Page 178 of Reckless

Lawyers buy you time, but security buys you options. Cole is making sure he has both.

Travis isn’t brave. I’ve known that since the first file I pulled on him. But he’s smart enough to see Calloway’s collapse for what it is, and smart men who work for powerful men start running the moment the ground shifts under someone else’s feet.

He’s already planning his exit. He’s just making sure he has cover first, in case the club comes for him before he gets the chance to disappear.

I sit in the van two houses down and watch the morning light climb over his lawn, and I think about the three men he’s hired to buy himself that head start.

Sin approved Koa and Mace for this one, even with his broken ribs. His call in Church, mine after. No point arguing across the table when a quiet adjustment gets the same result. I caught Slate after Church and laid out the plan. It was settled two minutes later.

Slate would take the street with Static while Koa and Mace made contact.

I’m in the van with the exterior feeds spread across my screens, watching every angle of the property. Koa is barely finished knocking when movement catches behind the downstairs window. Someone is home, and instead of heading straight for the door, they stop long enough to look out at him first.

“You’ve got eyes on you,” I tell him through the comm.

A few seconds later, the front door opens, and the man staring back at Koa isn’t Travis. Broad across the chest, close-cropped hair, eyes already moving past Koa to the street behind him. His right hand hangs just a fraction lower than his left, close enough to the pistol riding under his jacket that instinct could do the rest.

This guy isn’t here to answer doors.

It’s Travis’ security—the expensive kind.

His attention settles on Koa and Mace, his expression intensifying like he’s preparing for a fight.

Wrong move.

“Go,” I call through the comms.

Slate explodes around the side of the house. There’s nothing graceful about it. Six-foot-whatever of a Montana rancher hits the guard at full speed, driving him through the doorway hard enough to shake the frame.

“What the fu—” The rest disappears under the impact.

The guard’s hand dives beneath his jacket, fingers stretching for the pistol riding against his ribs, but Slate catches the movement, hooks his arm, and rips him away from the draw. The two of them slam into the porch, boots scraping across timber as the guard twists hard beneath him, throwing an elbow that clips Slate’s jaw.

“Get the hell off me!”

Koa is already moving. He catches the guard’s wrist just as his fingers brush the grip of the pistol, drives it into the porch with a sickening crack, and plants a boot across his forearm.

The guard snarls, bucks hard enough to lift Slate for a split second, but Slate rides the movement, drops a forearm across his throat, and leans his weight into it. “Ain’t no sense wearin’ yourself out, son,” Slate growls.

The guard fights for another couple of seconds, muscles straining, boots hammering against the porch boards, before the air leaves him in one rough choke.

The struggle drains out of him.

Slate doesn’t move, and neither does Koa. They hold him there until the only thing left making noise is the guard trying to drag a full breath back into his lungs.

Inside, the second guard comes off the sofa the instant the front door erupts.

His eyes flick across Static, Mace, then to the open doorway, and finally land on Slate pinning his partner to the porch outside.

He doesn’t waste time asking questions. His hand shoots for the pistol waiting on the side table.

“Gun!” Koa calls out, already moving. He closes the distance before the guard’s fingers wrap around the grip, catching his wrist and wrenching it sideways. The weapon skitters across the hardwood floor, disappearing beneath the dining table as the guard drives a shoulder into Koa’s chest.

Koa gives ground, boots sliding across the hardwood as the guard drives after him. Two steps is all it takes before the man commits his weight forward.

Exactly what Koa wanted.

Koa pivots with him, catches the man’s momentum, and slams him face-first into the wall hard enough to rattle the family photographs hanging above it. The guard rebounds with a snarl, throwing a tight right hook that clips Koa across the cheek.