Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 34715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Colt’s eyes burn. “If you get killed, I’m going to haunt you.”
“That implies you believe in ghosts,” I reply, a faint smirk to lighten the moment.
He grunts. “I believe in beating your ass if you screw this up.”
Jace smirks. “Protective as always.”
I ignore them and start packing. My hands move fast. Laptop with custom encryption. Burner phones pre-loaded with spoofed IDs. Signal boosters for dead zones. Lock bypass kit from my security toolkit. Micro cams for planting. A compact pistol that feels small compared to the heavy artillery my brothers favor, but it’ll do for covert work.
Crewe steps closer, voice low so only I hear. “Banks. Halo City will chew you up if you go in thinking it’s a game. Those firms there—they're like the ones we work for, but twisted.”
“I don’t lose,” I tell him.
Crewe holds my gaze. “That’s the problem. You think losing only looks like death.”
I pause. He’s not wrong. Halo City doesn’t just kill people. It compromises them. It buys them with fat contracts. It turns them into assets without them realizing it, just like the traps Dad fell into. And then there’s the woman in that file—Anniston Wells. Too brave. Too stubborn. Too likely to get herself killed because she refuses to shut up about the corruption. A loose end no one saw coming. The thought tightens something in my chest, sharp and unfamiliar, like a glitch in my system.
“Don’t worry,” I say, voice controlled. “I’m going in with one goal: Get our family back.”
Crewe nods once. “Bring them back.”
“That’s the plan.”
But as I sling my bag over my shoulder and head toward the trail, I feel the truth settle heavier than the pack. Nash and Sin were taken to stop us. Rowan’s story proved the enemy isn’t just a man. It’s a machine, oiled by the same private security world we know too well. Machines run on leverage. And if Halo City has a target like Anniston, she’s not just a loose end.
She’s bait.
Which means when I walk into Halo City, I’m not just hunting answers.
I’m stepping into a trap.
And I’m doing it anyway.
TWO
ANNISTON
I’m officially having the worst, most mortifying, yet weirdly cinematic Tuesday of my entire life. And that’s saying something, because last week I accidentally forwarded an email that basically screamed corporate fraud to the entire legal department instead of just my one trusted contact.
I’m speed walking down the bustling sidewalk in front of Halo Tower Plaza, clutching my oversized coffee like it’s a shield, my laptop bag slapping against my hip with every step. My heels click click click in that frantic rhythm that screams I’m late, I’m anxious, and I definitely did not sleep last night. Again.
Do not look over your shoulder, Anniston. Do not. You’re being paranoid. The bad guys don’t operate in broad daylight with all these tourists taking selfies. Probably.
My internal voice is doing its best cheerful best friend impression, but even she sounds a little shrill today. I take a giant sip of my vanilla oat milk latte and immediately regret it because it’s still lava hot. I sputter, eyes watering, and that’s exactly when the universe decides to deliver my meet cute.
Or meet disaster. Same difference.
I crash straight into a solid wall of man.
My coffee explodes between us like a vanilla bomb. Hot liquid splashes across his dark gray shirt, down his chest, and all over the very expensive looking tactical watch on his wrist. My laptop bag slides off my shoulder and smacks his boot. My hair, which I spent a whole forty five seconds taming this morning, flies into my face like a blonde curtain of shame.
I freeze, mouth open, staring up at the tallest, most unfairly gorgeous man I have ever accidentally assaulted with dairy.
He’s got sharp gray-blue eyes that look like they’ve seen actual war zones and still decided to judge my life choices. Dark hair, a little messy in that I woke up dangerous way. Broad shoulders. The kind of jawline that belongs in cologne commercials. And now he’s wearing my entire morning pick me up like modern art.
I want to die. I also want to climb him like a tree. Both feelings are equally strong and extremely unhelpful.
“Oh my God,” I blurt, my voice pitching up into that high pitched register only dogs and embarrassed women can reach. “I just baptized you. In oat milk. I’m so sorry. Are you burned? Should I call 911? Do they handle oat milk emergencies? I can Google it. Wait, no, do not Google in a crisis. That’s rule number one of every disaster movie ever.”
He blinks once, slow and controlled, like he’s processing a glitch in the matrix. Then the corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close enough that my stomach does an actual cartwheel.
“You always weaponize breakfast drinks like this?” His voice is low, a little rough, the kind that should come with a warning label.