I don’t want that for my girl or for the stranger I just met today. That’s not how we operate at Black Blade Protection. We fix things.
Samson is a dead man.
Period.
Ghost’s phone rings, and he answers it, connecting it to the speaker system in the SUV. “Update us, Bryant.”
Blade has connections all over the world. Luckily, Anthony Bryant is one of those men, and he was available to take on this case. I’ve met him a few times in the past. He’s one of the good guys.
“What’s your ETA?” Bryant asks.
“Ten minutes,” Ghost responds.
“Good. See you then.” Bryant ends the call. He already texted us the address to the property where he’s located.
No one knows where Samson went while he was missing for a day, but luckily, he returned home yesterday and hasn’t left again. According to Bryant, the piece of shit spends most of his time pacing the spare bedroom where he set up an elaborate investigation. An entire wall is covered with details about both James and Autumn Burke. He’s spent a fucking long time planning to take over James’s wealth and lure in Autumn. He could have gotten away with it, too. If only James had died before Autumn got home.
That part makes me fume. If she’d arrived two minutes later, I might not even know my friend and mentor had died yet. My woman would be in the arms of a fucking lunatic, who would be pretending to console her while he robbed her blind.
Ghost is right. I’m too close to this case to make rational decisions, but that’s why he’s with me. I need him to run this operation.
Ten minutes later, on the dot, we park in the driveway of a house I’ve learned is one block from Samson’s home. We don’t need to worry about hiding. There’s no need. Bryant discovered this vacation rental in a perfect location, where he can easily see Samson coming and going since the man has to drive past this house to get out of the neighborhood.
Bryant lets us in, and we exchange quick pleasantries before he motions us to join him in the kitchen. He’s all business, which I appreciate. We’re not here for coffee.
I’m impressed by the spread of monitors and computers on the kitchen table, and as Bryant plops down in front of the system, he points toward a monitor on the right. “That’s Samson.”
I plant a hand on the table and lean in. It’s eerie to be staring at live footage of the man who killed Autumn’s father. He’s pacing back and forth in a room that matches the exact description I’ve been given. The setup looks like the wall of information an FBI agent would have if they were surveilling a known criminal, except Samson has cameras and information all over the room that pertain to Burke’s home, and more specifically, Autumn.
My blood boils. Fuck this asshole. I’ve never been in Autumn’s room, but I can easily identify it on one of the screens in Bryant’s kitchen because he’s tapping into all the cameras Samson is using.
Bryant is top-notch. No wonder Blade has him on retainer.
Bryant gives us a quick rundown of everything we’re looking at, but my gaze remains on the man pacing. He keeps looking at his phone, like he’s waiting for a call.
I step closer to that screen and stare at him. I’ve never seen the man before, and I start popping my knuckles because he’s a dead man.
Suddenly, Samson holds his phone up, pumps his fist, and races over to his computer. He drops onto a chair in front of the screen and types frantically.
Bryant clicks on several things. A few of the monitors change, and then we’re watching Samson’s screen as if it’s ours on one of them.
“What the absolute fuck!” I shout. This asshole has pulled up an address, the exact location I just left my woman with Addison. Our safehouse. How the fuck did he get that information from a text?
Samson types on his phone, spins his chair around, and jumps up to leave the room.
I turn and run toward the door. Ghost is on my heels. He’s the one with the keys to the SUV.
“Coming with you,” Bryant states.
My heart is racing. It’s not as though I can’t get to Autumn and Addison before that fucking piece of shit, but what the fuck?
We’re in the SUV and peeling out of the neighborhood in seconds. It’s about a fifteen-minute drive to the safehouse. I’m sure Ghost will do it in ten.
I grab the handle above the car door as he takes the first turn, tires squealing.
When I glance over my shoulder, I realize Bryant’s got a laptop open on his thighs. He’s clicking away at the keys. His brows are furrowed deeper than anyone I’ve ever seen. He’s furious.
“How did he get the address?” I growl.
