Before I even turn the key, I check it inch by inch. I pull panels, run my hands along the seams, check the wheel wells and the undercarriage. There is no tracker under the dash. There is nothing wired where it shouldn't be. Nothing blinking or humming. The trunk is deep and wide, lined in clean black felt. Big enough for a body.
I miss my Impala. I always will. But since I can’t have it, I figure I might as well enjoy borrowing from people who have many cars and dollars at their disposal.
Travis feeds me every checkpoint the Portland Police Department and the FBI have set up in the area. He lists troopers posted along the highway, unmarked units parked near the main exits, and federal vehicles tucked far enough back to feel clever. Beau follows us in a separate car, staying several lengths behind so we can split if something goes wrong or if one of us gets pulled over.
We avoid every checkpoint he names. We use back roads that skirt the main arteries, timed merges that drop us into gaps in traffic, and side streets that keep us away from plate scanners.
I keep my grip firm on the wheel and my foot heavy on the gas. We have a narrow window to work with, and every mile feels like it matters. Elliot is confirmed for tonight’s event at Saints & Sinners. After that, he will disappear again behind money, private security, and locked doors that will take more time to crack.
I refuse to let that happen.
Saints & Sinners glows from half a block away, its gold light spilling onto the sidewalk through a wide glass frontage. Music pulses hard enough that I can feel the beat through the pavement when we roll past. Security stands along the entrance in tailored black suits, earpieces snug against their ears, eyes scanning.
I park down the street and shut off the engine, watching the entrance while Beau eases his car into a dark space a little farther back.
I slick my hair back with my fingers and adjust my jacket. I am clean shaven, collar open, the fit intentional without drawing attention.
“Remember,” I say quietly. “We blend.”
Brooke nods once.
She checks her reflection in the darkened window of the car. She doesn't look like the woman they hunted. She looks composed. She looks untouchable.
Beau’s voice comes through the earpiece. “The back alley is quiet. The delivery door has a keypad. I don’t see obvious cameras, but I wouldn’t rely on that.”
Travis follows. “Interior feeds are partial due to lighting interference. The VIP level is elevated with limited sightlines. If Elliot is there, he won’t be on the main floor.”
I open Brooke’s door and offer my hand. We walk toward the entrance together. We join the line and move forward at an easy pace. Bass rolls through the building and up into my chest. Laughter spills out from the doorway.
The bouncer gives us a brief glance. Brooke hands over the invitation Travis spoofed. He scans it, nods once, and lifts the rope.
The club closes around us as soon as we step inside.
Black marble floors reflect bodies in fractured angles. Gold accents catch the light in brief flashes. Blue and purple strobes cut faces into shifting sections. The bar runs along one wall, bottles stacked high and backlit.
An elevator sits behind frosted glass with two guards posted in front of it. They are armed, but their posture lacks discipline.
“Five guards on the stairs and two at the elevator,” I murmur to Brooke. “All carrying.”
She nods without breaking stride.
We drift deeper into the crowd. Brooke moves in front of me with an easy confidence that draws every eye for a second and then moves those eyes away again. People notice her enough to enjoy the view and then turn back to their own problems, which means no one stares long enough to memorize her features.
“Seven Nation Army” starts to play, the opening notes punching through the speakers and rolling under the noise of voices.
I step in closer and slide my hands down to her hips, fingers settling against the fabric of her dress. She starts to move against me, rolling her hips with intent that stays balanced between performance and hunger. She presses back into me with intention, giving every person watching a clear story about who we are and why we are here.
I let her dance, let the rhythm carry her movements while I scan over her shoulder, counting guards and security positions between bodies. Thecloseness sells the cover, and anyone paying attention will see a couple locked on each other instead of the room.
My dick starts to get hard from the way she rolls her hips on me, and she knows exactly what she is doing. My erection doesn’t care about mission windows or kill plans, and the pulse of the hunt threads through it and makes everything sharper. Brooke always does this to me, and the fact that we are here to take someone out only makes the pull worse.
I keep my focus where it belongs, scanning the room, tracking movement, waiting for Elliot to show himself.
The music slows, the rhythm darkening into something heavier. Every movement around us becomes harder to track, shoulders brushing, drinks sloshing, laughter splitting the tension wide open.
Then something changes.
I don’t see it at first. I feel it, the kind of shift that tells you the predator has just noticed the prey.
