Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
And now he’s sitting in my inbox.
Fuck.
I sit at my laptop for two days straight, not moving until the grumbling in my stomach has become so exceptionally loud that I simply can’t ignore it, and even after forty-eight hours of deep research, all I’ve found are breadcrumbs and failed leads.
There’s no doubt in my mind that this is likely going to be the biggest contract that I will ever see, and I want nothing more than to share it with Raiden.
When the UberEats driver knocks, I lower the lid of my laptop, not willing my screen to be glanced at for even a second. The last thing I need is some random delivery driver catching sight of classified intel and deciding tonight needs to get interesting.
Grabbing the bag, I mumble a quick thanks before shutting the door with my foot. My body is wrecked from two straight days of research at the kitchen counter. My shoulders are locked, lower back throbbing, and a dull cramp low in my stomach from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. It’s rough, but it’s not the first time I’ve been here, probably not the last either.
Twisting the lock, I lean back against the wood and inhale the smell of fried comfort seeping through the paper bag, and as my stomach screams to be fed, I glance down the hallway.
And freeze.
I see straight into my bedroom, and the lamp on my bedside table is on, and right beside it, bold as anything, is a small cactus in a ceramic pot shaped like a huge cock.
My heart stops.
I step forward, each footfall careful as I scan everything. No broken locks. No forced entry. No alarms tripped. Nothing out of place.
Except that.
Putting the food down, I move into my bedroom like it’s a crime scene, my gaze quickly scanning again before coming back to the pot. Two rounded succulents at the base with one much higher cactus through the center, making the perfect cactus dick.
Across the front of the cock pot it reads: I’m not battery operated, but I’m still a big prick.
My throat tightens. Fuck that bastard for turning me into this.
Needles.
The cactus Raiden had joked that he was going to get. The one he insisted Spikezilla needed so they could establish dominance together.
He was here. He was inside my home. Inside my bedroom, only a handful of feet away. Close enough to place Needles on my bedside table and turn on the lamp like he lived here. And I had no idea.
Everything shatters inside me all over again.
Tears sting my eyes, but it’s not just heartbreak. It’s so much more than that. It’s humiliating.
How does a highly trained assassin miss something like that? How does Raiden Kane get inside my apartment and into my bedroom without me ever noticing?
Fuck.
Picking up the ridiculous pot, my fingers tremble, and I carry Needles back to the living room before setting him down beside Spikezilla on the coffee table. The two of them sit there like a pair of criminals, daring me to respond in a grand way.
Raiden made his move, and now the ball is in my court, but I’m not sure I’m willing to play.
I’m no longer interested in games.
I’m interested in forever.
CHAPTER 24
KIARA
Two fucking weeks it has taken me to turn the little Lazarus-shaped breadcrumbs into a trusted lead with enough information to send me racing toward Nevada in my private jet, and as I sit here, waiting to land, I can’t stop going over what I’d found.
It was a needle in a haystack, and after long days of research, I came to the conclusion that it was Needles and Spikezilla’s newfound dominance that was clearly the factor in helping me figure it out. Don’t ask me how, because I have no damn idea. All I know is that it’s set in stone.
Those cacti are my new lucky stars, and there’s no doubt about it.
The lead didn’t come from any of the information found in the files. It wasn’t in the threat assessments, the heavily redacted psychological profiles, or the dramatic speculation about potential black-market buyers. And believe me, I looked into every last one of them.
No, the single little clue came from nothing more than a simple power grid report.
Every city Lazarus was rumored to have passed through had one thing in common: a brief, unexplained power surge nearby. Not a blackout. Not enough to draw attention. Just eleven minutes of abnormal activity. Then it vanished.
Most analysts would’ve ignored it. But the type of equipment he’s running needs power. A lot of it. You don’t move high-tech gear around without it leaving a mark somewhere.
Ghosts don’t leave fingerprints, but they do leave footprints on the grid.
I’d overlaid the last three confirmed movements with the power data. Three spikes. Three cities. All within a tight one-mile radius of where Lazarus had last been rumored to surface. From there, I followed the crumbs, giving me the exact location of his last thirty movements. It told me exactly what I needed to know: Lazarus is a man of habit.