Page 15 of Spock’s Snare

"They have a good reputation. Their projects consistently finish on time. I haven’t seen any legal or money problems. Their clients post raving reviews about their business. I couldn’t find any red flags.”

“I checked their finances. They’re in good shape. They would have been a good choice.”

"So why didn't they get the job?" Hawk asks.

"They almost did," I respond, leaning back in my chair. “They were my second choice.”

Puma raises an eyebrow.

"That close?"

I nod.

"Real close. They knew their business," I say. "They didn't try to impress me. They just laid out the facts. They also didn’t balk at working for a motorcycle club. I thought they might, but they didn’t blink an eye when I told them who we were."

"That's pretty much how everyone describes them."

"They would've done a good job on Inferno Ridge."

"But?" Puma asks.

I glance toward Puma before answering.

"Then I met Chloe. She’s gorgeous, yeah, but that wasn’t the reason I chose her.”

Chill snorts, causing me to grin.

“Okay, that wasn’t the only reason. It also wasn’t the main reason. Chloe didn’t strike me as someone just chasing the money this project would bring to her business. She came in excited about the project itself. I told every company what we were trying to build, and she was the only one who came in excited and with ideas. She knew what we were trying to build. She got it.”

The room stays quiet until Viper breaks it.

“So, you don’t think Desert Storm Construction has a motive to go after Chloe?”

I shake my head. “I don’t see it. Not these guys.”

Puma nods in agreement.

“Monroe seems like the one we’re looking for, but I don’t want to discount the others. We need some face-to-face with these guys.”

CHAPTER SIX: CHLOE

The morning sun is already beating down on the lot by the time I pull through the temporary construction gate for Riversedge Apartments. Dust hangs in the air as trucks rumble across the packed dirt, their engines blending with the familiar chorus of backup alarms, compressors, and shouts. Normally, those sounds settle me because they mean progress. They mean we’re another step closer to tangible results.

Today they only remind me where Dad nearly died.

I park beside the site trailer and walk toward what will eventually become a six-story apartment complex. The outside doesn’t reveal the progress inside.

My boots carry me almost automatically to the room where I found Dad. The graffiti is gone. The area has been scrubbed and repainted so nothing of the message remains, except my memory of it.

“Demon Dawgs took care of it before they took off yesterday.”

I turn to find Steven Blackwood walking toward me with a travel mug in one hand and a rolled set of plans tucked beneath his arm. My foreman has only worked for me a few months, but he’s proven himself dependable, organized, and usually unflappable.

Today his forehead is creased with worry.

"How's Bill?"

"Dad's okay." The answer comes easier today than it did yesterday. "Eight stitches and a concussion. He refused to stay at the hospital, but he did agree to stay home and rest today.”