Hostile Alliance (Hightower Security #5)

Chapter 1

One

Adena

I take the exit, roll through a strip of tired blocks, and the Rusty Chain appears on my right: a squat building with blacked-out windows, a gravel parking lot full of motorcycles, and the kind of atmosphere that screams "outsiders not welcome."

I downshift into the lot, gravel spraying as I maneuver between a Road King and a custom Softail. The engine dies with a final rumble.

I sit for a moment, hands gripping the bars, feeling the residual vibration in my bones. Smoke drifts from somewhere—cigarettes and something else I choose not to identify.

I breathe out a prayer: God, give me the sense to see the threat and the spine to face it. Keep me honest where it counts. Guide my hands. Guard my steps. And if today is the day I don’t walk back out, use it for Your purpose.

I swing off the bike, yank off the helmet, and shake out my hair. Silas's words clang in my head like a warning bell.

"Jagger Rourke has been undercover for three years. That's past the point where most people start losing themselves. Keep your distance. Keep your head. Pray often. Do the job. Get out."

Feeling eyes on me, I spy two men leaning against the porch railing, both wearing motorcycle club cuts. Not cartel, but associates.

The bald one with the chest-length beard grins at me. "You lost, sweetheart?"

The only person I allow to call me "sweetheart" is Caleb.

"My name is Adena," I say with a glare. "Where's Jagger?"

The grin fades. The younger one—Latino, scarred knuckles—pushes off the railing. "You his woman?"

I lift my chin. "I am."

A smirk grows on his face. "Back corner booth."

I walk past them, ignoring their jeers. I'm here for one reason: to stop drugs from reaching more people like Delilah.

The door swings open on protesting hinges. Sound and smoke roll out—classic rock pounding from ancient speakers, the sharp smell of beer and sweat, and too many bodies in too small a space.

I pause just inside, letting my eyes adjust. The Rusty Chain is every inch a biker bar—low lights, a scarred counter worn down by years of fists and spilled beer, and pool tables in the back where cash trades hands without anyone admitting it.

The crowd fits the place: men in leather and denim, some flying colors, some keeping their loyalties quiet, all of them sizing up anyone new. A few women thread through the mix—tough, alert, carrying the kind of edge you earn by surviving rooms like this.

And in the back corner, half-hidden in shadow, Jagger Rourke sits alone in a booth, one arm draped across the cracked vinyl: black T-shirt, tattoos, untouched beer in front of him.

He's been watching me since I walked in.

His eyes—almost silver in the dim light—track my approach with predatory stillness. Up close, he looks like violence wrapped in ink. Tension in his jaw. Shadows under his eyes.

A man on the edge.

I don't hesitate. I sit and grab his beer. "If my bike gets stolen, you're buying me a replacement."

For a long moment, he doesn't move. Just studies me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

Then, slowly, he smiles, like I'm the best thing he's ever seen.

"If your bike gets stolen, you’ll have bigger problems." His voice is gravel and smoke. I take a long swallow and instantly regret it. He drinks domestic. Cheap. I've gotten used to the imported beer Silas stocks at Jericho.

Jagger leans forward and locks eyes with me. "For the next however long this takes, you're on probation."

I hold his gaze. I know what he can't say. He doesn't mean for the cartel; he means for him. "You called me, remember? You know I'm the right woman for the job."

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe that I’m already in character.

He snatches the beer back, lip curling as he mumbles, "Try not to get us killed."

Under the guise of unzipping my jacket, I quickly scan the area. A bottle blonde wearing skin-tight animal print is approaching the booth.

My eyes catch the details as she moves closer—a Cartier Panthère watch glints on her wrist, easily fifteen thousand dollars. The kind of piece you don't wear to a dive bar unless you're untouchable.

As I sit back, I catch a glimpse of ink on her ankle: a stylized serpent coiled around a rose.

I flick a look sideways at Jagger and find him assessing me boldly. When his gaze lands on the bulge at my back, he leans in and whispers in my ear, "That better not be your Beretta."

This close, he smells like diesel, gun oil, and cedarwood. Did he really expect me to follow all his rules of engagement?

I brush my lips against his ear and lean forward so my hair covers my mouth. "You should have studied my file more thoroughly, Jagger," I say. "I always carry Mercy."

A smirk flashes, then fades as bottle blonde gets his attention. "Jagger," she says smoothly, stepping up to the booth. Her accent's faint, Cajun with an edge. "Didn't think we'd see you again so soon. Word is, you've been making friends in the wrong places."

He doesn't look at me, and his accent slips easily into his own blend of Cajun to match hers. "Word travels fast in this city, Simone."

She laughs low. "Not fast enough. The boss is starting to wonder where your loyalty lies."

I keep my expression neutral, even as adrenaline hums through me. Simone isn't just here to flirt—she's here to test him.

The room shifts subtly as she waits. A man at the bar turns his back. Two bikers at the pool table go still. Even the bartender finds something fascinating about the glass he's polishing.

I move before I think. My fingers close around her wrist—firm, precise. "His loyalty lies where it always has been," I say softly, just for her—a controlled twist—nothing dramatic, just enough to sting and make her pull back.

Her eyes flick to mine, sharp now. "And you are?"

"I'm the best insurance policy your boss will ever buy," I reply, releasing her.

For a beat, she holds my stare, then frowns. "You're a paper pusher?"

I slide closer to Jagger. He doesn't hesitate—his arm wraps around my shoulders. "She's not here just for her skill set."

Something flickers in Simone's expression—disappointment masked quickly by calculation as she looks at me. "Then you'll want to keep him close, sugar," she says softly. "Men like Jagger have a habit of wandering." She backs away, smile tight, and disappears into the haze of smoke and neon.

Jagger watches her go, then turns his gaze back to me—steady, unreadable. "You just painted a target on your back."

I shrug one shoulder. "I can handle myself."

He drops his voice, a faint hint of irritation tracing his words as he picks up his beer. "Maybe. But it wasn't the smart play. Last woman who got on her bad side wound up in the bayou."

Worry lines bracket his mouth. Is he worried for me? Or worried I'm going to mess up? "Just marking my territory."

He studies me for a long second, jaw tight. "Good to know, Tiger. But next time… think before you make enemies we can't afford."

Jagger

I knew she was a stone-cold fox. The file Nolan left at the dead drop made that clear.

Raven hair, petite curves, eyes that see through steel, all the standard descriptors.

What the file didn’t—couldn’t—prepare me for was the impact of seeing her walking into a viper’s nest because someone above my pay grade decided she was expendable.

She isn’t here to ask questions. She’s here to make sure anything that leaves her hands can be found again. And she’s risking everything—because they ordered it. Perfect for the job, according to the file. Perfect on paper. But paper doesn’t bleed when things go wrong.

"Let's ride," I say.

She rises, zips her jacket with a flick, and I slap a ten on the greasy table.

Outside, drizzle smears the neon. It paints the pavement in bruised colors—fitting for the mess we’re walking into. She starts toward a Harley parked in the corner, matte black, mean stance, and I shake my head.

"You ride with me," I say. “I’ll have someone bring your bike to you.”

Her eyes flick to the Harley, then back to me. A beat of hesitation—barely there, but I catch it. She knows we're being watched. Knows defiance right now would blow the cover she just sold.

Her jaw tightens. "My gear is in the saddlebag. I’ll get it."

Good. She doesn't argue, and she understands that the cartel doesn't care about boundaries.

She returns with her pack and swings onto the back of my bike like it's a necessary evil.

"Nice bike," she says, eyeing my Ducati. "Did it come with a mirror so you can watch yourself ride?"

The corner of my lip twitches. So, Nolan sent me a livewire. "Came with a backseat. Didn't expect anyone worth looking at."

The answer is instant. Natural. "You seem to have forgotten flattery doesn’t work on me."

She’s quick, I’ll give her that—picks up a throwaway line and turns it into history we never had. If she can keep it up, we might make it to Monday.

“Didn’t forget. I know you like actions, not compliments,” I say.

I swing my leg over the Ducati and hand her the spare helmet. She takes it without a word—hands light, body angled away, every line of her saying don't read into this.

The engine growls to life. Rain starts to fall, soft at first, then heavier, drumming against the tank. She settles in behind me, careful not to touch more than necessary.

The scent of leather and rain clings to her, threaded with a soft coconut fragrance that would be more at home on the beach than the back of my bike.

Great. My new “partner” even smells like trouble.

Perfect trouble—if Nolan’s right.

Fatal trouble if he’s not.