Page 41 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

The anger at myself is suffocating.

I'm supposed to be the leader, the one who keeps his head when everything else falls apart.

Instead, I let her get under my skin so completely that I forgot about the merger, about security, and about everything except the feel of her body and the sounds she made.

And now there's a captain in critical condition and a warehouse full of stolen merchandise.

My phone buzzes with the address.

The warehouse near the docks. I press harder on the accelerator, my jaw working as I force myself to compartmentalize. Marla will have to wait.

Right now, I need to find out who the hell betrayed me.

Behind me, I can see Russ's black SUV in my rearview mirror, and Alex's sedan behind his.

Neither of them said a word when we left Marla's place, but I could feel the tension radiating off both of them. We're all rattled, and that's dangerous when we're about to walk into a crime scene.

The warehouse district comes into view twenty minutes later. Gray buildings line the waterfront, their metal siding streaked with rust and salt. My warehouse sits at the end of the row, larger than the others, with loading docks facing the water.

Even from a distance, I can see something's wrong. The main door hangs open, and there are too many vehicles in the lot. Police lights flash blue and red against the gray morning sky, and I curse under my breath.

The last thing I need is cops crawling all over my operation.

I pull into the lot and park near the entrance. Russ and Alex pull in beside me, and we all get out at the same time. One of my men approaches immediately, his face pale and his shirt stained with blood.

"Boss," he says, his voice shaking. "It's bad."

"Show me."

He leads us inside, and the smell hits me first. Blood and diesel fuel, mixed with the salt air coming through the open loading dock. The warehouse floor is chaos.

Overturned crates, scattered merchandise, and broken glass everywhere.

Two of my guards sit against the wall with medics tending to their injuries.

One has a gash across his forehead that's still bleeding. The other holds his arm at an odd angle.

But it's the figure on the stretcher that makes my blood boil with fury.

My captain, a man who's been with me for eight years, lies unconscious with his face so swollen I barely recognize him.

His breathing is shallow and labored, and there's an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. The paramedics work quickly, checking vitals and preparing to move him.

"How bad?" I ask one of them.

"Critical," the paramedic says without looking up. "Skull fracture, internal bleeding, and broken ribs. He's lucky to be alive."

Lucky. Right.

I turn to the guard who brought us in. "What happened?"

"They came in fast," he says, his voice still shaking. "Four men, maybe five, wearing masks and gloves. They knew exactly where to go and what to take. One truck, the one with the electronics shipment. Thousands in merchandise, gone."

"And the cameras?"

His face goes even paler. "Disabled. All of them."

Fuck.