “Since when do you handle that by almost starting a brawl?”
“It’s my fault,” Gabriel interjects, hand still on my arm. “He was photographing me. Saint was concerned.”
The explanation does nothing to ease Marcus’s suspicion. “We have procedures for removing people. Physical escalation is a last resort.”
“It won’t happen again,” I mutter, scanning the crowd one last time for Darrow and finding nothing.
Rox joins us, and the look she gives me tightens my gut. “Boss wants to see you. Now.”
Perfect. A meeting with management while adrenaline still floods my system and Tony’s threat echoes in my head. I roll my shoulders, trying to shed the rage still clinging to my skin.
“I’ll come with you,” Gabriel says, allowing no room for argument.
Marcus tries anyway as he steps between us, hand on Gabriel’s chest. “No offense, but this is staff business.”
Gabriel removes Marcus’s hand with more strength than the bigger Alpha expects. “No offense taken, but I’m coming, anyway. The incident involved me.”
Marcus’s stance shifts, instinct taking over as he recognizes a more powerful Alpha.
He looks at me in silent question. Who is this guy really?
I offer no answers as I turn toward the manager’s office, my mind replaying Darrow’s words. Tony plans to start targeting Rockford mates. Micah is a Rockford mate. Micah’s in danger again.