Page 13 of Property of Booker

“Everywhere,” I confirm, my voice tight. “They’re hitting us hard. Gather the men and have them convene in the main room. Do as you're told, follow their instructions so nobody gets hurt. Pass that along as you grab each of the brothers.”

I don’t waste another breath. I’m on his heels, taking the stairs two at a time while the clubhouse erupts into chaos below. The front entrance doesn't just open. It disintegrates. Splinters of heavy oak shower the foyer like shrapnel as a flashbang detonates. The sound is a physical blow that rattles my skull and paints the room in a blinding, ghostly white. I hit the landing and skid to a halt, shielding my eyes until the spots clear.

Tactical teams flood the room like a dark, angry tide. They move with aggressive, terrifying precision, shouting commands that bounce off the walls.

“Get on the ground! Hands where we can see them!” an agent screams. He shoves his rifle barrel into LoneStar’s ribs. I see him stiffen. His knuckles go white, but he forces his hands up and away from his body. He doesn't fight. He doesn't even flinch.

“Stay down!” I yell, my voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. “Nobody moves. Do exactly what they say.”

Ozzie is already in the center of the room with his palms raised. The agents are twitchy, their fingers dancing on triggers. The air smells like ozone and fear. It is a hair-trigger moment where a single wrong breath could start a bloodbath. “We aren't fighting!” Ozzie bellows at the lead agent.

“Everyone stay on the floor!” Slayer orders as he’s escorted from his office by two SWAT team members, their guns steadily pointed at him as he’s brought over next to us.

One by one, the brothers sink to their knees. It goes against every fiber of their being to stay down, but they swallow their pride. They keep their hands visible, fingers splayed on the hardwood. Their jaws are set tight enough to crack teeth. Silence fills the room, heavy and suffocating, interrupted only by the rhythmic thud of heavy combat boots circling them.

A man in full gear stalks past me, his weapon leveled at my head. He sneers, his face hidden behind a dark visor. “Keep those hands where I can see them,” he barks, nudging my shoulder with the barrel of his rifle.

“We aren't causing trouble,” I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking in my system.

“Save it,” he growls.

Around the room, tactical teams operate with ruthless efficiency. They flip tables, tear down posters, and rip open cabinets. Nothing is sacred. They want something, and they're going to tear the entire clubhouse to the studs to find it. Out of all the brothers gathered in this room, Shade is the one who worries me the most, so I close my eyes and pray he manages to find some patience. Like Icer, he tends to react before thinking things through. I don't want his hotheadedness to get the better of him, forcing me to go and bail him out of jail.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Kendall

Jerome looms over me like a vulture, his shadow swallowing the faint light from the console. He doesn't need to speak for me to feel his presence. The air in the room turns stale, thick with his arrogance and the scent of cold malice. I sit stiffly at the terminal, my fingers hovering over keys that feel like ice. He forced me to tap into the clubhouse security feed, a task I’ve performed a dozen times under his thumb. It’s a violation I can't stop.

Jerome’s presence is a heavy weight, his body heat radiating against me as he looms over the console. He stays close, savoring the devastation he’s orchestrating. He nudges me, his voice a gravelly rasp in my ear as he says, “Watch closely. That’s what happens to people who think they’re untouchable.”

I stare at the screens. On the high-resolution feed, the Kings are pressed against the floor, their front door splintered into kindling. Seeing their pride smashed makes my stomach churn. I’m the one feeding him the codes to break them. It’s a sick irony. My own skills are the weapon he’s using to crush the only people trying to save me. I grind my teeth until my jaw screams, but I don’t blink. I can’t let him see the rage boiling in my chest.

“Enjoying the show, Kendall?” Jerome sneers, his breath hot against my neck.

I keep my voice flat, lying to his face as I reply, “It’s hard to look away.”

He lets out a harsh, rasping laugh, clearly convinced he’s got me figured out. He thinks I’m just some broken asset, a bit of code he can toss into the bin when he’s finished. He’s wrong. He’s got no clue. He doesn't see that I’m counting every heartbeat, waiting for the split second where I can hit delete on his miserable existence.

My stomach flips when Shade hits the floor. One second he looks resigned, his hands up and his head low. Then his face shifts. The compliance vanishes, replaced by a cold, predatory stare. He looks like a wolf sizing up the throat of its enemy so he can rip it out. It’s a look that makes my blood run cold because I know what he’s thinking. He wants to snap the neck of the tactical officer standing over him.

“Oh shit,” I softly say as I exhale. I keep my lips barely moving, praying the sound is too soft to be caught.

Jerome shifts behind me. His hand clamps onto my shoulder. It is heavy and possessive, and I know he is watching my reaction. He wants to see if I'm as invested in the violence as he is. “What did you say?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper in my ear.

“I said it's a total mess,” I lie again which seems to be customary whenever he’s around, forcing my voice to stay steady despite the way my heart is hammering against my ribs.

He digs his fingers into my shoulder. “It’s beautiful, is what it is, Kendall. Look at them. They're helpless.”

My eyes remain glued to the monitor where Shade has a menacing look locked on the fucker holding the rifle, straining to maintain his composure. If his control slips, our entire strategy we have in place could fall apart, especially since he plays a vital role in dismantling Jerome and destroying his empire.

“They are,” I confirm, feeling the weight press down on me. I silently beg Shade to keep his composure.

Jerome leans closer, his grin widening as he watches the footage. He’s not just looking for drugs or weapons. He’s looking for a soul to crush. He doesn't realize he’s watching the only person in this room who is actually capable of ending him. Shade shifts his weight, muscles bunching under his cut. He’s a coiled spring. The officer with the rifle steps closer and digs his boot into Shade’s side. I hold my breath. Shade doesn't flinch. He stares back with eyes that are cold and dead. He’s playing a dangerous game, but he’s buying us the time we need.

“You see that?” Jerome whispers, his hand sliding up to the back of my neck. “That’s the look of a man who knows he’s lost.”