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“Bastard. Fucking whoreson,” she muttered, then pulled up her contact list and hit Duke’s number.
“Where are you?” The demand was made instantly.
“Evidently where you couldn’t find me before this call,” she snapped. “You bastard-Natches-Mackay wannabe.” It was the worst insult she could come up with. “Calling my brother and pushing his buttons. I’m going to shoot your ass.”
What information had he found on her? Had he already given it to Natches and Chaya? Or was he calling her first?
“Someone hit the safe house an hour ago,” he stated without responding to the threat. “Bliss wasn’t there, but they were looking for her.” A second attempt in less than twenty-four hours meant someone was damned serious.
Angel checked the clock. It was nearly two in the morning. The perfect time to hit a safe house and catch the inhabitants off guard.
“Is she safe?” she asked, pushing back anger, pain, everything but protecting her sister.
“For now,” he assured her. “But I’m not a stupid man, Angel. And I didn’t spend five years proving who you were to discount who you’ve become and how damned good you are at it. Now, are you going to help me protect your sister, or are you going to keep hiding?”
Proving who she was . . . He knew. He’d proven it.
She had to blink back the moisture that filled her eyes, force back the hurt that threatened to break free.
He was a Mackay and he knew who she had been, as he stated; that meant every other Mackay living would know as well. Or did they already know?
“You told her?” she asked, referring to her mother, her heart aching, breaking further because she knew it wouldn’t matter to Chaya Mackay.
“I gave Natches proof, something you should have tried,” he informed her, the snap in his tone assuring her he had an issue with her where her delivery was concerned. “But I waited. Remember that, Angel. I gave you a chance before I gave him the proof.”
He could kiss her ass with his chances as far as she was concerned.
“I gave her the benefit of the doubt by not jerking Bliss out of the game to begin with,” she shot back instead. “I’ve been on this call long enough that I’m sure you’ve traced it. I’ll be waiting.”
She disconnected the call and messaged Tracker again.
Taken care of. I won’t forget. She wouldn’t forget that his demand was putting her in Natches’s and Chaya’s sights and the damage that resulted would lay on his head.
She stared at the phone far longer than it should have taken him to message back. Just as she placed the phone on the table to get up and get dressed, his final message came through.
It’s time to stop running. I love you, little sister.
She stared at the message for long, intense moments. Not even his parents had ever told her they loved her. From the beginning it had been Tracker who comforted her, called her “little sister,” and fought to protect her rather than simply training her.
Godspeed, she typed in reply.
She wouldn’t stay angry with him, and both of them knew it. No matter the outcome, no matter the cost, she wouldn’t blame him. Because she was the only person Tracker had given those words to, and she knew it.
She was, in his eyes, his baby sister, just as Bliss was her sister in truth. And those ties were ones she’d never allow to be broken, because God knew, no one else allowed them.
FOUR
The safe house that the assailants believed Bliss was being protected in was located just within the Somerset city limits on a quiet residential street. Or, it had been quiet until gunfire had filled the night, awakening neighbors and terrifying the children that had never experienced such shocking violence.
Thankfully, Bliss wasn’t actually there. Chaya had taken her to the neighboring county, where several lesser known, but no less hardened, cousins had gathered to ensure her protection.
Leaning forward to get a better look Angel tried to ignore the man sitting next to her and concentrated on what was going on instead. Police cruisers, both city as well as state, lined the street as officers moved around the small two-story house. Windows were shattered, the front door riddled with bullet holes, and the fact that violence had touched this previously quiet street was readily apparent.
Alex Jansen, the chief of police, stood on the once well-manicured front lawn nodding at the female detective who stood next to him, pointing something out. Next to the detective, the sheriff listened, his expression brooding and angry.
Detective Samantha Bryce was dressed in her customary jeans and T-shirt, a low-profile white ball cap on her head, a mass of dark brown curls hanging from the back of it to the middle of her back. Sneakers covered her feet; a holstered handgun was secured on her belt.
The sheriff was no more a typically dressed sheriff than the detective. Shane Mayes, son of a former sheriff, wore jeans as well, boots, and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled back along his strong forearms, rather than the typical uniform.
