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When all three omegas were gone, a man came to take their place, stepping into the room through the open doorway they’d fled through. It was Felix Craig, the safe house’s head of security.
Felix was built like a linebacker—broad shoulders, wide chest, and thick thighs. He kept his hair buzzed and his outfit simple; today he wore a t-shirt and a pair of olive cargo pants, a nod to his military roots.
“Felix,” Bertram said with a nod.
He expected Felix would recognize him and relax, but he did no such thing. He advanced on Bertram while maintaining eye contact, a hand on the grip of his sidearm. “You need to leave.”
Bertram glanced at the handgun. It was a standard issue M9, the same one he supplied to all Vanguard field agents. A weapon of that caliber was useless against a fully transformed dragon, but it could kill a man in a single shot if the shooter was skilled enough.
Bertram wisely took a small step back.
Felix was an excellent marksman.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Bertram asked neutrally. He kept a careful eye on Felix, readying himself to drop if need be. “It’s me, Felix. Bertram. I’m not here to cause any trouble.”
“I’m aware of who you are.” Felix’s fingers tightened around the grip—an unspoken threat. “You need to leave. Now.”
“I hardly think—”
“Did I stutter?” Felix nodded his chin toward the door. “Get out, or I’ll open fire.”
Bertram knew better than to push his luck.
He left, and Felix followed.
The safe house was built south of Los Angeles, tucked away in a secluded part of San Onofre between the Pacific and the San Diego Freeway. Its front door opened into a yard typical of the area, one where jade carpet rooted stubbornly into the dry soil and deer grass shot up in spurts. Bertram hadn’t bothered to have it landscaped partly because it seemed like an unnecessary risk, and partly because there was a charm in the way the wilderness had claimed this place that spoke to him. It helped detract from the cold rigidness of the house’s modern architecture.
But nothing could detract from the coldness in Felix’s eyes.
He stood in the doorway, blocking it out as neatly as the moon eclipsing the sun. He no longer had his hand on the grip of his handgun, but his posture suggested that would change if Bertram gave him reason to suspect retaliation.
Fortunately, Bertram planned no such thing. He stood where he was and kept his hands held loosely at his sides, as relaxed as if he was waiting for Felix to join him for dinner.
“Where is he?” Bertram asked conversationally, knowing very well that Felix knew exactly who he was talking about.
“You should go,” Felix said firmly. Then, lips twitching as though he were at war with himself over what he wanted to say, he added, “The omegas here don’t need your help. The ones in Aurora do. Kevin will know more.”
Bertram looked Felix in the eyes for a long moment, then nodded and turned away. He left the compound worried, but not defeated, and promptly checked into a luxury rental villa.
There was a phone call he needed to make.
* * *
The phone rang four times before it connected—long enough for Bertram to pace from his villa’s wet bar to its oceanside balcony, where he crossed his arms on the railing and idly considered his untouched glass of whiskey.
“Hello?” said the voice on the other end of the line suspiciously. “Who is this?”
“It’s Bertram.” Bertram turned his gaze from his whiskey to the horizon, where the sun was being flattened under the weight of the night sky. “If you have any respect left for me, please stay on the line. Pretend I’m someone calling about Tabitha and excuse yourself from wherever you are. We need to talk.”
Kevin cussed under his breath.
“It’s the school,” he said distantly, no longer speaking into the phone. “Something’s going on with Tabitha. I need to take this. Keep going without me.”
It took Kevin a minute to get away, but he did eventually come back.
“Where have you been?” he said in a near whisper upon his return. “Sorin’s had us lock you out of everything, but none of us know why. Did they catch you?”
“No.”
