“Until now,” Chrome mutters.
I fold my arms over my chest, studying Menace’s face again. Memories surface whether I want them or not—him laughing while he raped a club girl, the way he looked at Zara in her father’s store.
Predatory. Calculating.
“He was the one,” I say quietly.
Chrome glances at me. He knows what I mean.
Mode’s expression darkens. “Yeah. I figured.”
I drag a hand down my mouth. “They are using their kuttes, so they’re not afraid of drawing attention.”
“Sloppy,” Chrome says.
“Or confident,” I counter.
Mode leans back in his chair. “They tracked Zara to the hotel, so they knew her travel itinerary. I’ve patched into the hotel feed to keep an eye out for them. They were outside the hotel when Arson and Piston picked up Zara’s friend Tony. They didn’t follow our guys. I don’t think they know Zara’s schedule.”
“Yet,” Chrome repeats.
The word hangs heavy.
I step closer to the screen, bracing a hand on the desk. “They’re here for a reason. Zara is the key. It would be nice if they just wanted money, but I think it’s more sadistic than that.”
“We need more eyes on her,” Chrome says.
“When are Chill and the others due?”
Chrome glances at his watch. “They’ll be here in four hours.”
“We just need to keep her safe until then.”
Chrome’s phone rings, and my chest hollows out when I see the display. ‘Arson,’
“What’s happening?” Chrome barks.
“We’ve got a situation. Six Bushrangers just arrived at the coffee shop. They’ve spotted Zara. Not sure if we can take them all.”
“We’re on our way.”
CHAPTER 14: ZARA
I’m frozen with fear as the Bushrangers descend on me. One minute I’m talking about my inspirations and the next my throat closes like I’ve swallowed ice.
Menace’s eyes find mine immediately. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t have to. The corner of his mouth twitches like he already knows I’m scared.
And I am.
The journalists around me are still smiling, still nodding, one of them asking something about my time at university in Auckland—but their voices start to sound far away. Muffled. Distant.
The six of them spread out slowly, deliberately.
They don’t touch me.
They don’t need to.
One drags a chair across the floor and turns it backward, straddling it so close I can feel his breath on my neck. The scrape of wood against tile makes my pulse spike. Another plants both hands on my table and leans down, invading every inch of my space.
