Sitting here and waiting is frustrating. We’re used to waiting for orders, but this is Hunter. This is us.
“Father wants him at home,” Reaper says, rubbing a thumb across the tattoos on his fingers.
“Striker will be pissed,” Breaker says. “He’ll want to be here when Hunter comes home.”
Reaper’s jaw works, but he says nothing. He doesn’t need to. We have no idea when or if Hunter will come home.
“I’ll go back later and sit with Strike,” Breaker says to Reaper. “You need to sleep.”
Reap shakes his head, rubbing his eyes. “He’s sleeping now. I’m going back later so I’m there when he wakes up. I just needed…” He doesn’t say it, but he needed a break.
Breaker glances at me, a worried expression pulling his lips down. We both saw what happened. We both heard. Reaper will not rest until he knows Striker is in the clear, and Hunter is back with us.
“Is Father still at the hospital?” I ask. “Or did he return home?”
Home. If it can be called that. His opulent mansion on the coast was never our home. We were raised in the darkness of that old jail, hundreds of miles from prying eyes, nestled in a cold barren landscape designed to keep secrets, only ever seeing his home on the rare occasion we were invited to stay before a mission.
After we all left the school, we just moved from place to place, city to city, staying in lavish hotels, or hole in the wall places in the middle of nowhere if we needed to lie low after a high-stakes mission. It’s been like that since Breaker turned of age. The only reprieve we have are the dive bars we sometimes stop in, or the large cities where we can pretend to be other people as we pass through. Men who gamble and drink and stay up late partying. Men who take pretty women back to our rooms and fuck until the horrors we committed that day are just faint memories that bleed together until it’s one big nightmare we pretend never happened.
Hunter is the best at that. Picking up women. They trip over themselves to be near him. His dark eyes and alluring smile that could bring an entire nation to its knees make it easy for him. Reaper has the same qualities, though he rarely uses it. Also, he’s such an asshole that women are drawn to him for the wrong reasons.
“—I didn’t order anything,” Breaker says, and I realize I’ve been staring out the window, not even seeing the family with two kids tossing suitcases in their car.
I look over at Breaker, who’s pressed against the door, gun drawn, Reaper at his side, his gun aimed at the door as he watches Breaker talk to whoever is on the other side.
“It says room 546,” a male says, his voice muffled by the closed door. After a second, he says, “Hold on, there’s an envelope.”
“For who?” Breaker asks, shifting to place his hand on the doorknob. I catch his eye as I slowly stand, unlocking the safety on my gun and moving to the far wall, peering around the corner to watch.
“The card says it’s for Fallon?” the man says, but it’s a question. “Do you want me to open it?”
“No,” Breaker barks out. He glances at Reaper, who nods, signaling for him to open the door.
I move my finger to the trigger and wait.
The door opens, and Breaker pulls the cart in, thanks the guy, and slams the door in his face. He checks under the cart, then nods when he finds it clear.
I lower my gun, lock the safety, and then gesture to the cart. “What is it?”
Reaper shoves his gun back in its holster, adjusts his leather jacket, eyeing the cart like it’s about to explode.
Fuck, for all we know, it may.
“Fallon’s name isn’t attached to these rooms,” I say, though there is no need. Rune has resources just like Fallon. It doesn’t matter that we’re using aliases. He knows we’d stay close. He has Hunter. He’s probably been watching us this entire time, though we’ve been careful to keep our faces covered, and Breaker messed with the hotel’s security cameras just in case.
“Harlow,” Reaper says. “I thought I spotted Clyde this morning.”
Breaker nods. “Yeah. Me too, last night.”
I gesture again to the cart. “What does the card say?”
We all stand around the cart, looking down at the silver tray with the ornate cover and the white card with black lettering on the front, spelling out Fallon Byrns in a neat calligraphy.
After a minute, Reaper snatches the white envelope and rips it open. He reads it, then curses, tossing the card down so violently it bounces off the cart and hits the floor. Breaker picks it up, reads it, then hands it to me, but Reaper is suddenly all movement, pulling the lid off the tray, and when we see what’s underneath, Breaker gasps, and I stumble back.
Reaper freezes, hand midair like he was reaching toward it, staring down at the tray.
“What the fuck,” Breaker breathes.
