Chapter 47
Seth
Brooke stands in front of the mirror while she changes, and the red halter dress slides into place.
It fits her a little too well, the fabric clinging to every curve.
She is really testing every string of restraint I have left by wearing that while we are on a kill mission.
The sight of it pulls up the memory of that other dress she wore before.
Almost two years ago. A crowded club with loud music and cheap liquor. Brooke stared at me while she danced with some idiot.
I couldn’t remember his name now. I honestly didn’t give a fuck.
I killed him not long after that. The timing was unfortunate for him, and his judgment was worse. You danced with the wrong woman once and suddenly your life expectancy dropped to zero.
The dress still irritates me a little when I see it again. That memory never quite fades. At least this time she is walking in with me, not grinding on some asshole’s dick.
She pulls the wig on carefully, adjusting it until it sits just right. The hair is a deep chocolate brown, cut with bangs that soften her face and shift her features enough to make her unrecognizable.
I lean against the dresser and watch her make small adjustments in the mirror. The disguise works.
“You good?”
She nods once. “I think so.”
I step in behind her, close enough that my chest brushes her back. Her eyes stay on mine in the mirror as I slide my hand beneath the hem of her dress.
“Tell me if this gets distracting.”
She lifts her chin a fraction. “It already is.”
My fingers trace the back of her calf and move higher, following the line of her leg until the silk gathers under my knuckles.
The dress rides up as I guide my hand along her thigh, my thumb pressing into warm skin before I reach the holster strapped tight against her.
I check the buckle first, then the strap, testing the tension.
My palm lingers, heat bleeding into me, and I adjust the angle with care.
“You tighten this yourself?”
“Yes,” she says as her body reacts.
I slide my thumb along the inside of her thigh and tug the strap once more, slower this time. “You did fine, I just want it perfect.”
“Of course you do,” she says.
I lean in closer, my mouth near her ear. “If you have to draw, it needs to be clear and clean. No fumbling.”
“I won’t.”
I guide my hand higher for a final check, just enough to feel the tension in her muscles, just enough to make my pulse spike. Then I withdraw, forcing distance back into the room even though my body protests.
“Same rules,” I meet her eyes in the mirror. “You stay close. You don’t wander. If anything feels wrong, you look at me.”
She turns her head and faces me fully, confident beneath the heat. “I always do.”
I lift another car from the airport garage without anyone noticing, which says more about money than security. It is a dark graphite Mercedes S Class, understated in the way only truly expensive cars are. Quiet enough that you can forget how dangerous it really is.
Before I even turn the key, I check it inch by inch.
I pull panels, run my hands along the seams, check the wheel wells and the undercarriage.
There is no tracker under the dash. There is nothing wired where it shouldn't be.
Nothing blinking or humming. The trunk is deep and wide, lined in clean black felt. Big enough for a body.
I miss my Impala. I always will. But since I can’t have it, I figure I might as well enjoy borrowing from people who have many cars and dollars at their disposal.
Travis feeds me every checkpoint the Portland Police Department and the FBI have set up in the area.
He lists troopers posted along the highway, unmarked units parked near the main exits, and federal vehicles tucked far enough back to feel clever.
Beau follows us in a separate car, staying several lengths behind so we can split if something goes wrong or if one of us gets pulled over.
We avoid every checkpoint he names. We use back roads that skirt the main arteries, timed merges that drop us into gaps in traffic, and side streets that keep us away from plate scanners.
I keep my grip firm on the wheel and my foot heavy on the gas.
We have a narrow window to work with, and every mile feels like it matters.
Elliot is confirmed for tonight’s event at Saints & Sinners.
After that, he will disappear again behind money, private security, and locked doors that will take more time to crack.
I refuse to let that happen.
Saints & Sinners glows from half a block away, its gold light spilling onto the sidewalk through a wide glass frontage.
Music pulses hard enough that I can feel the beat through the pavement when we roll past. Security stands along the entrance in tailored black suits, earpieces snug against their ears, eyes scanning.
I park down the street and shut off the engine, watching the entrance while Beau eases his car into a dark space a little farther back.
I slick my hair back with my fingers and adjust my jacket. I am clean shaven, collar open, the fit intentional without drawing attention.
“Remember,” I say quietly. “We blend.”
Brooke nods once.
She checks her reflection in the darkened window of the car. She doesn't look like the woman they hunted. She looks composed. She looks untouchable.
Beau’s voice comes through the earpiece. “The back alley is quiet. The delivery door has a keypad. I don’t see obvious cameras, but I wouldn’t rely on that.”
Travis follows. “Interior feeds are partial due to lighting interference. The VIP level is elevated with limited sightlines. If Elliot is there, he won’t be on the main floor.”
I open Brooke’s door and offer my hand. We walk toward the entrance together. We join the line and move forward at an easy pace. Bass rolls through the building and up into my chest. Laughter spills out from the doorway.
The bouncer gives us a brief glance. Brooke hands over the invitation Travis spoofed. He scans it, nods once, and lifts the rope.
The club closes around us as soon as we step inside.
Black marble floors reflect bodies in fractured angles. Gold accents catch the light in brief flashes. Blue and purple strobes cut faces into shifting sections. The bar runs along one wall, bottles stacked high and backlit.
An elevator sits behind frosted glass with two guards posted in front of it. They are armed, but their posture lacks discipline.
“Five guards on the stairs and two at the elevator,” I murmur to Brooke. “All carrying.”
She nods without breaking stride.
We drift deeper into the crowd. Brooke moves in front of me with an easy confidence that draws every eye for a second and then moves those eyes away again.
People notice her enough to enjoy the view and then turn back to their own problems, which means no one stares long enough to memorize her features.
“Seven Nation Army” starts to play, the opening notes punching through the speakers and rolling under the noise of voices.
I step in closer and slide my hands down to her hips, fingers settling against the fabric of her dress.
She starts to move against me, rolling her hips with intent that stays balanced between performance and hunger.
She presses back into me with intention, giving every person watching a clear story about who we are and why we are here.
I let her dance, let the rhythm carry her movements while I scan over her shoulder, counting guards and security positions between bodies. The closeness sells the cover, and anyone paying attention will see a couple locked on each other instead of the room.
My dick starts to get hard from the way she rolls her hips on me, and she knows exactly what she is doing.
My erection doesn’t care about mission windows or kill plans, and the pulse of the hunt threads through it and makes everything sharper.
Brooke always does this to me, and the fact that we are here to take someone out only makes the pull worse.
I keep my focus where it belongs, scanning the room, tracking movement, waiting for Elliot to show himself.
The music slows, the rhythm darkening into something heavier. Every movement around us becomes harder to track, shoulders brushing, drinks sloshing, laughter splitting the tension wide open.
Then something changes.
I don’t see it at first. I feel it, the kind of shift that tells you the predator has just noticed the prey.
I lift my gaze to the upper level.
Low couches sit beneath softer lighting, shadows stretching longer up there and moving slower than the floor below. A glass railing frames the space, reflective enough to distort movement, like everything is happening a half second behind reality.
And Elliot sits at the center of it.
He leans back against a wide couch, one arm stretched across the backrest like he owns the room. Drinks sit untouched in front of him. Two men flank him, both too still and too aware for this kind of setting.
I feel Brooke stiffen beside me the second my focus locks.
She follows my line of sight, her eyes narrowing as she finds him.
“That’s him,” she says under her breath.
Elliot leans forward slightly and says something to the man on his right, his gaze drifting over the floor out of habit.
Then he sees her.
Recognition hits clean and immediate, and his posture tightens just enough to give it away.
Brooke doesn't look away. She holds his stare from across the club, her chin lifted and her expression stripped down to nothing. The wig softens her features and blurs the edges, but it doesn't hide what matters.
She wants him to know. She wants him to remember.
Elliot leans back again, and smiles.
That is when it clicks.
Not just him.
I drag my attention off Elliot and start scanning the room.
Movement at the bar to the left catches my eye. A man leans against it with a drink in his hand, his posture loose like he doesn't have a reason to be there.
But I recognize him.
Diego.
Across the floor, closer to the dance crowd, another one stands just outside the shifting lights. He isn't dancing or drinking. He is watching.
Jackson.
My pulse shifts.
I look again.
They aren't together.
They are placed.
Brooke’s fingers brush mine for half a second.
Then she speaks, low.
“Three o’clock.”
I follow her line of sight.
A woman stands near the railing on the opposite side of the room, angled just enough to watch the floor without drawing attention to herself.
Ava.
Brooke’s voice comes again, quieter this time.
“And behind her.”
I shift my focus slightly.
There.
Half hidden near the hallway entrance, someone leans against the wall with their head down like they are scrolling through their phone.
But they're not.
Ezra.
I go still.
They're spread out across the club, watching and waiting.
This is not a party.
This is a setup.
Elliot leans forward again, resting his elbows on his knees, that same pleased, mocking expression settling into place.
Then he picks up a microphone.
“Well,” he says, his voice smooth and unhurried, like he has all night to enjoy this. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”
The room doesn't react. Most people don't even notice.
But I do. Because now I can feel it.
Too many eyes. Too many angles. Too many ways this can go wrong.
Elliot leans back again and lifts one finger, not a signal anyone else will catch, just enough.
Brooke doesn't move. She stands beside me, steady, locked on him.
Then I see it.
A faint red beam cuts through the low light.
It doesn't sweep or search.
It lands directly on Brooke’s chest.