Page 108 of Coveted By Cupid

“Maybe he’s bunking at Riley’s,” Oaks says, getting to his feet after restraining Mikhail’s limbs behind his back.

“Wouldn’t that be ideal,” Drift says, flipping Kirill onto his stomach and hogtying his wrists and ankles together.

My cell vibrates in my back pocket. I pull it out, seeing Crypt’s name come across the screen. “We’re about to find out.”

I answer my cell, turning on the speaker for all of us to listen at once. “Crypt, tell me you have good news.”

There’s a brief pause before Crypt parrots, “You have good news.”

“What?” I shake my head. “No. I’m not asking you to repeat after me.”

“You said⁠—”

“I know what I said, but it’s not what I meant. Do you have good news about Riley? Did you find her?”

“Negative. She’s not here.”

“Fuck,” I curse, kicking Mikhail in the stomach in frustration. The henchman grunts, but remains unconscious.

“Yesterday’s mail is on the counter,” Crypt says.

“Meaning she was there recently. Have Hound keep watch on the location. If Riley returns alone, he can handle bringing her in. If she’s with Boden, tell him to call for backup.”

“Boden wasn’t at his apartment either?”

“No, but he had company staying here.”

“Do you want eyes kept on Boden’s place, too?”

With Kirill and Mikhail coming back with us to the clubhouse for questioning, I want my heavy hitters on-site to help me manage the pricks. These aren’t your ordinary street thugs—they’re Russian felons. If shit goes sideways, I want my strongest men with me as backup. We can’t risk them escaping. I need to send someone else to do surveillance. Someone seasoned enough to do the job without being told what to do, and large enough to handle Boden solo.

Mulling over my choices, our tail-gunner—Trigger—comes to mind. He’s big enough to handle Boden without backup and smart enough to do it without drawing attention to himself.

“Send Trigger. Tell him to monitor Boden’s complex from the road. No lurking near the building. We don’t want to alert Boden he’s being watched if he comes back.”

“Noted. Anything else?”

I look at the two scumbags lying on the floor, ready for transport. “Yeah. Leave the van with Hound in case he needs it to transport Riley and Boden. We’ll come get you and Ruger before heading back to the clubhouse. Be ready to go. We have some Russians to interrogate.”

CHAPTER FORTY

BODEN

On the second floor of an abandoned old brewery on the block neighboring the backside of the Royal Bastards clubhouse, I stand in the shadows of a broken window, scanning the MC’s territory through my binoculars. The location isn’t the safest. Several unhoused people take shelter inside the vacant building, as well as a lone dealer hustling drugs to anyone who approaches him. It doesn’t matter if the spot is risky. It’s the closest location we can get without being spotted by the bikers standing guard around the perimeter of the block, meaning it’s our best shot at finding Vanessa.

Mostly, the occupants of the building leave us alone. The few who attempt to approach us are instantly deterred when I lift the front of my sweatshirt to reveal a gun in the waistband of my jeans, the one thing I demanded Kirill give us before sending us into enemy territory. Word spreads quickly that we’re armed, and the other unhoused give us a wide berth. The only one who doesn’t look at us as a threat is the narcs dealer. He eyes us with interest, only looking away when he’s making a deal.

The city lights of downtown Loveland offer enough ambient lighting for my traditional optical binoculars to be effective in the night, but I’d kill for a pair with specialized night vision, especially when I’m certain Vanessa’s on the third floor of the building directly across from us. There are multiple people in what looks like a private apartment, and every so often, I glimpse a woman with honey-hued messy waves pass a window, walking out of sight before I can identify her.

It has to be Vanessa.

My blood boils thinking of my girlfriend playing house with another man. No, not some man—a gutter rat. I close my eyes, trying to control my anger, but all I see behind my eyelids is the memory of the night I looked up at her apartment window to find her riding the disgusting biker.

My eyes spring open, shaking my head to chase the ugly images away from my brain.

When I see movement in the apartment again, I quickly refocus my attention, not wanting to miss anything.

The woman in question has her back to the window, talking to two other women—one who is petite with jet-black straight hair and the other a statuesque woman with auburn locks.