"Most likely." I examine the scar more closely. "Recent work, maybe a week old. That's the kind of tagging you only find on a merc with averyhigh price tag. Someone wanted him untraceable."
Jackal crouches down and starts going through the man's gear. "High-end rifle, military-grade ammunition, thermal scope. Pricey."
He would know, considering he's by far the biggest donor to the Psychos. Most of our gear was privately funded by him.
"So someone with serious money wanted us dead," Bane concludes. "Question is who."
"The bigger question is, where are the victims?" I ask, my gaze sweeping over the empty cages below.
"There are no victims," Jackal says with infuriating confidence, adjusting his collar. "This was a setup."
"Likely," Bane agrees before I can respond. "But we sweep the place just in case."
We make our way back down to the warehouse floor. I already know in my gut we're not going to find anyone but the dead guards, but we search anyway. Thoroughly.
The ride back to base is silent. Even Archer isn't filling the empty air with his usual chatter.
We're used to being the heroes, getting the call, going in, dropping the bad guys, and rescuing the innocent. Today, though…
Today, we were the targets. That much is clear.
The only question is, which of our long list of enemies is suicidal enough to try to take out the Psychos?
Chapter
Six
FELIX
"Wheeeee!" Juniper spins in the leather executive chair like a kid at an amusement park, her brown hair flying out in a perfect circle as she hangs upside down, her knees draped over the back. "Felix, this place isfancy. Like, eat-gold-leaf-on-your-cereal fancy."
I lean against the floor-to-ceiling window, watching her reflection in the glass. Twenty-third floor. Corner office. The kind of view that costs a month's salary per square foot. "Stop spinning. You'll throw up on their Persian rug."
"It's probably insured." She drags her feet to slow down, grinning at me upside-down as her head lolls back. "Everything here screams 'we have fuck-you money and we're not afraid to use it.'"
She's not wrong. The office belongs in a museum, not a place where people actually work. Mahogany desk the size of a small car. Original artwork that I recognize from heist planningresearch. Even the air smells expensive—leather and wood polish.
My body still aches from her heat. Three days of trying to be something I'm not, using toys and prosthetics to approximate what her biology craves. The fake knot worked, technically. She came. Repeatedly. But I saw it in her eyes each time—that flicker ofalmost but not quite.
It's getting harder to ignore.
Next time, I should bring in an actual alpha. Someone who can give her what she needs. It wouldn't be the first time, but I keep killing the fuckers after they leave, and that gets messy fast. Literally and figuratively.
But I'm too possessive to let anyone who's touched her walk away. That's a privileged reserved for me and the dead.
"Think they'll offer us champagne?" Juniper hops out of the chair and wanders to the bookshelf, running her fingers along leather spines. "Rich people always offer champagne. It's like their version of a handshake."
"Don't touch anything."
"I'm not going to steal their first edition Hemingway." She pauses. "Unless it's signed. Then all bets are off."
The door opens without a knock. Power move. The man who enters fills the doorway like he was poured into it—six-four, shoulders that could double as a battering ram, and a suit that somehow makes him look more dangerous instead of civilized. His scent hits me immediately. Alpha. The real kind, not the synthetic shit I spray on myself every morning.
I have to fight the way my lip wants to curl back in disgust.
Juniper's entire body language shifts. One second she's examining a crystal paperweight, the next she's coiled like a spring. Her hand drifts to her hip where she usually keeps a blade, but she passes it off as smoothing down her skirt.
"Good afternoon, Mr. King. Ms. Addams." His voice sounds like gravel in a blender. "Thank you for coming."
