“Exactly. If she knows I’m walking into a mafia stronghold, she’ll panic. She’ll try to stop me or try to negotiate herself.” I look between Caleb and Ross. “Give me five hours.”
I grab my jacket from the mudroom hook, shrugging it on. I check the steel lockbox under the bench, pulling out my sidearm. I check the chamber, making sure a round is loaded, and holster it at the small of my back. I’m not looking for a shootout, but I’m not walking into Sergio’s territory unarmed, either.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs, looking up into the shadows. My chest aches. I make a silent promise to the woman sleeping in my bed.
When I get back, the shadows will be gone forever.
The Lucky Road is dead quiet.
I lock the heavy deadbolt behind me, shutting out the rising sun. The familiar smells of the bar wash over me—lemon wood polish, aged oak, and the sharp, distinct aroma of my homemade bitters. Jars of smoked paprika infusions and clove extracts line the shelves behind the counter. I spent countless hours perfecting those recipes, turning mixology into an art form.
I walk past the long mahogany bar and the neatly stacked stools. I remember the day we bought this place. It was a complete disaster. We spent a year and a half doing the electrical work, fixing the ancient plumbing, and patching a roof that leaked like a sieve. We built this business with our bare hands, turning it into the financial safety net that allows us to handle mornings like this without breaking a sweat.
I step into my back office and lock that door, too. I push my heavy oak desk to the side, exposing the scuffed floorboards beneath it. I pull back a hidden panel and punch the code into the digital keypad of the floor safe.
The heavy steel locking mechanism clicks open.
I pull the heavy door up. Inside, arranged in neat, banded stacks, sits the bar’s emergency cash. I pull out twenty thousanddollars, counting the hundred-dollar bills with practiced efficiency. Two hundred bills. It’s barely an inch thick.
I grab a manila bank envelope from the desk, slide the two banded stacks inside, and fold the metal clasp shut. I slip the envelope into the deep inner pocket of my jacket, the weight of twenty thousand dollars pressing solid against my chest. It isn’t a life-ruining sum. We still have our pack’s investments and savings intact. But this cash is more than enough to buy an impenetrable wall around our Omega.
I push the desk back into place, leave the office, and step out into the freezing alleyway. I climb into my truck and head for the highway.
The drive takes about an hour. I treat the route like a tactical operation, checking the mirrors and keeping a vigilant eye on the traffic around me. As the snowy plains of southern Colorado give way to the sprawling industrial sectors of Pueblo, my mindset shifts.
I push down the softer, domestic side of myself. I slip back into the cold, calculated headspace from my military deployments. Sergio’s operations run out of a legitimate-looking commercial shipping depot. Massive corrugated steel walls stretch for an entire block, surrounded by a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire and a fleet of idling semi-trucks.
I don’t bother parking discreetly. I drive my heavy truck right up to the main security gate and put it in park in front of the barricade. I roll my window down, letting the freezing morning air rush into the cab.
Two men step out of the guard shack and approach the driver’s side. They wear coats, their hands resting lazily near their waistbands.
I don’t try to look friendly or approachable. I rest my arm on the open window frame and stare the taller guard down.
The guard’s lazy bravado drops the second he meets my eyes. He stops a few feet from the door, recognizing a genuine threat when he sees one.
“I have a meeting with Sergio.” I keep my voice rough and flat.
“Sergio doesn’t take unannounced meetings.” The shorter guard tries to act tough, though his unease is obvious. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Jethro.” I lock eyes with him through the open window. “Tell your boss I’m the Alpha who holds the marker on Sandra. Tell him I have the money he wants for her. If he wants this money, he opens this gate in the next ten seconds. If he doesn’t, I leave, and he gets absolutely nothing and I will kill all men he sends for her on sight.”
The guard swallows hard, eyeing the hard set of my jaw. He pulls a radio from his coat and speaks rapidly into the mic.
Five seconds later, a loud buzz echoes over the rumble of idling diesel engines. The heavy steel gate rolls open.
“Pull inside and park,” the tall guard says, taking a step back. “And check your weapons. No guns inside.”
I shift the truck back into drive, roll through the open gate, and park near the main building entrance. I shut off the engine and step out of the cab. My sheer size dwarfs the guard as he walks up behind me.
“I’m walking into a syndicate warehouse.” I turn around to face him. “I’m keeping my sidearm. If you want to try and take it from me, go ahead.”
The guard looks at the cold intent in my eyes and slowly steps aside.
“Follow me.” He turns toward the building.
I follow him into the cavernous interior of the freight shipping depot. Rows of towering metal shelves and stacked wooden pallets line the massive concrete floor. It smells like diesel exhaust, cold dust, and motor oil, but beneath the industrialgrime, I catch sight of a familiar profile standing near a rusted support beam.
Nero.
