Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
Something was off.
From the moment Duke had stepped into the lobby, he’d spotted the man pretending to read a newspaper across the room. His baseball cap was pulled low, his jacket collar turned up despite the warm air, and his posture too stiff for someone “relaxing” in a hotel lobby.
Every so often, the man’s gaze flicked toward the group.
Finally, Duke caught a glimpse of his face.
He recognized the man from Pam’s photos.
Colin Hoffman.
Gina’s ex.
Of course he’d show up. Men like him always did.
Without shifting his stance or giving anything away, Duke murmured to Andi, “Take Rupert and everyone else upstairs.”
Her brows knit together. “Duke, what—?”
But she’d already followed his gaze.
She saw Colin, and her body went still.
“What’s he doing here?” she murmured.
“I’ll find out.” Duke stepped away from the group, cutting through the lobby with deliberate calm. “Colin Hoffman.”
Colin’s head snapped up. Behind the rim of his glasses, his eyes widened—not with confusion but with shock.
For one solid second, the two of them locked eyes across the lobby.
Then Colin darted from his seat.
He ran.
He shoved through the revolving door so hard that the glass panels stuttered as they spun. A guest yelped as the door nearly swallowed him.
Duke was already moving, his long strides slicing through the space between them.
He burst outside and caught sight of Colin darting down the sidewalk, the glow of streetlights smearing across damp pavement.
“Colin! Stop!” Duke shouted. “We just want to talk!”
Colin didn’t slow. He pumped his arms harder, sprinting along the narrow downtown street.
Friday-night traffic was thin—just the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, the distant blare of a horn, and the sharp echo of their footsteps ricocheting between tall buildings.
Somewhere nearby, a cable car bell clanged, the sound floating up through the fog like a warning.
The street pitched steeply enough that Duke had to adjust his stride, leaning back slightly to keep from gaining too much speed. San Francisco never let you forget its hills—not when you were chasing someone on foot.
Two blocks in, Duke could already tell Colin wasn’t built for this. His breathing turned ragged and his shoulders hitched with each step, his pace uneven as the incline punished muscles unused to real exertion.
That hesitation—that weakness—gave Duke the edge.
Colin veered sharply into an alley wedged between brick buildings, with dumpsters lining the walls. The air smelled of sour trash and salt blown in from the bay. A stray cat hissed and shot under a splintered pallet as Colin clipped a recycling bin, sending bottles clattering across the concrete.
The sound exploded in the narrow space, magnified by the close walls and the slope of the ground, which dropped away sharply toward the next street.
Duke hurdled the debris without breaking stride, boots thudding hard as he pushed deeper into the alley, the city closing in around them—tight, vertical, unforgiving.
The alley dumped out onto a busier street.
Colin veered right, barreling through the propped-open rear door of a restaurant.
Voices exploded in Spanish.
A cook shouted as Duke followed, the hot air thick with the smell of cilantro, lime, and sizzling oil.
Colin skidded on the damp tile, arms flailing. His shoe lost traction on a strip of dropped onion.
He went down on one knee.
Duke closed the gap.
Colin bolted again—out a side exit this time—then scrambled toward a chain-link fence behind the restaurant. He grabbed the metal with shaky hands, trying to climb, expensive dress shoes slipping on the links.
Duke caught Colin’s ankle just as he reached the top.
Colin yelped and kicked wildly, but Duke yanked him down.
They hit the pavement together. Colin’s palms slapped the concrete, his breath tearing out of him in a strangled gasp.
Duke planted a knee on the man’s back, pinning him in place. “Enough. You’re done.”
Then Colin twisted his head up, terror blazing in his eyes—and whispered, voice cracking as he said, “It wasn’t me.”
“Where in the world did Duke just run off to?” Rupert’s voice was loud enough that the night-shift receptionist flinched. “Did he just chase someone? In public? Where people have phones? This is how scandals start!”
Andi didn’t respond.
Instead, she strode toward the revolving doors, worry coursing through her.
Before she could step through, Ranger’s hand closed gently—but firmly—around her arm. “Andi. Let Duke handle it.”
She hated his words. But Ranger wasn’t wrong.
Duke had training. Chase-and-subdue situations were practically his native language.
“Handle what?” Rupert demanded, pacing in frantic little loops, his leather portfolio clutched to his chest like a flotation device. “Why is everyone behaving like cryptic woodland creatures? I hate cryptic!”
Andi glanced through the glass doors but saw . . . nothing.
Only the quiet, downtown San Francisco street.
Duke had vanished into the city.
Andi turned toward her team. “We should go up to our rooms until we know more.”
“But—” Rupert began.
“Now, Rupert.”
Something in her tone froze him mid-protest.
He nodded jerkily and followed as they moved toward the elevators, still muttering about liability clauses and ruined Yelp reviews but no longer shrill. They climbed inside, still listening to him.
Finally, the elevator dinged at their floor.
They stepped out into the carpeted hallway, Rupert shuffling behind them and lamenting his shattered itinerary.
Then Andi stopped cold.
Halfway down the corridor, a door stood slightly ajar.
A sliver of darkness visible through the two-inch gap.
That was one of their doors, if she remembered correctly. It was too far away for her to be certain whose. From this distance, they all blended together.
The door wasn’t wide open. Just . . . ajar.
A wrong note in an otherwise orderly hallway.
“Ranger,” Andi said.
He was already moving. “Everyone, stay back.”
Something in the air shifted—cold, electric, heavy with possibility.
Was she reading too much into this? They hadn’t been in town long enough to upset anyone.
But based on past experiences, they needed to be on guard.