Chapter Twenty-Two
COLD FEAR
Two days later…
Axel tugged at the cuffs of his Armani tuxedo for what had to be the tenth time.
Who the hell invented cufflinks?
The damn things looked simple enough until somebody actually had to put them on. Whoever designed them had obviously hated people with fat fingers.
“You’ve adjusted those three times.”
“They’re crooked.”
“They’re not.”
Whip stepped closer, bringing with him the faint scent of cologne. He took Axel’s wrist in one hand and fastened the cufflink with the other.
Axel went still.
Whip’s fingers were warm against the inside of his wrist, his touch careful despite the impatient look he wore.
“There.”
Axel frowned at his reflection, giving the sleeve another tug before moving to the collar. The bow tie sat snug against his throat.
Too snug.
“I feel like it’s choking me.”
“Don’t fiddle with it.”
“It’s trying to strangle me.”
Whip looked at him with all the patience in the world written across his face.
“It’s called a collar and a tie.”
“It’s called attempted murder.”
A smile tugged at Whip’s mouth.
“You wore a Class A uniform for years.”
“Didn’t like that either.”
“No, but you survived.”
“Barely,” he grumbled.
Without saying a word, Whip stepped between him and the mirror.
He straightened the lapels of Axel’s jacket, smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from one shoulder, then ran both hands down the front as if checking his work.
Axel forgot about the tie.
Whip’s fingers moved to the knot, making the smallest adjustment before settling briefly against his chest.
Not long.
Just enough.
“There.”
Axel looked down at the hand resting over his heart before Whip let it fall.
Something in his chest tightened, and it had nothing to do with the damn collar.
He glanced back at the mirror.
“I don’t see a difference.”
“I do.”
Apparently, that settled it.
With Whip’s stamp of approval, Axel’s own tension eased. He drew in a deep breath, catching the faint scent of Whip’s cologne again.
Funny.
Even that settled him.
The hand on his wrist. The one against his chest. Whip standing close enough that Axel could feel the warmth coming off him.
Somewhere over the past year, the man had quietly become the center of his world.
Even through everything with May, Axel had always known who mattered more.
He just hadn’t been brave enough to look too closely at why.
Poor May.
She deserved better.
Thankfully, she’d figured that out before he had.
That probably made her the smarter one.
He ought to send her a thank-you card.
“You ready?” Whip asked.
Axel looked at the man in the mirror beside him.
Hell.
Whip cleaned up way too well. The Prada tux fit like it was tailored just for him, his blond hair brushed back from his face.
Axel reached up and caught the edge of Whip’s lapel.
Whip’s eyes met his in the mirror.
Axel smoothed the fabric once, returning the favor even though there wasn’t a damn thing out of place.
Then he leaned down and stole a quick kiss.
“No,” Axel admitted. “But let’s go catch a bad guy.”
They pulled up in front of the hotel, reminding him why they were here.
Oscar Charleston owed most of his billions to a side business that trafficked children.
Cutter reported to Charleston.
Charleston sat at the top of the food chain.
The only thing they had to watch out for was Cutter himself. He could identify every one of them. But Davis wasn’t worried. His inside source—a woman working for Charleston—had reported Cutter was already en route to another location.
“Hey, you keep zoning out on me and I’m going to pull us,” Whip said, dragging Axel’s attention back to the hotel.
“Pull us back to bed?”
Now, that worked for him.
He’d take a day in bed over work bullshit anytime. The last two workdays had bled into nights burning up the sheets.
Whip rolled his eyes, fighting a smile.
Axel loved that look.
It meant his man was happy.
The car rolled to a stop, and a uniformed doorman opened the door.
Crystal chandeliers spilled warm light across the ballroom as conversations blended into a low, expensive hum. Waiters drifted through the crowd with silver trays balanced on one hand while a jazz quartet played from the far corner.
The gala had upscale private security checking invitations and watching behavior, but no magnetometers.
No weapon checks.
He wondered how many others were armed as they stepped through the double doors. It kind of made sense with the number of wealthy people and bodyguards in the mix.
Charleston had spent millions restoring the old civic building. Now it served as headquarters for the Charleston Foundation and tonight’s charity gala filling the third floor.
Axel took it all in without appearing to.
Entrances.
Exits.
Cameras.
Habit.
His gaze roamed across the room again, this time looking past the tuxedos and evening gowns.
To drink, Charleston preferred twelve-year-old Macallan.
Collected vintage firearms.
The guy wore custom suits almost exclusively in shades of charcoal, navy, and black. He never liked having his back to a room.
Last night’s briefing with Whip drifted through his mind one fact at a time.
At first, he’d thought it was overkill. There they were, sweaty from making love, sprawled on the bed, and Whip wanted to go over the case.
Who gave a shit what a trafficker drank?
Whip did.
Because little things became big things. Preferences became routines. Routines became patterns. Patterns caught fugitives.
Somewhere along the way, Axel had stopped rolling his eyes at that kind of homework.
Hell, he thought maybe he’d started doing it himself.
Maybe that was what happened when you spent a year partnered with the smartest man you’d ever met.
Or maybe it was what happened when you fell in love with him.
Either way, Axel found himself scanning every glass in the room, looking for twelve-year-old Macallan before he even realized he was doing it.
Beside him, Whip casually accepted a glass of sparkling water from a passing waiter without ever taking his eyes off the crowd.
They weren’t here to blend in.
They were here to learn everything they could before Charleston ever realized two deputy U.S. marshals had walked into his party.
The ballroom had settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Charleston drifted from one conversation to the next with the ease of a man who owned the room. Maybe he did. Every laugh came a little too quickly. Every handshake lasted a second too long.
Axel accepted a soda from a passing waiter and continued watching.
Charleston preferred keeping people waiting. He’d learned that last night. If someone wanted five minutes of the man’s time, they usually got two. If Charleston approached them instead, they got ten.
Control.
Everything seemed to come back to control.
Whip appeared beside him long enough to murmur, “He’s circling.”
“I noticed.”
“Let’s split up. Cover more ground.”
Axel nodded.
“Radio if you need me.”
“Always.”
Whip disappeared into the crowd with the same unhurried confidence he’d used serving warrants for the past year.
Axel tracked Charleston instead.
The man paused beside an older couple, shook hands with a city councilman, accepted a glass of amber whiskey from a waiter without asking, then wandered toward the grand staircase.
Macallan.
Whip had been right about that too.
Charleston never drank champagne with everyone else.
Axel filed it away.
A cluster of guests crossed between him and Whip, stealing the blond marshal from view.
Two steps to the left brought Whip back into sight near the string quartet, chatting casually with a bartender polishing glasses.
Axel smiled to himself.
For a guy who claimed he hated parties, Whip looked right at home.
Charleston excused himself from another conversation and disappeared through a set of double doors marked Private.
Noted.
Two security men remained outside without speaking.
Axel checked on Whip.
A knot of guests blocked his view for a second.
Whip was on the balcony overlooking the ballroom.
Better vantage point.
Of course.
Axel looked back toward the private doors.
Security hadn’t moved.
Neither had Charleston come back out.
Then Charleston reappeared.
Axel took the moment to drift with the crowd, never getting close enough to Charleston to be remembered.
The man accepted a small cup of espresso from the waiter before moving toward the west side of the ballroom.
Axel watched him disappear into conversation with another donor.
A quick glance found Whip on the stairs overlooking the room.
Smart.
From up there he could watch everybody.
Axel continued his slow circuit, noting the private hallway, the grand staircase, and the security team quietly steering guests away from the west wing.
He filed that away.
Axel checked on Whip again.
This time, he found him near the bar speaking with one of the servers.
“Can’t take your eyes off me,” Whip murmured over the radio.
“Wasn’t trying,” Axel shot back.
Whip’s gaze found his across the ballroom. A slow smile tugged at his mouth before he blew Axel a quick kiss.
Smiling, Axel turned his attention back to Charleston.
“Enough, you two. Anybody have any idea who he met with?” Boone growled into the earpiece.
“Nobody more than ten minutes,” Axel said.
The night wore on without Charleston doing anything stupid enough to help them.
No private confession.
No nervous associate slipping up.
No Cutter.
Just money, handshakes, and enough fake smiles to make Axel’s jaw ache.
Charleston remained in control of the room until the final speech ended and the quartet shifted into something slower.
Boone’s voice came through the earpiece.
“That’s enough. Let’s call it.”
Axel touched two fingers to his ear. “Copy.”
He looked toward the bar.
No Whip.
Probably working his way back from the west side.
Axel moved through the crowd, checking the balcony first.
Empty.
The stairs.
Nothing.
He kept walking.
Whip had disappeared half a dozen times tonight. Every time, Axel had found him again.
Near the quartet.
At the bar.
On the balcony.
Always there.
He touched the mic in his ear.
“Whip?”
No answer.
Axel slowed.
Around him, conversations rolled on uninterrupted. A waiter slipped past with another tray of champagne while Charleston laughed at something one of the donors said.
He tried again.
“Whip.”
Nothing.
The back of his neck tightened.
Axel turned in a slow circle, scanning every face in the ballroom.
Then the balcony.
The stairs.
The bar.
There was no blond hair anywhere.
No blue eyes finding his across the room.
No Whip.
Boone came over the radio again.
“Bain?”
Axel ended up at the private doors on the west side of the ballroom.
He didn’t bother answering. He drove his shoulder into the doors, forcing them open.
Boone’s voice became little more than background noise. A red haze crept into Axel’s vision, but his focus sharpened.
Inside, an end table lay overturned.
He stalked deeper into the hallway.
A guard stepped forward. “Sir—”
Axel drove a fist into the man’s throat.
“Bain, talk to me,” Boone’s voice came across the radio, commanding but steady.
Axel stepped over the choking guard and shoved through the next set of doors.
“They took Whip.”
It was all he managed before disappearing into the room beyond.