34. Wes Osprey
Wes Osprey
By sunrise, Scarlet’s temperature has fallen, and the repair yard warrant is signed.
Neither fact makes me feel better. She sits in the back of our SUV wrapped in my black sweatshirt and Roman’s coat, her hair loose around her shoulders and her bare feet tucked beneath her.
Her fever has left color high across her cheeks.
Her scent is softer than it was during the night, but every inhale inside the vehicle carries green herbs, warm earth, and the sweet edge of a heat that has not finished with her.
Dr. Cole kept us on the secure line through the rest of the night. Scarlet’s recognition stayed stable after the second brief lapse, her temperature came down, and Cole cleared her to remain under close monitoring as long as we transferred her if either symptom returned.
Roman sits beside her with one hand resting beneath the coat at her waist.
I check the mirrors again.
The county road curves through scrub pine and cypress before disappearing behind us.
Tom’s cruiser leads the convoy. Two marked units follow, along with the county evidence van.
No motorcycle has appeared since we left the cottage, yet my attention keeps pulling to every side road, drainage cut, and break in the tree line.
Scarlet watches me from the back seat. “You have checked the same truck four times.”
Roman’s mouth curves. “Give him some grace. He spent the last hour trying to convince us he could run the entire operation from your bedroom instead.”
Scarlet reaches between the seats and curls her fingers around the back of my neck. The touch slows my breathing.
“I’m all right,” she says. “It’s passed for now, and there was no way I was staying behind.” Her voice lacks its usual armor. It’s a soft attempt to steady me while her own body remains unpredictable.
I cover her hand with mine. “You lost Roman’s scent twice.”
“And found him again.”
“You’re still feverish.”
“Less feverish.”
“The distinction doesn’t impress me.”
Her thumb strokes beneath my hairline. “I need to see where the route goes.”
I meet her eyes in the mirror. “I understand.”
It’s the only reason she is here.
Tom agreed to let her remain inside the secured mobile command zone while we search bay seven. Roman stays with her unless the area is cleared and Scarlet’s temperature remains stable. Deputies have blocked the front and rear entrances. The drainage road is under observation.
Every precaution remains inadequate. Every option has holes that threaten her safety. My alpha rumbles my displeasure from my chest.
The repair yard appears through the trees as a scatter of corrugated metal buildings surrounded by chain link fencing. Rust stains the lower walls. Stacks of tires lean beside stripped vehicle frames, and weeds push through cracks in the gravel lot.
A faded sign reads Cypress County Fleet and Tool.
Tom turns through the open gate. The owner waits near the office with both hands visible and an expression that suggests he regrets every month-to-month lease he has ever signed. Deputies spread through the yard before the rest of us park.
I leave the engine running for the air conditioner. Roman catches my wrist as I reach for the door. “Her temperature first.”
Scarlet gives him a wounded look.
“We need accurate medical monitoring, love.”
She accepts the thermometer and waits.
I watch the numbers climb, then settle.
“One hundred one point three,” Roman says.
Lower. Still too high.
Scarlet takes a long drink from the bottle in her lap. “Go search the bay.”
Her scent curls around me, inviting my every alpha instinct to remain beside her. I lean into the back seat and kiss her forehead.
“Doors locked. Windows closed. Roman stays with you.”
She presses her mouth to mine before I can withdraw. The kiss is warm and lingering, her fingers holding my collar while her body seeks my scent.
When she releases me, her pupils are wider. “Come back before the next wave,” she whispers.
“I will.”
The promise leaves no room for failure.
I step out and lock the vehicle from the outside. Roman can release it from within. A deputy takes position ten feet from the SUV, while another watches the tree line.
Tom meets me near the storage row. “Bay seven is the third door on the left. Owner says the renter paid cash for two months, then switched to the temporary festival account.”
“Surveillance?”
“Office camera covers the main drive. Rear row has a blind spot.”
“Convenient.”
“He claims the system predates his ownership.”
The lock on bay seven is new. County evidence photographs it before Tom cuts it free.
Metal scrapes across concrete as the door rises.
Heat trapped overnight spills into the morning.
The unit smells of oil, old rubber, dried vegetation, and the faint chemical sweetness I’ve learned to recognize too quickly: GatorX carrier.
Tom catches it a moment later. “That smell.”
“Yes.”
The bay is narrow and organized. Shelving lines one wall. Motorcycle parts sit inside labeled bins. A folding table occupies the rear, beneath a portable work light.
At first glance, there is no Love Stone or archive pages. There isn’t equipment capable of producing GatorX either. This is a staging site.
The county technician photographs the entrance while I move along the marked path.
A white magnetic Magnolia Event Florals sign rests against a wall. Beside it sits a box of cheap stone charms identical to the one placed in Honey’s package. White ribbon fills a plastic tote. Dried marigolds, swamp lilies, and shredded packing paper have been separated into clear bags.
Tom looks over the collection. “Enough to build every package.”
“Instructions.” I point toward the table.
Printed property photographs lie beneath a clear acrylic sheet. Scarlet’s cottage. Honey’s house. Cypress Kiss Rentals. Each image has arrows marking delivery points and camera coverage. The photograph of Scarlet’s cottage includes a handwritten note. Kitchen sight line.
My alpha pushes forward so violently that cedar floods the bay.
Tom steps closer, reading over my shoulder. “Local knowledge.”
“Or surveillance provided by someone local.”
A county technician lifts a pale glove from the table with forceps. The leather is worn across the palm. Dark staining marks the inside near the wrist. “Possible biological material,” she says.
“Bag it.”
Tom looks toward the glove. “Matches the footage.”
“It supports Rusk as the courier.”
I force my attention back to the evidence. A Hollow Saints patch lies in a drawer beneath burner phones, route receipts, and several rolls of electrical tape. The patch is incomplete, its backing cut away. It could belong to Rusk, or it could have been planted to make the connection obvious.
“Club prospect?” Tom asks.
“Possible. Won’t know until the index confirms membership.”
A sharp pulse of distress presses through my bond with Roman.
I turn toward the open bay. Scarlet’s scent reaches me across the yard, despite the distance and closed vehicle. It thickens, sweetening under the rising sun. Roman opens the SUV door only far enough to call my name.
I cross the yard before Tom finishes speaking.
Scarlet is curled against Roman’s side, breathing through her mouth while one hand presses low against her stomach. Sweat dampens the hair at her temples.
I climb into the back seat and close the door behind me. The vehicle fills with her heat.
Her hand reaches for me. “Alpha.”
“I’m here, little omega.” I pull her across my lap. Roman supports her legs while I press my palm against the cramp. Her body folds toward the pressure.
“Did you find it?” she asks.
“Some.”
“The Love Stone?”
“No.”
She closes her eyes, breathing cedar from my throat. “Then it isn’t over.”
“No, sweetheart. Not yet.”
Roman pushes the cooling cloth against the back of her neck. “The bay is a transfer point.”
Scarlet opens her eyes. “The route.”
I take out my phone and show her the exterior photograph of the storage row. Behind bay seven, an old service lane slips through the fence and bends toward dense cypress.
She tries to focus despite the heat. “That isn’t the drainage road on the county map.”
“What is it?” I ask.
She enlarges the photograph with trembling fingers. “The old access line from my grandmother’s overlay runs south of here. This lane could meet it beyond the fence.”
Tom approaches the SUV but stops several feet away and signals to his phone. A ping comes a second later.
“They found a second document.”
He sent it electronically instead of approaching the door. My instincts barely register the courtesy.
An image appears on my screen. A typed delivery schedule lists dates, locations, and coded package descriptions. At the bottom, a narrow line has been drawn from bay seven toward the old cypress access.
Someone wrote one instruction beside it. Do not follow past transfer.
Scarlet studies it. “Rusk was never supposed to know where the route ended.”
Heat pulses through the SUV, slick, its perfume rising. She buries her face against my neck, and her teeth graze my skin as her body searches for relief. I hold her closer. Roman’s fingers lace through hers.
Technicians continue searching the bay while deputies spread toward the rear fence. A shout rises from behind the storage row. One of the officers has found fresh motorcycle tracks.
The tracks cut through the weeds toward the old cypress access, following a route Scarlet’s grandmother mapped.