Page 11 of Ruthless Enforcer

God, I hope that’s what it is.

11

GABRIEL

The adrenaline crash is a predictable beast, but eventually the nervous system surrenders to sheer physical depletion.

By the time we hit the two-lane state highway cutting north through the timber, Clara has stopped squirming.

Thank God. Every time she rubbed her thighs together, my thoughts went there and my hand very nearly did as well.

Her head drops sideways against the headrest, her cheek pillowed against the soft fleece collar of my oversized sweatshirt.

I glance over for two seconds too long.

Her green eyes are hidden behind dark, thick lashes, her face relaxed into something softer and younger than the clearheaded heiress who’s matched me step for step tonight.

My sweatshirt swallows her whole. Her bare legs are tucked up slightly toward her chest, pale and smooth against the black leather upholstery. She looks small, deceptively fragile, and entirely out of place in an armored SUV smelling of high-octane fuel and fresh gun smoke.

Except I know better. There isn't a fragile bone in Clara Whitlock's body. She's an old soul who stared down two armed men and a Reyes enforcer without a single hitch in her stride.

My phone beeps with an incoming call. There's only one person who can get through when I have it silenced.

No one silences Alessandro Reyes.

Flipping open the center console, I pull out my earpiece and route the audio straight into it so I don't wake Clara.

"Talk to me," I say quietly.

"Gabriel." My brother's voice comes through flat, tight, and clipped—the voice he uses when blood is already on the floor. "We've got a catastrophic breach."

I glance at the sleeping woman beside me. Well. That was fast. "Before you start, I can explain."

Silence stretches through the line. "Explain what?"

Fuck. I straighten behind the wheel. "What breach?"

"Cole Turner escaped."

The air inside the cab suddenly feels subzero. My fingers tighten on the leather-wrapped steering wheel until the seams bite into my palms. "What do you mean, he escaped? I had that motherfucker on lockdown. Who was on watch?"

"Morales. He's dead."

"Dead," I repeat flatly.

"It seems he got close enough that Turner was able to get a jump on him."

Shit—Turner is out.

I glance at Clara. "Alex, I've got to go. I'll call you back."

"Where the hell are you?" My brother doesn't wait for an answer. "And when are you coming home? We need to handle this."

"I'll call you back," I say again. "As soon as I have something on Turner."

"That's not what I asked you."

"Listen, I'll take care of this."