I hop out of the Wagen and slam the door. I don’t give a fuck who hears me.
As I round an open garage-door entrance into a shady industrial building, one of his armed muscle approaches me.
Except for the part where I pretend to adjust the tie I didn’t bother putting on, I manage to play it cool.
I stop five feet shy of him, his .38-cal aimed at my groin. I want to tell this idiot that while shooting off my dick could result in a very unpleasant wound, the injury likely won’t be fatal.
It must be this guy’s first day. The Port Kings shoot to kill, and he’s aiming way too low.
“Kellin Jameson. I have a meeting with Declan.”
He scratches his neck tattoo with a meaty paw. “Declan didn’t say nothing about no meeting. Who are you again?”
“Here’s my card.” I stride toward him, pretend to slip my hand inside the breast pocket—just going for the business card—and backhand the motherfucker across the face.
Stupid son of a bitch deserves the hit. Who the hell carries business cards anymore?
His head snaps to the side, and I kick the gun from his hand. I drive my attack home with a left hook that rolls his eyes to the back of his skull.
His lip cracks open as he drops at my feet unconscious, splattering blood on my brushed-leather Pradas.
I hear a voice—“What the hell?”—as I grab the .38 off the concrete floor and straighten. When I do, I meet Declan Gallagher in the flesh. With long, aggressive strides, he heads right for me.
Two more men flank him, two steps behind and late to the party.
They see me pivot with the gun and draw theirs in response.
“I believe this is yours.” I offer Declan the weapon. To kill me, all he has to do is curl his finger around the trigger and squeeze.
His expression is a sight to behold. I can’t imagine many people have willingly handed over a gun to this man, especially not after knocking out his detail the way I just did.
His goons lower their weapons but keep them out.
Good boys. No need to be overly eager. As far as you know, I’m an unarmed man now. And you can see what happened to the last guy.
Declan Gallagher is broader than I am, and the years haven’t been particularly kind to him. His face tells the story of more battles lost than won. Scars by an eyebrow, on his cheek, and just a general leather-like characteristic to his skin that screams sun-damaged and tired. He’s carrying a lot of loss in those dark devil eyes that would otherwise, no doubt, be empty of all emotion.
Maeve described the man to a T.
Even though I’m half his age and ten times as fit, I don’t want to put my prowess to the test. Men like Declan can end someone by other means. Experience and cunning. Shane taught me that.
He accepts the gun and pockets it just as I knew he would. Then he stalks over to his downed man and shoves him with a foot.
Nothing.
He spins back toward me, a cruel smile on his face. “And just who the fuck are you?”
He’s impressed, or amused, by my audacity. I can work with that.
“I’m Kellin Jameson with Zenith Investment Group. That’s what I was telling your man here before he pulled a gun on me. I was informed that you’d be here by one of your men at the hotel.”
His eyes narrow. “You’ve been prowling around the Cypress. Sniffing around my daughter.”
“I have. Getting to know the hotel and the woman who runs it. Color me impressed.” I casually shove my hands into my pockets. Just two guys talking business. “We see the Cypress as an ideal investment opportunity. My company is interested in…discussing its future.”
“Who says it’s for sale?”
“Everything’s for sale.”
