“Oh my freaking good God, what the hell?” Aspen burst out as she and Bailey shouldered their way through the crowd. “Are you both okay?”
“We’re okay,” said Havana. “Though my heart is racing a mile a minute.” She looked up at Tate. “Thank you for shoving me out of harm’s way.”
He kissed her forehead, not loosening his hold on her. His muscles hurt with the effort to hold back his cat—the feline wanted to shift, hunt, and kill.
“That was the same Charger from the drive-by,” said Bailey, her eyes narrowed.
“I know,” said Tate, his voice like gravel. “As soon as Farrell calls and tells us where those assholes stopped, I’ll be heading their way.”
“And I’ll be going along with you,” Havana announced. “No, Tate, don’t argue. I know you want to stick me in your sock drawer where I’ll be nice and safe, but no coddling. This shit has everything to do with me. I want in on it every step of the way. You wouldn’t stay behind if our positions were reversed.”
He opened his mouth to argue, even though he couldn’t deny that she was right. But then he thought better of it. He had no chance of earning her devil’s trust if he treated Havana like she didn’t know her own strength or couldn’t take care of herself. She was an alpha, and he had to treat her like one—especially since he planned on making her his Alpha female. “Fine. Let’s get to the SUV. I want us to be ready to move in an instant.”
Soon enough, a bunch of people were piling into the pride’s seven-seater SUV. Luke slid into the driver’s seat, Tate rode shotgun, Vinnie and Alex sat in the second row, and Havana settled on the rear passenger seats with Aspen and Bailey, who insisted on coming.
It wasn’t easy to sit still when adrenaline and anticipation pumped through his veins. His cat was pacing, just as eager to get to the people who’d targeted his mate yet again.
It didn’t take long for Tate’s phone to start ringing. “Where are they, Farrell?” he answered.
Farrell rattled off an address. “They’re both packing a bag, Tate. Looks like they’re getting ready to run.”
“Sit tight unless they try to leave before we get there. We’re on our way.” Tate ended the call and spoke the address out loud.
“Got it,” said Luke, pulling out onto the road.
“Now I need to find out who lives there.” Tate sent a text to River, asking for the details of whoever resided at the address. “According to Farrell, our boys are packing a bag. They probably don’t want to hang around to tell their boss they failed him again.”
“This was probably their chance to redeem themselves for failing Gideon once before,” mused Alex.
“It’ll be best not to interrogate them at their home,” said Tate. “If Gideon decides to go looking for them and then realizes they’re dead, he’ll suspect we questioned and killed them. We don’t want him to know that we’re getting closer.”
“I had that same thought,” said Vinnie.
Tate turned to his brother. “If they haven’t finished packing by the time we’ve arrived, do it for them and make it look like they bailed.”
“Will do,” said Luke.
Silence reigned right up until Tate received a text message from River. “The house is owned by a human who is currently renting it to both Malcolm Taggart and Vernon Clementine,” said Tate. “They’re humans, apparently. But they could be lone shifters posing as humans to their landlord. We’ll soon find out.”
After that, no one talked much throughout the drive. Everyone sat up straight as Luke parked the SUV in a somewhat shady neighborhood.
“The plan is simple,” said Tate. “We apprehend them, tie them up, and bring them back to my dad’s apartment for questioning.” There was a spare room they used specifically for that purpose.
Tate twisted in his seat and skimmed his gaze over Havana and her girls. “You three stay here and keep watch over the SUV. We’ll be back soon.”
“Okay,” the trio said in unison.
Tate blinked, surprised they hadn’t insisted on coming along. Then again, the interrogation wouldn’t be held here, so the women would only be missing out on watching Malcolm and Vernon get apprehended—it wouldn’t exactly be entertaining.
Tate locked eyes with Havana. “Call us if anything happens out here that we need to be aware of,” he said, so that they’d feel that they had something to do.
“Okay,” they again said at once.
All right, now they were just being creepy.
“Let’s get moving,” said Tate.
As a group, he and his pride mates slipped out of the SUV. The street was empty, so no one saw them as they silently hurried over to Farrell, who stood in the gap that separated the house from its neighbor. Tate heard muffled voices coming from inside, but nothing else.
Noticing an open window at the side of the house, Tate headed right to it. He signaled at Vinnie and Farrell to cover the rear of the building and then gestured at Alex to watch the entrance. It was important to have every exit blocked, because the men were bound to run.
Tate and Luke stealthily climbed through the open window and then found themselves in a small dining room. They stood still for a moment, familiarizing themselves with their surroundings. The place was shabby. Peeling wallpaper. Sparse, worn furnishings. Stained carpet. The scents of dust, charred meat, mold, and …
“Cheetah,” mouthed Luke, his nostrils flaring. He clamped his mouth shut, fighting a smile.
Yeah, cheetahs, just as Havana had predicted. Fuck, she would never let that go.
Footsteps hurried around upstairs. Someone was definitely in a rush. The only other sounds seemed to be coming from the living room—cursing, heavy breathing, a zipper shutting.
“Goddammit, Vern, hurry up!” yelled the shifter in the living room, who had to be Malcolm Taggart.
“Two minutes!” Vern bellowed.
Tate pointed from Luke to the ceiling, gesturing for his brother to handle the shifter upstairs. As Luke disappeared up the staircase, Tate headed for the living room.
The cheetah was standing in the middle of the small space, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, muttering beneath his breath. The guy was so lost in his thoughts that it took him a few moments to sense that he wasn’t alone.
Taggart’s head snapped up. He froze. Then his eyes fell closed as he cursed. Shoving a hand through his tousled dirty blond hair, Taggart let out a shaky breath. “I think I can guess by the look on your face that paying you to walk away ain’t going to work.”
Clenching his fists, Tate moved to stand directly in front of him. “Good guess.”
“What I did … it wasn’t personal, all right,” Taggart told him. “I just did what I was paid to do. I have no beef with you.”
“You do now.” Targeting Tate’s mate was very personal to him.
The cheetah rubbed at his nape. “Look, I get that the loner is under your protection … although I didn’t know that at first—not until the boss ripped me another asshole over the phone for failing to kill her. He said something about the Olympus Alpha being a smug fucker. I asked what he meant. He said the devil had your protection.”