Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
It was Rev, who was at the gate shack this morning, rotating watch. His voice came through, low and bored, as if nothing surprised him, because it was rare that anything did. “Two suits at the gate. Marshals. Want a word. Credentials say Callahan and Gomez.”
I glanced at Kane and saw the decision land. He didn’t blink. “Send an officer to walk them to my office.”
“Copy.” The line clicked off.
I rolled my neck, the crack loud in the quiet room, and felt the stiffness in my gut tighten.
We didn’t wait long before we heard footsteps in the hall. Their knock was polite, the way cops made it, calculated to make civilians feel small. Then the door opened, and two men in suits stepped in.
Nitro stood behind them, but when Kane lifted his chin, Nitro pivoted and disappeared down the hall.
The first one in a suit was in his mid-thirties, tall, broad-shouldered, and with a square jaw carved, as if he practiced in the mirror. The badge clipped to his belt flashed when he moved. The second was older, leaner, with tired eyes and posture that said he’d seen enough bitter endings to stop believing in clean ones.
“Boys,” Kane drawled, leaning back in his chair again, every inch the calm predator. “To what do we owe this visit?”
“Helix Callahan,” the first one introduced himself without offering a hand he knew wouldn’t be taken. “Marshal Service. We’d like to discuss a matter involving one of your employees. Lark Whittaker.”
I stilled, every muscle tightening, but I didn’t say a word. Not yet.
Helix pivoted his stare to me the way men do when they recognize the problem in the room.
“Jaxton Bishop.” He didn’t bother to hide the distaste over my first name. “You’ve got itchy fingers.”
“Only when there’s a rash,” I replied, deadpan.
Helix opened his mouth, but he held back when Kane stood. He leaned his knuckles on the wood and let the silence do the work for a beat too long before speaking. “You’re standing in my office. Choose your words carefully.”
There was a lethal undercurrent to his tone.
The older marshal—Gomez—cut Helix a look that landed somewhere between warning and weary acceptance. “We caught a shadow where one shouldn’t be,” he offered, his tone not unkind but firm. “If you’re curious about federal archives, there are channels.”
“I don’t use doors that lock behind me,” I returned.
Ignoring Gomez, Helix stepped closer by an inch, and the air in the room shifted. He locked eyes with me. Direct. Territorial. “Ms. Whittaker is under the protection of the United States Marshals. You rummage around where you don’t belong again, Bishop, and protection gets harder.”
I tilted my head, watching him the way I watched a bad line of code—searching for the flaw that explained the whole mess. He had it. The extra heat. The tightened jaw when he said her alias. The way his eyes hardened when mine didn’t look away.
“Let me guess,” I murmured. “You did a walk-through at her last address. Dropped a ‘call me if you feel unsafe’ card. Wrote your personal number on it. And you’ve been hoping she needs a hero.”
Helix flushed, quick and sharp. Bull’s-eye.
Gomez sighed under his breath. “Dammit, kid.”
Helix recovered fast, but not fast enough. “Stay out of this. She’s none of your business.”
My blood iced, and the room went silent. Even Kane’s smirk faded to something colder.
“She’s mine.” I didn’t raise my voice. Didn’t need to. The line landed and sat there like a weight. “She works under our roof. On our tracks. That makes her my business.”
Helix’s nostrils flared. “You’ll walk away. Or we’ll make you.”
Kane’s gaze slid to me, not to stop me, but to be sure I didn’t do something that would require acid and a shovel. I didn’t take my eyes off Helix as I stepped forward. “You want me gone? You’ll have to bury me first.”
Helix’s eyes burned, but he didn’t move. Then Gomez laid a hand on his arm.
Kane’s voice cut the tension like a blade. “You’re done here. My club, my employee. You want to make this official, go through channels. Otherwise, get the fuck out of my office.”
For a second, nobody breathed. Finally, Gomez stepped between us, palms slightly up like he didn’t want anyone to misread the move. “We’re not here to posture. We’re here to tell you there are eyes on this now. Keep your club out of our systems. If you’ve got concerns about the witness, call this number.” He set a card on the edge of Kane’s desk. “Ask for me.”
Kane finally straightened. “Like I said, we’re done.”
For a long second, nobody moved. Then Helix snapped his jaw shut, turned on his heel, and stalked out. Gomez inclined his head. The door closed behind them with a soft latch that felt like a trigger reset.
My hands had curled into fists, and I unclenched them slowly. My breath steadied from the controlled place I kept it when violence was close and stupid. Under my skin, jealousy gnawed like a small, mean animal. I didn’t like that he knew her name. Didn’t like that he’d imagined himself the answer to it. Didn’t like that his federal hands had been the ones pretending she was safe.