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Let Finn roast him.
I’ll gladly fill out that paperwork.
“Can you handle this?” I fix Jett with a stare, trying to get back in his head, but the security gate’s down with every lock bolted tight.
“He’s mine,” Jett hisses.
“Let’s go.”
We run to the big beachside mansion.
Our team has the prisoner zip-tied to a chair. Light-skinned, in a white linen suit and boaters, he looks like he stepped off a yacht.
One of the cartel’s deputies.
Jett circles him like a wolf.
“Sweep the house again?” Hunter asks.
Before I can answer, Finn kicks through the front door, not giving a shit that the rest of us are here.
He shoulders past Jett and presses the red-hot muzzle of his flamethrower to our prisoner’s chest. “The fuck did you do to my Star?”
There’s a sizzle and a scream but no answer.
Yet.
“Find out the bounty and where Dominik’s hiding.”
Jett and Finn make a killer team.
Not good cop, bad cop but the cold sociopath and the crazy sociopath. They’ll get the info.
Hunter and I sweep each luxe room of Dom’s beachfront mansion. The breezy halls are lined with omega nudes that I rip from the walls, not because I’m looking for hiding spots but because they’re creepy as hell.
Finn can have them for a bonfire.
Other than reams of sketchy art, there’s nothing suspect. Everything’s clean. No drugs, hidden safes, or weapon caches. No human skulls decorating the massive wall tanks of exotic fish and strange-colored lobsters.
Hunter and I reconvene in the office. It’s filled with floor-to-ceiling beach views and faux leather-bound books that his decorator probably shipped in to match his evil island lair aesthetic.
While Hunter digs into the desktop computer, I tap the shelves and pull out books, looking for mechanisms. There has to be a panic room. A bunker.
Dominik’s plane is in the hangar, his boat’s in the harbor, and the satellite picked up zero outgoing traffic.
“Anything?” I ask Hunter.
“Enough pics to get the monster a few more life sentences, but nothing about his business.” Hunter scratches his scalp. “I’d call Nathan, but…”
“Wait for Jett.” He’s almost as good with the tech, and no matter how frayed our bond, he’s still the brother I trust.
I want to tear out my hair.
Where did he fucking go?
If this is a trap, it’s pretty goddamned shoddy, given the haze of smoke that proves how much bank Finn’s torching just cost the Redfangs.
I’m about to call HQ to report when Scorpio’s number rings on my sat phone.
