Chapter 9
Nine
Declan
Iwake up before my alarm is due to go off; a hangover from my Marine days.
Genesis didn’t comment if she clocked the tattoo on my arm last night. The same arm that’s hooked around her waist now, my hand cupping her breast as she sleeps. I don’t want to move it.
But if I don’t, my alarm will wake her.
It’s still dark outside, so maybe I’m stirring for no reason. Yet my body clock tells me I’m right.
I gently disengage my arm, rolling away from her, and check my phone on the nightstand. It’s 5:13. I sigh, turn off the alarm that was set to sound in two minutes, and carefully extricate myself.
What a shitty time to have to go and meet Mercer. Even more so when it was me that suggested it, back before I knew I’d have Genesis in my bed. Her bed. Whatever.
Dragging myself away from her is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But hopefully I can return before she’s really up. Maybe even bring her some breakfast.
She’s everything I could’ve wanted, and more. Bold, brave, spirited, yet surprisingly vulnerable when we fucked. Since that fight at Franco’s, I’ve been feeling strangely protective toward her.
But now? When I’ve watched her come like it’s the first time she ever has?
That wonder in her stunning, chestnut-brown eyes, mingled with raw pleasure, raw need. The most intoxicating thing I’ve ever witnessed.
I pad through into the main room. Off to one side, there’s a bathroom with a shower, but that might wake her. Besides, I’m not ready to wash her scent from my skin. I pull on yesterday’s shirt, and my back stings mildly with the scratches she left in my skin last night.
Little hellcat.
If I get this meeting done fast, I can be back here and wake her up with round two. And round three. It’s not like we’ve anything else to do today.
Dressed and ready to go, I check in on her one last time. She still sleeps, peaceful, her raven hair spilling across the pillow. Raven. That’s what they called her, and I can see the tattoo on her shoulder blade. It’s brilliant work. I’ll have to ask her if it was the same artist.
I hate thinking of anyone else with their hands on her skin.
What is this I’m feeling? It’s not love; I’m not some hormonal teen. It’s darker, more… possessive.
The strength of that feeling is alien, but not wrong. I’ve never felt this with anyone before. But then it’s never been Genesis before.
No, that’s not right. It must just be me rationalizing. If I’m feeling possessive, it’s because I need her. She’s part of Renner’s crew, my way in, my way of ensuring they treat me like I belong.
I’ve spent the night with a woman I’m supposed to be building a case against, and I mustn’t forget that. Stop thinking about waking her up and burying myself inside her again.
Sometimes I fucking love my job.
And I’ve been standing in the doorway of her bedroom, watching her sleep, for several minutes now.
Get your ass moving.
The only thing that gets me to the door is the promise that the sooner I leave, the sooner I can return.
It’s usually a forty-minute ride through the city to Venice Beach, but this early on a Fourth of July Saturday, I do it in twenty-five.
Twenty-five minutes alone with my head, and what I mostly think about is the scratches on my back and how they came to be there.
That’s not good. That’s the opposite of good.
She’s just a tool. You’re better than this. Priorities, Declan.
Pulling up in the parking lot only a hundred yards from the Surf Shack where I’m due to meet Mercer, I force myself to focus.
I’ve got nothing useful to give her, and I know she’ll push.
What I have is plenty of Genesis. Her voice, her scent, the memory of clenching around me and beneath me.
Mercer doesn’t need to know about any of that. She won’t understand.
I haven’t seen Mercer since I started this job, over six months ago when I took on this new identity.
Almost straight after the last assignment, with what, just four months between?
Hardly long enough to remember who I was.
I used to have a house in Thousand Oaks, but it’s been so long since I lived my own life, there was no point keeping it.
Now my home is my apartment in Boyle Heights.
Three years of undercover work. Maybe Mercer is justified in her concerns I’m going native. Still, I wouldn’t have taken this operation if I wasn’t ready for it.
I need to get my head on straight for this meeting, but all I can think about is that I should’ve left her a note, in case she wakes when I’m gone. No fucking paper, no pen, and I don’t even have her phone number.
We were a little busy last night. An oversight to correct when I get back there.
The sun’s up, with just enough clouds on the horizon over the water to reflect oranges and golds. There’s no wind, the waves calm, and the tide is out. The sand is soft under my boots.
Diana Mercer’s wearing a goddamn skirt suit on a Saturday morning, blending in with the other dog walkers like a hooker blends in at a church service. And worse, she isn’t alone.
I walk toward them, deliberately making it look like I’m passing them, not heading for them. Hating every step I’m taking.
This risk is completely unnecessary.
But grudgingly, I have to admit it’s minimal.
That’s why I suggested here and now. Before I knew I’d have a very good reason not to get out of bed.
There’s no way I was followed riding at that speed, hardly anyone is out at this time, and even if anyone does clock us, we’re just three people talking on a beach one morning.
Yeah, because every biker likes getting sand in their boots.
“Maddox,” Mercer says as I draw near.
“Hale,” I emphasize. I’m sure she does that just to annoy me, some petty power play.
She doesn’t blink at my correction, but nods to the man she’s with. “You know Dawkins, I presume?”
“By reputation.” I give no sign of acknowledging him. We’re strangers meeting at random.
The idiot offers me his hand, holding it out for several seconds, then lowers it when all I do is stare at him. Where the hell does Mercer find these people?
It’s clear Special Agent Dawkins has never worked undercover. He still has a crewcut, even if he has made an effort to find a pair of jeans and a T-shirt this morning. But he’s carrying a goddamn laptop bag. On the beach.
The two of them couldn’t shout FBI any louder if they were wearing the goddamn flak vests.
“Why is he here?” I address the question to Mercer. It’s blunt, but I don’t give a shit.
“Analyst.” Mercer leans down to pat her long-suffering Labrador. “We want what you’ve got on Renner’s crew.”
“Here? Now?” I don’t try to keep the disdain from my voice.
“Yes, here, now. You think I give up my Fourth of July mornings for the fun of it?” Her mouth purses. “Let’s do it Monday, you can come by the office.”
That’s not even funny.
I nod at Dawkins’ laptop. “You going to fucking write it down?”
“I have a recorder,” he replies, the words clipped.
“Well done.”
Mercer straightens, giving me a hard look. “Maddox, don’t be an ass.”
“Hale, goddammit,” I say through gritted teeth. “Stop fucking calling me by my name.”
“We want details on Kurt Renner’s crew,” Dawkins says. “Physical descriptions, vehicles, known operational bases, behavioral patterns. Everything you can tell us.”
“I’ve met them twice,” I grind out. “What’s the rush?”
“Twice is enough for what we need for now,” Mercer says lightly. “And the rush is called a progress report, Hale. Something to show for the six months you’ve been on this op, because God knows there’s been nothing until now.”
“Save for a bank robbery,” Dawkins points out.
“This takes time, we both know it,” I reply, turning to look out at the waves, trying to absorb some of their calm.
“Are you refusing to cooperate?” Mercer asks.
Fuck, I hate my boss. She’s always been an asshole. “Of course not.”
“Good. Then Kurt Renner. Start there.”
I take a subtle breath and let it out. “Male, white. Late twenties. 5’11, maybe one-eighty.
Athletic build, not bulky. Black hair, short.
Green eyes. No facial hair, no visible tattoos.
Runs the crew and is sole contact for whoever is giving them the jobs.
” I presume. But that supports the lie I gave Mercer before.
She jumps right on it. “You still don’t know?”
“Two meetings,” I remind her with a growl. “Get off my goddamn back.”
She smiles; lips thin, no humor.
“Where does he live?” Dawkins presses. “What does he ride?”
“I don’t know that he rides. They used a van for the bank job. He operates out of units in the Art District, and changes them frequently.”
“Which one?”
I scoff. “I’m not telling you that. You assholes will park a sedan in front of it and blow this whole op wide open.”
Dawkins presses his lips thin. “Other crew members?”
“Cole. British, ex-military. Competent. Dario. He’s muscle too. Their tech nerd is a tattoo artist, Tasha.” The one who must’ve done Genesis work. I should’ve realized sooner.
Dawkins raises an eyebrow. “Surnames?”
I give him a cold stare. “If I knew, I’d have told you.”
“Anyone else?”
“Cammy. She’s the driver.”
“That it?”
“Yes, that’s it.” Apart from Genesis. But I’m not telling them about her.
“That doesn’t cover the riders at the bank job,” Mercer cuts in.
“Pablo, from Briggs’s gang. You already have his details. Besides, he’s dead, so who cares?”
“Who was the other?”
“Me,” I say, watching a seagull landing on the sand nearby, one beady eye staring at me like it knows I’m lying.
“Descriptions of the crew?” Dawkins asks, and Mercer lets him move on.
I tap down my relief; they didn’t know how many riders there were.
They don’t know about her. “Cole’s white, late twenties, fit, 6’1, blue eyes…
” I go through the crew, giving them general descriptions so bland they could fit almost anyone.
Thank God Mercer didn’t try to get me in front of a forensic artist; it would’ve taken all day.
“Distinguishing features?”