Chapter 1
“ . . . w
anted for the murder of Lyndsy Summer, one of the Omegas who belongs to Bourne Pack . . .”
I scooted to the edge of the barstool, staring up at the image that flashed across the screen. Lyndsy, with her white teeth, bottle-tanned skin, and cheery complexion. The reporter droned on about the devastation Bourne Pack would experience as a consequence of their loss. All bullshit.
As much of a bitch as she was, I didn’t kill her—I’d neverkillanyone. “. . .see this person of interest, please contact the authorities promptly. . .” One peek, and I saw my face on the screen. I lowered my head. The bartender swept her gaze past, and my shoulders relaxed, until they swung back to me. Her eyebrows furrowed, and she was mid-turn to the screen as I slid off the barstool.
I tugged at the hood of my sweater as I wove through the crowd to get to the exit. A muffled “stop her” followed me, but was quickly drowned out by the noise of the crowd. I pressed my hand to my forehead, shielding my face.
At the very least, they could have chosen a better picture. I gritted my teeth as I picked up my pace. With my palm out, I slapped my hand on the exit, and it let me out into the chilly night.
My shoulder checked the door, but I couldn’t feel it with adrenaline pumping as I ran out at full speed.
“Freeze! Law enforcement,” a shout echoed from behind, the words slurred.Just a little more and I’ll make it around the building.
A shot rang out, and in the next moment, searing agony sliced my arm. I hissed, staggering into the side of the brick building. Despite how much it hurt, I couldn’t slow down. After dragging in a hard breath, I pushed off the wall, forcing myself forward. Every step jolted through me as if weights were being piled onto my shoulders.
I finally made it out of range of the gunman, the building casting me in shadows. With my head dipped, I hurried down the alleyway until it let me out into a busy shopping center.
Lights from bars, restaurants, and shops illuminated the vicinity, casting a thick brightness that blocked out the dark sky. Near an outdoor restaurant, I slid between two tables full of intoxicated Academy boys. I filched a leather jacket tossed over the back of the chair. The thick fabric weighed heavily in my grip, the material of pure quality. I shrugged it on as I moved to the right, away from the outdoor restaurant and down a different alley that led to another strip of bars.
Slowing my wide stride caused a heavy weight to knock into my thigh. I shoved my hand into the pocket and pulled out a cell phone, opened on the keypad. Shit, now I could add phone thiefto my rap sheet, but still, luck had smiled down on me—I could make a call.Who, though?I wasn’t close to anyone. The only number I’d memorized belonged to my workplace . . . the one I’d been fired from.
It’d been several months since I lost my job, but I had no one else to call. I could dial my coworker’s extension, the only one I’d been close to in the years I’d been atCandor News, one of the top five news sites.
I dialed the number.
“You got Sam,” the Beta intoned, urgency coating his voice. Papers shuffling came through the line. He was likely working, spending his time as I would at nine at night. We’d both always been creatures of habit. “Hello,” he repeated, now impatient.
“It’s Briar Rivera,” I said, hurried.
A moment of silence, and then, “Briar?” He inhaled sharply. “Police are looking for you for murdering?—”
“I didn’t fucking do it,” I hissed.
There I went, with my temper. It’d gained me more enemies than not. I took a moment to compose myself. “I didn’t do it,” I repeated in a softer tone. “Pack Bourne is framing me.”
He went silent. I tapped my thigh, and even that little movement spiked agony in the injury on my arm.
“Pack Bourne, the one with the Nevada governor,Bourne Pack?” His tone was disbelieving, and I could understand why; Darius Bourne’s image was carefully curated as a no-nonsense, straight-and-narrow sort, but it was a facade. “Yes.”
Another beat of silence. I sped up, following behind a rowdy group of women well into their drinks.
“I recommend you turn yourself in?—”
“No,” I blurted. He was going to hang up. “Please. Just listen. I was running a story on human trafficking, and it runs so fucking deep, Sam.”
He cleared his throat, and I heard more shuffling of papers. Knowing him, he was grabbing a notepad to take notes.
“What are your sources?”
“Me. Alice Lane and Lyndsy Summer.” The intel spilled out of me. “They ordered her death when they found out she was going to give me damning proof.” I swallowed with difficulty. “Now, they’re coming for me.”
I chewed on my bottom lip, waiting for his reaction. The scratch of a pen over paper came over the phone.
“If what you’re saying is true, you’re fucked.”
