Operation 24 The Black Phone #2
God kept his voice controlled. “Not yet. They hear sirens, they might panic. If LAPD sends a negotiator who doesn’t know what the fuck they’re doing, they may decide they’ve already lost and start shooting. I don’t wanna give ’em a reason to accelerate.”
Cassidy’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t argue.
God was shocked he was letting him assume command and hadn’t tried to override his decisions or take over.
Maybe because Cassidy knew this was too personal for him and his strategies could be irrational and too loaded with emotion.
“If they’ve lost brothers and friends, it’s a gamble to think they’ll just let Xander walk after he transfers the money,” Steele said, making perfect sense.
“Exactly,” Cassidy said.
Ruxs turned from the window, Green beside him.
“Let us go get ’em.”
God met their eyes. He knew those expressions.
Ruxs and Green could get in. Maybe.
Day could too.
Steele could ghost through that place and kill all of them.
Even he could put all nine of those bastards down and sleep just fine tonight.
But that wasn’t the issue.
The issue was what happened after.
A warehouse full of dead kidnappers. No warrant. No LAPD presence. No jurisdictional authority. Captain Vega waiting for him and his men to cross the line.
God wasn’t afraid of blood. But he was afraid of prison bars closing around the men he loved.
If they went out and dispensed vigilante justice, Ruxs and Green could spend the rest of their lives in cages.
So could he. It’d mean never holding or making love to his husband again.
God stared at the screen.
Xander’s breathing had gotten worse. Free leaned subtly toward him, shoulder pressing into his, offering contact.
Curtis looked furious and too young to be in this shit.
Tech’s glasses caught the kidnapper’s boots near them, the gun in his hand.
Ruxs and Green were glaring at him, desperation burning in their faces.
Do something!
Cassidy stood near the screen, barely breathing, one hand braced on the table, the other against his chest. If God didn’t move soon, Cassidy would, and in turn, throw his life away to save Xander’s.
God needed help, and he hated that feeling. It felt like a hand gripping the back of his neck and pressing him down.
There was only one man he knew who could get his family out and make sure the problem in front of him never became a problem again.
Not police, or negotiators, or a damn SWAT team.
It was the name of a man God had promised he’d never call on unless the world gave him no other choice.
Day turned toward him slowly as if he’d felt him make the decision.
God left without a word and went into the bedroom.
He unzipped his duffle and dug inside the inner lining beneath the false bottom.
His fingers closed around the black phone.
It was heavier than it appeared.
No apps or contacts list.
One device that’d access one number.
One man.
God stared at the blank screen for half a heartbeat while the sounds from the other room bled through the walls—Cassidy’s rough breathing, Xander’s panic, Free’s live feed as men circled them like vultures waiting on the kill, his brother’s fiancé bound and bleeding.
He powered the phone on.
The screen glowed black with a white flashing curser.
He typed one sentence the man on the other end would understand.
I need your kind of help.
He hit send.
The message marked as delivered.
A couple of seconds later, it marked as read.
No reply came.
A chill ran through him, as if something in the dark had turned its head towards him.
God closed his hand around the phone.
What the fuck did I just do?
He’d invited the devil to Los Angeles…
…and he was on his way.
God
By 2 a.m., God had learned that patience was a lot harder to fake when every man in the room was watching him.
Five fucking hours since the panic alarm had gone off in their ears. Five hours of watching four people God loved and had sworn to protect sit zip-tied on a warehouse floor while nine armed men paced around them with guns, greed, and an appetite for revenge.
God stood staring out of the window of the suite because sitting was impossible.
But he also didn’t pace.
Pacing fueled panic. Pacing told the room the man everyone looked to for answers didn’t know what to do with his own body. So he stood still and let the storm rage around him.
Everyone else was close to losing their minds.
Genesis wanted Curtis back in his arms, it wracked every inch of him. He sat forward on the edge of the couch with his elbows on his knees and his hands locked together so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
Cassidy hadn’t sat down once. Not once in five hours.
He stood glaring out of the other window, one hand braced on the glass, shoulders rigid.
Every few minutes he turned toward the screens where Xander sat with his hands bound in front of him, trying too hard to stay quiet.
Then he’d turn back to the window, jaw working, body humming with a wrath that had nowhere to go… legally.
Ruxs and Green were worse in a different way.
They moved in short, sharp patterns around the room, never far from each other, never far from Genesis, both waiting for permission to do what they did best. Rain down trouble.
Their son had been taken and was tied up, and bleeding. The only reason Ruxs and Green hadn’t destroyed Los Angeles was because God had told them not to.
Steele stood near the far wall, still as ice except for the smooth iron baoding balls rotating in his right hand. His fingers and thumb moved with slow, practiced control, circling the ancient Chinese tools—meant to lower stress and sharpen focus—around each other in his palm.
The man he loved was trapped somewhere across the city, unarmed, pretending his glasses were just glasses while two kidnappers kept circling, hoping he’d step out of line, just once.
Tech and Free stayed quiet on the open line.
They didn’t ask what the plan was. Didn’t ask if God had one. They just stayed still, alive, trusting him to find a way.
That trust was a motherfucker of weight God could feel on his shoulders, grinding down into muscle and bone.
He’d spent his entire career making the impossible happen because his team expected it from him—kick down the door. Find the witness. Stop the shooter. Get the drugs off the streets.
He’d pulled successes out of nothing, dragged survivors from the trenches, and forced justice through the gaping holes in the system.
He thought he’d experienced it all.
He hadn’t.
This was family, and the law had his fucking hands tied behind his back.
He couldn’t tell the room his plan until he knew he was actually coming.
“Where’s your backup, God?” Cassidy’s voice cut across the suite.
Everyone looked at him.
Cassidy’s dark eyes were bloodshot and weary. “You said you sent for help. Where are they?”
God didn’t answer, because he didn’t have one.
Not really.
All he had was a black phone, one text message, and the trust that the man he’d called would honor his word and come when he sent for him.
On screen, Xander shifted, and squirmed on the unforgiving concrete.
One of the kidnappers barked at him to stop moving.
Cassidy flinched as if the command had struck him physically.
Day stepped closer to God, close enough their shoulders touched. He didn’t say anything. His presence was reassurance, a reminder that whatever happened, he wouldn’t be standing alone.
Another hour crawled by in pieces.
Fox’s voice finally came through the speakers.
“God.”
The room snapped toward the screen where Fox’s face stared back from his ranch office. His cap was turned backwards on his head now, his expression hard and focused, the glow of Free’s system painting his face in cold light.
God stepped closer. “What?”
“You’ve got visitors.”
God almost sagged. Almost. Thank fuck.
“Let ’em up.”
Fox glanced at another monitor. “They’ve cleared the lobby. Free’s backdoor still has control of the elevator bank. I’m bringing them to your floor now.”
Cassidy turned from the window.
Ruxs and Green stopped moving.
Steele unfolded himself from the wall.
The wait for the elevator felt longer than the last hour. When the knock came, God opened the door himself.
Seven hooded men stood outside. God moved so they could come in.
The room changed. It wasn’t dramatic. They walked in quietly, one after another, and every trained man in the room understood within three heartbeats that they were looking at predators.
The ones at the very top of the food chain.
These weren’t cops, soldiers, or bodyguards.
To the average eye, they could pass for wealthy businessmen, sleek and untouchable in expensive suits. The hoods added just enough mystery to snag attention, but not long enough to understand why.
The first two wore dark green like the color of damp pine needles.
Not uniforms, nothing that obvious, but coordinated.
Slim tactical jackets over fitted shirts.
Dark pants tucked into boots that made no sound on hotel carpet.
One had bronze skin that he could see, and a close-cut beard.
The other was a bit lighter, sharp-featured, he had burn scars on the lower right side of his chin and neck that seemed to make him even more intriguing.
Behind them was a rougher, heavier man, with a silent power that permeated the room. He wore a whiskey-brown, knee-length leather jacket over a crème collared shirt and tailored brown slacks. He shifted his big body to left and another man appeared from behind him like fucking magic.
He was also in shades of brown. But he was leaner, and smooth as hell, damn near gliding behind the man in front of him.
Shit.
There were eight of them, not seven.
God’s attention caught on a man so strikingly out of place he wondered if the guy understood what kind of company he rolled with.
He seemed serene, almost delicate, in a pristine white hooded jacket, pale Henley, light trousers, and gold-rimmed sunglasses with reflective lenses shielding his eyes.