Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
Siren woke with the weight of Reed’s arm across her waist. His body was warm against her back. His hand rested on her stomach like it belonged there.
She didn’t move. Her wolf purred inside her mind, still insistent that she claim her mate, but content in a way she wasn’t used to. It felt like something had shifted inside her.
She let herself stay inside Reed’s warmth for a moment longer. Last night he told her he loved her. Offered himself to her completely. “I’ll wait for you forever.”
She thought about her mother. How every new boyfriend was like her salvation. How she’d crumbled when Siren’s father died, and the parade of men that followed. Each one promising to fill the hole her father left. Each one more disappointing than the one before.
Then there was the last one before Siren had left. The memory of the way he looked at her still made her skin crawl. She’d told her mother about her loser boyfriend. The third one that year. Yet, her mother had still chosen him.
Siren had learned something important the year she joined the Army. Men make you weak. Men make you make bad choices. Men make you betray the people who need you most.
But Reed wasn’t like that. He didn’t make her weak. He wasn’t trying to change her. He knew she was the Reaper. Knew her darkness and violence, the blood on her hands. He let her take whatever she wanted without flinching. Without shame.
Maybe it could last?
She slipped out from under his arm, not wanting to wake him. The morning air was cool as she found her clothes and dressed. She started the little coffee pot and looked for something to make for breakfast.
There was a package of pancake mix in the cupboard. She pulled it out, measured it into a bowl and added water. Reed had been doing most of the cooking, which she appreciated. But this morning she felt like doing it herself.
She sprayed the pan with oil and poured in the batter. The scent of pancakes and coffee filled the small space. Reed stirred as she flipped the first pancake, and he slowly climbed out of bed, pulling on his pants.
“Smells good,” he said, reaching for a mug from the cabinet.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek. It was such an automatic action that she didn’t have time to resist or respond.
He sipped his coffee while breaking down the bed into the dinette.
When he was done, he sat at the table, with his coffee in hand.
She passed him his plate of pancakes and joined him with her own.
They ate in silence, neither of them willing to broach what had transpired between them. He’d told her he loved her. She hadn’t said it back. He kissed her on the cheek without permission, and she hadn’t pulled away.
Things had changed between them. A boundary had been crossed. And saying it out loud would only make it more obvious.
They were on the highway by nine. She called James on the burner while Reed drove, making an appointment with him at two. When she finished the call, she watched the cornfields roll by, the horizon a straight line in every direction.
“What’s your history with James?” Reed asked, making conversation.
“We both worked in Army intelligence in Afghanistan. He was good at his job. We respected each other. He has access to databases I can’t reach anymore. If anyone can match Diana’s intel to the military contractor who ordered Carl’s murder, it’s him.”
Three hours later, they entered the suburbs outside of Chicago.
After miles of strip malls and overpasses, the city skyline rose against the sharp blue sky.
Reed navigated through traffic, following Siren’s directions to the West Loop.
It was a mix of converted warehouses and newer buildings that housed tech companies and consulting firms.
Northpoint Advisory Group was in a three-story brick building wedged between a wine bar and a yoga studio. The small lobby had tile floors, brass mailboxes, and a directory listing a therapist, an architect, and an acupuncturist.
They took the stairs to the third floor. James’s door was at the end of the hall. They walked through into a small waiting room. There were several chairs, and a wood side table with magazines on it. On the wall were framed photos of what looked like north African landscapes.
A middle-aged woman sat behind a reception window. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“We’re Sarah and Michael Philips. We have an appointment with James Okonkwo at 2 PM.”
She pressed a button and the door to the adjoining room clicked open. Reed held the door for Siren and they walked through.
James’s office had big windows looking out on the street below. Bookshelves lined one wall, with volumes on military history and intelligence theory. A prayer rug was rolled up in the corner.
James stood from behind the desk and came around to greet her, taking both of her hands in his. James was a muscular, attractive black man in his late forties.
“Siren,” he said, warmly. “You look good. Better than the last time I saw you in Kandahar.”
“That’s a low bar,” she chuckled.
His eyes moved to Reed. “This must be the witness.”
“Reed Bright,” she said, her voice almost possessive.
“Reed.” James extended a hand.
“Thank you for seeing us,” Reed said.
He invited them to sit in the two chairs on the other side of his desk. “Siren doesn’t ask for favors often. When she calls, I listen. What do you need?”
Siren handed James Diana’s files. “We’re looking for the person who runs this LLC in Wyoming.
The officer names cannot be tracked. We assume they are pseudonyms. We’ve traced the money flow from Ashcroft Holdings, and we assume this LLC is a private military contractor involved in anti-shifter operations.
Responsible for several murders in our area. ”
James studied the documents. “Who filed the incorporation paperwork?”
“A law firm in Cheyenne. Harmon & Associates,” Siren said.
James typed, staring at his computer. “Harmon & Associates has filed incorporation paperwork for six subsidiaries of Vanguard Security International.”
“Can you connect Vanguard Security to Teton Resource Group?”
“It’s the same law firm. Let me pull up Vanguard’s corporate profile.” He typed for a minute, scrolled on his mouse. “It’s a Virginia outfit with government contracts on the books and legitimate work on paper.”
“Who runs Vanguard?” Siren asked
James typed. “Thomas Draven is the founder and CEO. Doing a background search.” They waited while James typed into his databases. “Looks like he’s former military. An army major. Left about eleven years ago and founded Vanguard within a year.”
“The Major,” Reed said quietly.
James looked up at him, raising an eyebrow.
“On the recording of the murder I captured, Carl Unger’s handler mentioned the Major not liking to leave loose ends.”
“Do you have a photo of Draven?” Siren asked.
James clicked a few times. “Sending it to your phone.”
A moment later, she got a ping on her cellphone. The photo showed a man in his early fifties. Gray hair buzzed short. Deep-set eyes, a nose that had been broken at least once.
“This is him,” she said as a statement. “This is the man who’s been hunting us.”
James printed out everything. The corporate structure. Draven’s military record. The photo. And handed her a folder.
“Draven is dangerous and connected.” Jame’s voice was flat. “You shouldn’t go after him alone.”
“I’m with Dominic Steel’s pack,” she said. “I won’t move unless he’s confident.”
“Call me if you need back up. I have resources.”
“Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”
“Be careful.” He shook her hand again. Then Reed’s. “Both of you.”