He shoves at me again, wanting me to react. It’s a common law enforcement technique used around the world—provocation until I react before I get arrested for using force against him. I do respond, just not how he expects. I use my words, my presence, instead of my fists or my gun.
“Don’t steal her lines,” I throw back with a condescending laugh.
And he bites back, like I knew he would. Rage ignites in his eyes, and his hands flex. I get off watching him struggle to keep his cool because, so far, I haven’t done anything illegal or out of line. His losing his shit isn’t as satisfying as punching or killing him would be, but it takes the edge off my own souring mood.
Of course I poke at him again. “Now, look, I take more credence in what that woman says than any of you clowns, so I need to see some identification. You guys could be in town for an accountant conference, for all I know.”
His body language makes it abundantly clear he’d like to punch me again. But seemingly, like with her, he completely screwed up how to deal with me. By not having their badges on display, every person here who tried to detain me has messed up. Naturally, I seize on their mistake. Standing, I pull myself out of the hold of the agent holding my arm, straighten my suit, and call my lawyer.
I hold my finger up, and he has no choice but to keep quiet while I speak to her.
The second I hang up from Layne, I wait for him to approach. His badge now hangs around his neck, where it should have always been.
He’s clearly pissed off still, but he also needs answers, so he’s tempering his mood. Or at least trying to. “How do you know Quinn?”
“Are you talking about the Omega who just served you a rather large dose offuck you?” I ask benignly, being overly entitled.
He deserves my mood, considering he interrupted my time with her, but more importantly, clearly upset her.
He glares at me before managing a terse, “Yes.”
“Can you follow correct protocol to identify yourself, please? It is what my lawyer suggested.” I grin, taunting him some more, waiting for him to lose it and explode.
He looks away and takes a leveling breath in his attempt not to rise to my jabs.
“Special Agent Kade Memphis, Interpol, Organized Crime,” he grits, holding his hand out.
I don’t reach for it.
“Are you new?” I can’t resist goading him.
At the same time, I’d like to know what the hell my girl saw in him. A Beta with brown hair, brown eyes, and a subtle but hard to ignore cinnamon scent doesn’t seem to be what she’d go for, but maybe that’s the attraction. I mean, he’s good at hiding his winning personality, so it must be something else that interests her.
He grinds his teeth before eventually answering, “Recently transferred.”
I grin a little wider, loving how much he’s hating this, but if he wants to know anything else about Quinn from me, he doesn’t really have a choice. “You might have got employee of the week if you hadn’t messed up so spectacularly.”
He’s seething, already understanding how such a simple mistake on his part has been so costly to what could have been a very easy arrest. I throw him a bone, though—for my sake, not his.
“Well, Special Agent, thank you for properly identifying yourself. I’m fine if you still want to go ahead and ask your question again.”
I lead him on with a wave of my hand and the most condescending smile I can manage. I’m playing amicable for purely selfish reasons; I need to know her full name. In a world this size, “Quinn” just isn’t going to open enough doors for me.
I tip my head impatiently, waiting for him to answer. It takes a while, and I think for a moment or two he won’t ask, but he’s too much of a yes-man. But above his job with Interpol, he wants to know what I was doing with Quinn for his own personal reasons.
“Santiago Cabal, how do you know Quintessa Garcia?”
I nod my head, as if I’m contemplating how best to answer him without taking another hit to the face. But he punches likea pussy, and I’m a man on a mission. “None ofyourfucking business,Kade.”
I pick my bags up and walk off, leaving him having a tizzy fit. None of the officers stop me—they can’t, not until they get a new warrant, since they screwed this one up so epically.
By pure luck, I still have the second set of rental keys in my bag. I was going to drop them in the return box the rental place has downstairs. Instead, I’m driving off into the sunset before a new warrant is issued, waiting for my father to call me back. Something about her name has alarm bells ringing.
Chapter Nine
QUINN
The flight to Moscow takes close to twenty-two hours.
