But not tonight.
Not if I could help it.
Chapter 18
Gunner
The tech cave was the back room of Wrecker’s ranch-style house. He had a wall of server racks that hummed like angry bees. If Dairyville had a missile command center, this was it. The room smelled like gourmet coffee, dirty novels, and genius-level intrigue. If you didn’t know better, you’d assume he and Parker lived in there. And with the exception of their playroom in the basement; you’d be right.
I’d followed Wrecker back here after he helped with a short cattle run to a small ranch on the other side of pack territory. Now he was at his desk, hunched over three screens, two of which displayed enough scrolling code to induce an epileptic seizure. The third screen showed the live feed from the ranch’s outer perimeter, which at this hour was just a vulture squabbling with a crow over some dead varmint. He didn’t even look up.
“Got time to do some snoopin’?” I asked, dropping onto the battered rolling chair that creaked like a dying goat.
“Always,” he grunted.
The dude never slept, I swear. “You up all night again?”
“Yup,” he said. “Had to push out a firmware update for the Council’s tracker nodes. They can’t find their own dicks without my code.” He finally looked at me, those glacier-gray eyes as cold and flat as always. “Brie’s okay?”
“She’s thriving. Got her hands full with the gallery grand opening. Thanks for asking.”
He snorted. “You never ask for help unless you’re really fucked.”
I grunted, because he wasn’t wrong.
Parker popped her head through the doorway, hair still wet from a shower. She wore yoga pants, a tank top that said “NOT YOUR BABY GIRL.” Her wild pink and brunette hair made her look both smarter and more dangerous than any human had a right to. She carried two mugs—both black, both filled with the kind of coffee that you get in those fancy-schmancy coffee shops.
She set one down in front of me, the other in front of Wrecker, then curled up on an overstuffed couch under the window. “Afternoon, Finn,” she said, voice sleepy like she had just woken up from an afternoon nap.
“Thanks, Wren,” I said. She grinned at the nickname.
Wrecker sipped his coffee and, without even a glance at Parker, said, “You need me to run that check?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I want everything we can get on Lysander Hale. And don’t skimp.”
He typed one-handed, without looking. The man could probably write code in his sleep.
Parker, ever the gossip, perked up. “Who’s Lysander Hale? That’s an amazing name. Is he a vampire?”
I laughed. “He wishes.”
Wrecker didn’t smile, but his fingers danced faster. “Art dealer. Out of Boston. Works with Brie’s gallery. Clean as a goddamn whistle, but let’s see what’s under the surface.”
Parker made a face. “You know, I once dated a guy who was obsessed with those murder podcasts. Always convinced that every new person was a serial killer.”
“That’s not far off,” I said. “Except y’all can actually find out if they are.”
She grinned. “If you want to know my criminal history, just ask.”
Wrecker, not looking up, said, “Already did. You should be in jail.”
“Fuck off,” she said, but she was smiling. There was a weird tenderness between those two, like a pair of feral dogs who’d decided to share a bone. Speaking of dogs, about that time I heard the pet door flap crash open and the ugliest dog west of the Mississippi came bounding into the room.
Parker’s voice immediately went into pet baby talk when she picked him up to cuddle him. “There’s my good boy. So precious. Look! Finn’s here!”
I swear the pooch winked at me. Made me grin.
I sipped the coffee. It was scalding and bitter and perfect and turned back to Wrecker. “So, what’s the verdict on Hale?”
