The Powerbroker (Norcross Security #6)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

V isiting police headquarters was never his favorite thing to do.

Vander Norcross straightened his suit jacket, then strode across the street. His reason for today’s visit to the guys and gals in blue had him in a bad mood.

His long stride ate up the sidewalk. Due to the nice, late-spring weather, and the fact that police headquarters was in Mission Bay, right next door to his own office, he’d decided to walk.

Hopefully, he could shake his sense of impending doom before he got there.

His years in the military—many of those leading a covert Ghost Ops team on dangerous, impossible missions—had taught him to never ignore his instincts.

That got you killed, fast.

He was due to meet with his friend Detective Hunter “Hunt” Morgan in fifteen minutes. Vander knew he owed his friend several times over. Hunt had helped Norcross Security out loads of times, and had run interference for them more times than Vander could count.

Running a successful private investigations and security firm kept him busy. Unlike Hunt, who was hampered by the rules, Vander could operate quite happily in the gray.

He did whatever the fuck was necessary to keep his people, his family, and friends safe.

What Hunt was asking him to do was screwed. Put a detective—a female one—undercover with the worst biker gang in San Francisco.

No, it did not sit right with Vander at all.

Suddenly, a figure detached itself from the shadows of a nearby alley. South Beach was filled with renovated warehouses and buildings, like the one Vander gutted to create the Norcross Security office. But if you were looking for the shadows, you could still find them.

“Hey!” The young man brandished a pocketknife. “Give me your wallet and watch.”

Vander cocked a brow. The man’s voice had a faint Southern twang, and he clearly wasn’t from around here.

His pale skin was flushed, his red hair mussed, and his pupils were dilated.

He was also perspiring. He was high on something.

Probably Stardust. There’d been an influx of the synthetic drug lately.

“You don’t want to do this,” Vander said.

“I said give me your wallet!” Spittle flew from the man’s mouth. “And that shiny watch, Mr. Fancy Suit.”

Vander was partial to his Omega. Had no plans to hand it over.

He sighed. “You sure you want to do this?”

“I’ll stick you! Shut up, and hand them over.”

Vander moved.

His first hit was to the man’s arm, and his would-be attacker dropped his knife with a sharp cry. Vander spun, and followed up with a quick elbow to the face. The guy cried out again and Vander kicked his legs out from under him. The man fell heavily to the sidewalk and let out a strangled groan.

Vander pressed his boot to the man’s back, and picked up the pocketknife. Then he yanked some zip ties from his jacket pocket and trussed the man’s wrists and ankles together.

“You’re not from around here, so I took it easy on you.”

The man flopped like a fish. “What the fuck? What the fuck!”

Vander crouched. “My name’s Vander Norcross.”

The young man froze, fear seeping into his eyes.

“Oh, so you have heard of me.” Vander leaned closer and lowered his voice. “This is my turf. I don’t like innocent people getting attacked and mugged by junkies.”

“I-I-I—”

“Won’t do it again.” Vander lowered his voice to icy levels. “If I hear you’re approaching anyone, I’ll find out and I’ll make you regret it.” He gave the man an icy half smile. “I’m good at finding people. You get me?”

The man nodded rapidly.

“Good.” Vander rose.

“…ah, you going to untie me?”

“No.” Vander started walking away.

“Hey, what about my knife?”

“I’m keeping it.”

Vander strode away and crossed the bridge over Mission Bay. Soon, he spotted the Public Safety Building complex that housed the San Francisco Police Department headquarters, along with the local fire station and arson team.

He entered the police station and checked in at reception. He also handed in the knife and reported his Southern friend.

The cop behind the glass rolled her eyes. “Is he bleeding, Norcross?”

“Please. I can take down a hopped-up junkie without bloodshed, Officer Cortez. He wasn’t even bruised.”

The woman grinned. “You can take me down anytime you like.”

Vander smiled at her. “That big, ex-footballer husband of yours might not be happy about that.”

Officer Cortez sighed. “True. Go through. You know the way.”

Vander navigated the corridors and headed up to where Hunt and the other detectives had their offices. The building was all concrete and glass, and very modern.

He passed a crying woman with mascara running down her face, who was being consoled by a detective. The background soundtrack was ringing phones and murmured conversations. It was a far cry from being in the military. Hunt had been Delta Force, until an injury had forced him to retire.

Vander had left Ghost Ops before he’d had to. The military would’ve kept him. He’d been good at killing, and good at keeping his men alive in the shittiest of circumstances. His heart thumped hard once. Not all of them, though. Some had never come home.

He’d seen things that the crying woman behind him couldn’t even imagine in her worst nightmares.

He reached Hunt’s office. The detective was standing, talking on the phone.

“Yes, I need it impounded. Yes, I needed it done yesterday.” Hunt spotted Vander and waved him in.

The office was small and neat. Hunt wasn’t one for many trinkets, and he wasn’t married, so no photos of a pretty wife and kids.

There was a framed picture of him with his two brothers.

Ryder, a paramedic, who patched up the Norcross guys on occasion.

He also donated his time at a free clinic in the Tenderloin.

Camden was also Ghost Ops, and about to get out.

Vander had offered him a job at Norcross.

Hunt hung up the phone. “Hi, Vander.”

“Hunt.”

The detective kept in shape. Leaving Delta Force hadn’t softened him. His light-brown hair was cut short, and his eyes were a deep green. He circled the desk and leaned against it. “You’re still unhappy about this.”

Vander cocked a brow. “About you railroading me into putting an unknown woman in a dangerous position with a motorcycle club? Yes.”

“She’s not a woman, she’s a detective. A good one. And she’s on her way, so she won’t be unknown for long.”

Vander grunted. He wandered over to one of the shelves. Hunt had a glass paperweight made to look like a police badge. Cute. Vander lifted it. “If she’s experienced, Trucker might know who she is.”

Trucker Patterson was the head of the Iron Wanderers MC. He was an all-around asshole, but Vander kept lines of communication open with the man. It let Trucker know that Vander was watching him.

The Wanderers kept a pretty public-friendly face, with a clubhouse and garage out in Oakland.

Not all the members were assholes. Some just liked the lifestyle—bikes, riding, parties, living free.

But behind the scenes, there were some who were involved in illegal shit—usually drugs and weapons.

There were plenty of law-abiding motorcycle clubs around; the Iron Wanderers wasn’t one of them.

“Sullivan hasn’t been a detective long,” Hunt said.

Vander groaned. “A newbie? You’re fucking kidding me, Hunt. How many undercover assignments has she done?”

Hunt held up a hand. “Hear me out, she’s new but good. This is her third undercover assignment.”

Vander bit out a curse.

“As the lead ,” Hunt continued. “She’s been on other undercover assignments as part of the team. She’s solid, Vander.”

“Hunt, this is a fucking bad idea. Sending a female, an inexperienced one, at that, into the Wanderers’ clubhouse is like sending a lamb to the slaughter.”

“ Baaaa ,” an amused voice said from the doorway. “The difference is this lamb is trained and armed.”

Vander snapped his head around. He didn’t drop the paperweight, but damned if his pulse didn’t spike.

He didn’t like it. He’d learned years ago to control his emotions. When you were standing in the back of a Blackhawk, waiting to fast rope into hell, you learned to keep all your reactions and emotions under control.

Control was something Vander practiced in all aspects of his life.

“Vander Norcross,” Hunt said, “Detective Brynn Sullivan.”

She smiled. She had thick, brown hair, but brown was totally the wrong word to describe it.

There were many different shades in it, from caramel to chocolate, and it was pulled back in a sleek ponytail.

She wore black, fitted pants, and a pale blue shirt tucked into them.

On her belt was a holstered SIG Sauer and her badge.

She was medium height, with a fit body, and sharp eyes the color of her shirt. She studied him steadily, meeting his gaze straight on.

Vander realized then how few people did that.

She held out her hand. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but we both know I’d be lying. You think I’m, what was it? Female and inexperienced, and I’ve heard all about you.”

Vander shook her hand. Her grip was firm, her fingernails natural and cut short. This close to her, he saw she had an intriguing sprinkle of freckles across her nose.

“Really?” he said.

Brynn Sullivan stepped back. “Dangerous, with a blatant disregard for the law.”

Hunt made a choked sound.

Vander didn’t take his gaze off her. He raised a brow. “I think blatant is a bit much. I respect the law.”

“Except when it gets in your way?” she challenged.

“Detective, I don’t let anything get in my way.”

* * *

Vander Norcross was so much more than she’d expected.

Brynn Sullivan kept her face carefully neutral. With two nosy sisters and one overprotective brother, she’d had lots of practice.