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It had been less than a week since I left Hallow Ranch with Denver Langston’s instructions, and I knew he was expecting an update by now.
However, something wasn’t sitting right with me about the green-eyed woman in his bed. She was employed by Moonie Pipelines no less than a month ago and now, she was fucking Langston.
Something in my gut twisted.
I had my contact run an extensive background check on her. Sure enough, she was clean—on paper. Before getting that phone call from Denver, Tim Moonie wasn’t even on my radar. Now he was, and men like him pissed me off. I did some digging of my own before taking this job. Denver wanted me to be his messenger and nothing more.
There was something about that woman…
Or it’s your own fucking issues.
A growl formed in my throat at the thought. There was another background check running right now in my hotel room on Valerie Cross.
Leave no stone unturned.
Mason was a few feet from me when a hand clamped down on my shoulder. Everything in my body tightened and instinct wanted to kick in, but I stopped it.Not here, don’t make a scene and blow your cover.
I turned to find a tall, African-American man staring at me. His black hair was shaved and faded on the sides. He was darker than his partners, leaner, but that didn’t mean he was weak. His black eyes held mine as his jaw jumped.
Dontell Michealson.
“I suggest you take your hand off me,” I said calmly.
The man smiled widely, a chuckle rumbling from his throat. “And I suggest you get your ass out of my fucking building, Agent.”
Agent?I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off, pointing a finger in my face.
“We already have this place crawling with the FBI. We don’t need the CIA here. You’re drawing too much attention to yourself,” he explained, his voice lower than before.
Realization dawned.
I shrugged his hand off my shoulder. “I’m not CIA or FBI.”
He studied me for a moment. “Who are you?”
“A bounty hunter.”
Dontell looked to the ceiling. “Son of a fucking—follow me.”
He turned and walked away from me. My eyes darted back to where Mason was. The cowboy was a few feet away, talking with a small group of people. There was a smile on his face that didn’t reach his gray eyes.
He was putting on a show for everyone.
I knew that fake smile would drop when I gave him the message from his brother. From the looks of it, Mason wasn’t going anywhere for a while.
With a short sigh, I turned and followed the owner. He led me to the other side of Oasis, away from the crowd, towards the auto shop. He ducked into one of the bays, where an old Honda Civic was lifted. I followed him through and to the back. There was a small table, car part boxes scattered all around, toolboxes lining the wall. Oil stains were littered across the concrete, and the smell of burning metal lingered in the air. He led me through a door that opened into an office.
An impressive office.
A large black desk sat in the middle of the room with an Apple Mac on top. This space was clean and well put together. There was also man sitting behind the desk, wearing all black, reading a book.
Dontell whistled. “Aye! Got a problem.”
No, you don’t.
The man looked up from the worn book he was reading, his brows coming together. This man was Leon Torrance, an Asian-African American man with light skin and dark braids. He was also built like me—ready to fight at a moment’s notice. Anyone could see that there was a monster underneath his black hoodie. His neck and wrists were covered in tattoos, including the teardrops by his eye.
“The fuck, Don?” he growled.
