He walked into the apartment, removing his mask before looking up to see Shadera’s eyes pinned on him in surprise.
Right.
She didn’t know him well enough yet to understand that he didn’t give a single fuck about masking policies.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he said to Greyson, eyes still focused on Shadera as he took in her appearance. “Rough night?”
“You have no idea,” she muttered into her coffee.
Callum’s gaze swept the apartment again, taking in the blood, the bullet holes, the destroyed furniture. His eyebrows rose slightly. “Well, this is festive. Very avant-garde. Very ‘murder chic.’”
“Are your men with you?” Greyson asked, ignoring his commentary.
“Headed up. But first—” Callum’s eyes darted between them, noting something in their positioning, their careful distance, the tension that crackled in the air. “You two have that guilty look.”
“Cal—” Greyson started.
“I know, I know, there are much more important things to worry about than whatever sick fuck you two got up to in a room full of dead bodies.” He winked at Greyson. “But we’ll definitely be circling back to that later.”
“We didn’t—” Shadera began toprotest.
Callum’s hand shot up as a chuckle slipped over his lips. “I’m not here to judge your murder foreplay.”
His men appeared at his back on the tail of his words, dragging a hooded Veyra officer through the doorway.
“Found him on Haven Tower’s roof,” Callum explained, watching as both Greyson and Shadera tensed. “Had quite the setup—long range audio equipment, visual surveillance, a sniper rifle, the works. All pointed at this apartment.”
The guilty looks intensified.
Oh, they’d definitely been up to something.
The air between them practically vibrated with it—that particular tension that came from fighting or fucking, and seeing these two, probably both. Callum filed the observation away for later torment.
“Where?” Greyson asked, his voice taking on that cold edge that Callum knew meant someone was about to have a very bad day.
“Weapons room,” Callum suggested. “It’s soundproof.” He turned to his men. “Start the cleanup. I want this place pristine in three hours.”
They nodded, releasing their captive into Callum’s grip before moving through the apartment, assessing the damage and beginning their work. Callum pulled the officer forward as he followed Greyson toward the hallway.
Shadera fell into step beside them, curious rather than disturbed. “Why did you bring him here instead of killing him?”
“Information,” Callum replied simply. “Dead men aren’t very helpful, but the living can be quite chatty with the right motivation.”
The officer’s whimpering escalated to sobbing as they dragged him down the hallway. “Please,” the officer gasped through the hood. “Please, I was just following orders. I have a family—”
“Shh,” Callum soothed, gently patting the man’s shoulder. “We’re not going to hurt you. Well, not badly. Not if you cooperate.”
The lie came easily. They always did.
The solid metal door had been tampered with—faint scratch marks visible around the electronic lock. Callum smirked, glancing at Shadera with a knowing look as Greyson keyed in the code then pushed his palm to the scanner. The room opened up before them, revealing the steel walls lined with racks of firearms, blades, and more specialized equipment that formed a perfect cube of lethal possibility.
In the center stood a metal table flanked by two chairs, with a single overhead light illuminating the scene like an operating theater. Greyson didn’t bother shutting the door at his back.
“If I didn’t know better,” Callum started, shoving the officer into a chair. “I’d think you were a serial killer.”
“Says the man with a torture briefcase,” Greyson replied dryly, nodding to the case in Callum’s hand.
He smiled, setting the briefcase on the table with care. “It’s not torture, it’s enhanced interrogation. And it’s an art form.”
