Chapter 27
LEVI
Derek started babbling.
"I'm just doing my job," he said, voice climbing an octave. "She's my reporter. I have a right to check on her progress. This is how journalism works. You can't just—"
"Shut up," I said.
He didn't.
"You don't understand the pressure I'm under. The board, the donors, they're all breathing down my neck. If I don't deliver something concrete, we lose everything. The whole operation goes under. Do you know how many journalists depend on—"
"I said shut up."
My voice came out flat. Cold. The kind of tone that made men in combat zones go quiet real fast.
Derek's mouth snapped shut.
I gestured toward the door of Amelia's room. "Step inside."
He hesitated, eyes darting between me and the hallway like he was calculating whether he could make it to the elevator.
He couldn't.
"Now," I said.
He went.
Amelia and I moved aside to let him pass. As soon as he crossed the threshold, I leaned close to her, keeping my voice low.
"Go down to the lobby. And stay there," I said. "Call Dominion Hall. Tell them to bring a big duffel bag. They'll know why."
Her eyes widened. "I want to stay with you."
"No," I said, more emphatic than I intended. "You don't need to see what happens next."
I searched her eyes, waiting for her to ask me not to do this. Waiting for her to tell me to be the better man, to let it go, to call the cops or handle it some other civilized way.
But her gaze flicked to Derek, standing in the middle of her hotel room like a man who'd just realized he'd walked into the wrong cage at the zoo.
"Do what you need to do," she said quietly.
Then she turned and walked to the elevator.
I watched her go, something warm and vicious coiling in my chest.
Then I stepped into the room, closed the door, and locked it. Deadbolt. Latch. All of it.
Derek turned at the sound.
I pointed a finger at him. "Did your father ever tell you not to put your hands on a woman?"
He sputtered. "I—I didn't mean—"
I was on him before he could finish.
A knee to the gut doubled him over. An open-handed smack across the face sent him sprawling to the floor.
He hit the carpet hard, gasping.
I stared down at him. "That was an open hand," I said. "The next one's going to be a fist."
He tried to crawl backward, hands scrabbling at the carpet. "Someone will hear," he stammered. "The cops—"
I grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the ground with one hand.
Then I hit him.
Hard.
My fist connected with his face, and his head snapped back with a sickening crack. When it bobbed forward again, he looked dazed, like a marionette with half its strings cut.
Blood poured from his nose.
I grabbed him by the chin, forcing him to look at me.
"Who told you about Dominion Hall?" I asked.
He blinked, eyes unfocused. Then, surprisingly, his mouth set in a stubborn line.
"Journalistic integrity," he slurred. "Can't reveal sources."
I almost laughed.
Instead, I hit him again.
His nose flattened under my knuckles, cartilage crunching. More blood. He made a sound like a wounded animal.
"I'll ask again," I said. "Who told you about Dominion Hall?"
This time, he broke.
"They have money," he babbled, words tumbling over each other.
"They offered to save the company. Said if I helped take down a crooked operation, the country would be safer and I'd have at least ten years of runway to keep the company going.
Do you know how big that is? There's no money in journalism anymore.
None. We're bleeding out. They were offering a lifeline. "
I didn't care.
"Who exactly did you talk to?" I asked.
His lips pressed together again, like he thought he still had leverage.
I headbutted him.
The well-used technique worked perfectly. His already-pulverized nose took the brunt of it, and he went limp in my grip.
I slapped him across the face to bring him back.
"Stay with me, Derek," I said. "Who did you talk to?"
His eyes fluttered open. "A woman," he whispered. "Older, maybe. I don't know."
"Confirm," I said. "Older woman. What else?"
"Yeah," he said, voice thick with blood. "Sounded like she smoked her whole life. Raspy. Confident. Like she owned the fucking world."
The woman from an hour ago. The one who'd stood in the window and told me to put my gun down. The one who'd threatened Amelia. The one who smelled like expensive perfume and spoke like power itself.
The Vanguard.
There was a knock at the door.
"Levi?" Jacob's voice came through, muffled but clear.
I dragged Derek to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.
My brothers streamed in—Jacob first, then Caleb, Gideon, Lucas, and finally Ethan, carrying an oversized duffel bag.
"Jesus," Caleb muttered, looking at Derek's ruined face. "What'd he do?"
"Put his hands on Amelia," I said.
That was all the explanation they needed.
Ethan stepped forward, holding out the duffel. "This work?"
I shoved Derek toward him. "Perfectly."
They moved with practiced efficiency.
Jacob zip-tied Derek's hands behind his back. Gideon gagged him with a towel from the bathroom. Caleb and Lucas folded his legs and stuffed him into the duffel, zipping it shut around him like he was luggage.
Ethan hefted the bag over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
"Stairs?" he asked.
"Stairs," I confirmed.
We moved as a unit, six Montana Danes and one very uncomfortable passenger, taking the back stairwell down three flights and out through the side exit.
Nobody saw us.
Nobody stopped us.
By the time we reached the SUV waiting in the alley, Derek had gone quiet in the bag. Either unconscious or too terrified to make noise.
I didn't care which.
Ethan tossed the duffel into the back. Jacob climbed into the driver's seat. The rest of us piled in.
"Where to?" Jacob asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
"Dominion Hall," I said. "We need to talk to Dad about this mystery woman."