In this particular situation, Gessler’s abrasive personality works exactly as it should.
"You are not here to make the rules. The program representatives are," he reminds him coldly. "Your job is to deliver him safely. Mr. Gomez is responsible for the entire operation, so focus on doing what you were assigned to do."
The alpha shoots me a murderous look, and something about his behavior sets me off. I grew up in a fortress full of mafiosi. I know men like this well. I can smell trouble from a distance, and something here does not sit right with me.
A moment later, two betas escort Salt outside.
He is carrying a suitcase, and it is obvious he had no idea I would be here. I see the shock hit his face in real time. He goes pale, then flushes, then pales again, his brows knitting together as emotion crashes through him.
"Hey, Salt," I say lightly as I approach. "How are you? Storm lent me his car. I’ll follow you to the port."
"Whatever," Salt mutters, his lips slightly pursed as he quickly looks away, though a deep blush lingers on his cheeks. From the rapid beat of his heart, I can tell he is not only surprised but upset. Some of that anger Storm mentioned earlier is clearly bubbling to the surface now.
He is dressed in civilian clothes, which catches my attention. A black leather jacket, a dark navy T-shirt with a white artistic splatter across the chest, and black skinny jeans. He looks even more edgy like this, his hair loose and neatly brushed. My gaze drifts over him, and he flicks a brief glance back at me.
The two betas lead Salt toward the bus, giving me my first real chance to see him without the baggy prison jumpsuit. From behind, I notice his long, shapely legs, narrow hips, and pleasantly rounded ass, almost as if he has a slight anterior pelvic tilt. My eyes linger there for a moment longer than they should.
The driver takes paperwork from Gessler, most likely confirming the transfer, and Salt is seated inside. He does not look back. No farewell glance. Fine.
The three alpha guards board the bus after him, while the beta guards return to the detention center.
That strikes me as odd. Beta prisoners are always handled by guards of the same subgender, and the realization that this is off makes me even more alert.
Maybe I’m overly suspicious, but that’s also part of my mafia upbringing. We’re drilled in almost paranoid caution. Everything can be a trap, and no one outside families tied to ours can ever be fully trusted. It’s almost a reflex to analyze people’s behavior in simple terms, whether they pose a threat or not. And now that mechanism is kicking in.
The bus pulls away and exits the fenced grounds of the detention center.
I stay close behind it, occasionally drifting slightly to the side so I can keep an eye on Salt’s dark blue head as he sits by the window, staring outside.
We drive for about fifteen minutes and nothing happens, yet a strange tension builds in my chest. My nerves feel stretched tight, and I cannot explain why.
Something is wrong. I just do not know what.
From what I overheard during the driver’s conversation with Gessler, the trip to the port should take about an hour. That leaves forty-five minutes.
My entire body simply refuses to settle.
Then I notice that Salt’s head is no longer visible on the right side of the bus. When there is no oncoming traffic, I edge forward slightly, as if preparing to pass, and realize the window where he was sitting is covered.
What the hell is that supposed to be for?
Why would Salt even move from his seat?
I pull farther forward and see that nearly the entire second row of windows is blocked. I slow down again and, where the shoulder widens, try to pull up alongside the bus from the other side, only to be hit with another shock. The windows are covered there too.
What the fuck?
This is not normal. This should not be happening.
I make a split-second decision that is reckless and dangerous. I overtake the bus and slam on the brakes in front of it, forcing the driver to brake hard as well. Tires screech.
I jump out of the car and run to the main bus doors, pounding on them with my fists.
The driver makes a mistake, likely unaware of what is happening in the back, and opens the doors. Immediately, I jump inside.
"What are you doing, are you out of your mind?" he yells. "We could have crashed."
I ignore him. The rear of the bus is separated from the driver’s section by a thin partition with a door. I kick it in hard as the beta screams behind me.
