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Havana saw something in their eyes that made her go still. “Don’t even think about it.”
Bailey rose to her feet. “It’s gonna happen.”
“I mean it, don’t.”
Aspen stood. “You’re gonna have to suck it up.”
“Do not hug—” Havana ground her teeth as both rounded the table and wrapped their arms around her. “You girls are such bitches.”
The bearcat smiled. “We love you, too.”
Bailey’s nose wrinkled. “We do?”
Aspen lightly slapped the mamba over the head, which only made Bailey snicker.
Just as the girls released her, Havana’s cell phone began to ring. She grabbed it from the table and sighed. Tate. “Speak of the devil …” She swiped her thumb over the screen and answered, “Hello.”
“Need you to meet me outside your building,” he said. “If you’re not dressed yet, do it fast.”
She froze at the urgency in his tone. “Why?”
“One of my contacts just called,” he said. “Someone tipped the guy off as to where Sinclair is. I’m guessing you’d like to come along while we nab him.”
Oh, she most certainly would. “I’ll be five minutes.” Ending the call, Havana told the girls, “Tate knows where Sinclair is. You guys coming?”
“Absofuckinglutely,” stated Aspen.
Bailey tipped her head toward the bearcat. “What she said.”
Havana stood. “Then grab your shit. Let’s go.”
Standing across the street from the single-story motel, Havana couldn’t help but think it was a sad sight to behold. Dirty windowpanes. Peeling paint. Blackened bricks. A flickering vacancy sign with burned-out letters.
Trash littered the sidewalk and parking lot. Weeds sprouted through the cracks in the pavement. The surrounding trees were leafless and decayed.
The windows looked old and cloudy, but they wouldn’t have provided a clear glimpse of Sinclair’s room anyway, since the guy had pulled the curtains shut.
She looked at Tate. “Told you the universe was trying to clue me into something with the constant motel signs, didn’t I?”
He frowned and went back to staring at the building.
People really needed to listen to her more often, in Havana’s opinion.
“What’s the plan?” Aspen asked no one in particular. “Are we knocking on the door or just barging in?”
“If we knock, we put him on alert,” said Tate. “If we barge in, we can take him off-guard.”
Alex rolled back his shoulders. “Then we barge in.” The wolverine wasn’t part of Tate’s ranks, but Alex acted as an interrogator when needed.
Havana couldn’t lie, she was disappointed that she wouldn’t get to do much interrogating of her own—in fact, so was her inner devil. But Havana’s main concern was getting some answers.
“Barging in works for me,” said Vinnie.
Tate gently squeezed her wrist and shot her a “be careful” look. He’d been watching her closely, as if sensing that something was wrong, but he hadn’t commented on it. “Let’s move,” he ordered.
Luke and Farrell flanked him as they all crossed to the motel. Even from outside the door to Sinclair’s room, Havana could hear the TV blaring.
Tate snapped out his leg and booted the door open. They charged inside the room, ready to attack and defend. Then they skidded to a halt, and Havana’s mouth dropped open. Jesus.
Sinclair was slouched in the bulky chair, his eyes wide and unseeing, his face and jaw slack … and a fucking bullet hole in his forehead.
“Hell,” said Vinnie.
Tate’s mouth went tight. “Someone else got to him first. Probably Gideon to cover his auction-related tracks.” He swore, his nostrils flaring.
Luke circled the deceased shifter. “Single shot to the head. He was bound tight to the chair but not tortured, so I’d say he answered their questions without putting up any kind of resistance.”
“He’s been dead a few hours at least,” said Alex.
Which was why it goddamn reeked in here. Both the coppery scent of blood and nauseating scent of death were heavy in the room, mingling with the cloying smells of urine, mold, and stale cigarette smoke. It made her devil’s nose wrinkle in distaste.
“Do a quick check of the room, Farrell; see if there’s anything interesting among his belongings,” said Tate.
“Sure thing.” Farrell then began rummaging through a small, wobbly dresser.
Tate checked Sinclair’s pockets. “No cell phone. Whoever shot him probably took it in case there was anything incriminating on it.”
“There’s one here.” Havana grabbed the phone beside the old TV and skimmed through the call log and messages. “There’s nothing on it. No texts, no saved contacts, no history in the call log. It’s gotta be a burner.”
Bailey glanced at the phone. “It looks brand new. There are no scratches or smudges on the screen.” She sighed. “On the plus side, you don’t have to worry that Sinclair’s going to attempt to finish the job he started and kidnap you.”
Yeah, there was that. Havana inhaled, sifting through the various smells, but she couldn’t pick up the scents of any people other than Sinclair and the shifters who’d accompanied her here. Any others seemed to have long since faded.
