One hour. He could give Cass one hour.
In the meantime, he had unfinished business with The Chimera Syndicate.
The safe house occupied the ground floor of a shuttered import business—barred windows, faded signage, the kind of unremarkable decay that made civilians’ eyes slide right past.
Riot circled the building twice, staying in blind spots, keeping track of the fine details: fresh tire tracks in the alley—three vehicles in the last twelve hours. Recently maintained cameras with clean lenses and steady power lights. The quality of silence that came from soundproofed rooms and people who knew how to use them.
There were two guards visible through ground-floor windows, both armed—the one on the left favored his right shoulder, probably from a torn rotator cuff, and would be slow on the draw. The other kept touching his hip, checking his weapon compulsively. Nervous. New.
There was a service entrance with an electronic lock and motion sensors along the roofline that he could avoid if he stayed low, only moving during the fifteen-second gap in their sweep pattern.
Forty-seven minutes until he needed to be back.
The lock yielded to techniques from his Gensyn days—a bypass sequence he’d learned from a handler who’d died badly six months later when they discovered the ‘off’ switch on the modifications didn’t work as expected. It was muscle memory from a life that didn’t feel like his anymore. His fingers moved through the motions while his mind stayed focused on threat assessment.
The safe house was larger than it appeared from outside, a maze of interconnected rooms carved out of adjacent buildings through carefully concealed breaches. Storage areas were stacked with unmarked crates. Military-grade communications equipment hummed with active signals in another room. There was a medical facility that smelled like antiseptic and old blood and definitely didn’t ask questions about where injuries came from.
And in what had once been the building’s main office, Ken Nakamura sat behind a mahogany desk that probably cost more than most people earned in a year.
Riot stepped out of the shadows. “We need to talk.”
Ken didn’t jump—Riot had to give him that. The Chimera just looked up from his paperwork with that plastic smile Riot remembered too well from shared beds and regretted mornings. From desperate nights when loneliness and suppressant crashes had driven him and Stave and Prepper to take comfort wherever they could find it.
Ken had always been willing to provide. For a price.
“I was wondering when you’d visit.” Ken leaned back in his chair. “You look like hell. Suppressant withdrawal doesn’t suit you.”
“Where are my medications?”
“Storage room. Third door on the left, combination 2847.” Ken’s smile widened. “But you didn’t come all this way just for pills, did you? You came because you wanted to see me.”
“Why were they delayed?”
“We want you back. All three of you.” Ken spread his hands, then let his legs fall open wider—a deliberate display that usually ended with someone on their knees. “You boys were profitable. And fun. The Syndicate’s never found another team quite like you three.”
Riot’s jaw tightened until his teeth ached. He remembered. Late nights after dangerous jobs, blood still drying under their fingernails. Ken’s Chimera abilities letting him become whatever the three of them needed—soft and yielding or hard and demanding, shifting pheromones and presentation to match their moods. Cash pressed into their hands and mouths pressed against their skin, the twin currencies that kept them coming back even when they knew better.
That was before. Before the Nulls. Before seven months of stability with people who didn’t want anything from him.
Before Cass.
“Not interested.”
“No?” Ken’s scent shifted. The change was subtle at first—a warming of the artificial pheromones—but then it hit Riot’s hindbrain like a sledgehammer. Caramel and cinnamon. Sunshine and sweetness. Cass’s signature, perfect in every detail except for the synthetic undertone that marked it as manufactured.
He’s mimicking my Omega.
“I could be him for you,” Ken murmured, voice dropping into that seductive register that used to work. “I’ll give you what you’re clearly not getting. Your little missionary doesn’t seem like the type to put out, but I remember what you like.” He tiltedhis head, baring his throat in false submission. “You always did your best work when properly motivated.”
The rage came up so fast Riot didn’t have time to leash it. His vision hazed gold at the edges and then he was moving, vaulting the desk in a single motion—
Ken was ready for him.
The Chimera dropped under Riot’s initial grab and came up with a knife that hadn’t been visible a second ago, slashing at Riot’s ribs in a strike that would have opened him up if he hadn’t twisted at the last second. The blade caught his jacket instead, parting flannel like butter.
I forgot how fast he is.
Riot caught Ken’s wrist on the backswing and wrenched, trying to break his grip on the knife, but Ken flowed with the motion instead of fighting it, using Riot’s own momentum to spin inside his guard and drive an elbow into his gut.
