Page 2 of Property of Booker

I dodge the direct hit and slide the talk onto easier ground. Her cadence cuts through the static of my station, grounding me in a way I don't expect. I lean into the mic, letting my voice drop as I admit, “It’s nice to hear your voice, Vixen.”

“At the rate you’re going, it’ll probably be the only time you hear it,” she harrumphs.

“You don’t have much faith in me, do you?” I counter, arching a brow at the empty room.

“It’s not a question of faith,” she murmurs, the sass vanishing from her tone to something stark. “It’s a question of you surviving this, Booker. You’re pushing yourself past the red line and I’m just waiting for the system to crash.”

“I’ll survive,” I promise her, wanting to believe it as much as she wants to hear it. “I have too.”

“You do, and I’m gonna make sure of it,” she declares before hanging up.

I run a hand through my hair and grin at the monitor. Her words linger in the room, vibrating against the quiet like a challenge I can't ignore. I stare at the blank screen, wondering exactly what kind of game she's playing. She's just a voice on a line, a string of data I've never seen, yet she speaks like she holds my life in her hands. What the hell does she think she'll be able to do?

I let that thought reverberate through my skull while the silence of the room settles back in. It’s an irritating weight. I shove my chair back, the wheels catching on the silicone floor mat, and stand up to pace the small space. My legs feel stiff, they cramp with each move, as if they’ve forgotten how to exist without my computer chair propping them up. I shuffle over to the mini-fridge in the corner, the hum of the compressor acting as the only steady rhythm in my life right now. I pop the tab on another energy drink, the sharp hiss of escaping carbonation sounding like a warning I choose to ignore. One more. Just one more, and I’ll crack his encryption. I have to believe that.

I know, in my gut, that those files we managed to grab when we took Patrick hold the key. They mock me from the screen, a knotted mess of encryption that hides his secrets. I scour every line, hunting for the one mistake he's bound to make. My fingers itch to get back into the rhythm, to pull apart his defenses piece by piece.

Jerome thinks he's invisible, but I'm looking for the one shred of evidence that drags him into the light. I have to find it before my luck runs out. The cursor blinks at me, a steady, measured pulse that counts down the time until Jerome realizes he’s exposed.

I won't let him slip away again.

CHAPTER

ONE

Kendall

Following the president and Sergeant at Arms of the Kings into the bakery, I slip in right behind them. Thinking I could fly under the radar was pure arrogance on my part, a classic mistake. Yet, I understand the predictable playbook men like this use to keep their hands clean. They invariably overlook the woman relegated to the background or ignored in the corner. That mistake is his first error in judgment. He expects an amateur, but he is completely wrong.

My gaze stays fixed on him from across the bustling room, every one of my steps remaining deliberate and controlled. He has no clue about the cold weapon pressed against my thigh or how closely I am tracking his path. While he actively searches the crowd for threats, he remains oblivious to the true nature of the danger approaching. Though my ultimate plan is still unformed, I am certain about one thing—I am not walking out of here without confronting him.

I spot the name Riptide emblazoned across his cut, confirming his identity. Stepping directly into his path, I block his way and ask, “You’re Booker’s president, right?”

His cold, calculating eyes narrow as he sizes me up. He folds his thick arms across his beefy chest while the man next to him snickers. “She’s a wildcat, Rip.”

“Shut it, Indiana,” Riptide snaps, his gaze measuring me carefully. “You would be?”

“I’d tell you but then I’d have to kill you,” I threaten.

Indiana’s tone changes as he steps between me and his chapter’s president. “Did you just threaten him, little girl?”

I smirk at the challenge in his eyes, refusing to back down. “I say what I mean,” I reply, my voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking in my veins.

Indiana narrows his eyes, his posture shifting into a defensive stance. “You've got guts, woman,” he growls, his hand hovering near his waist where a blade likely rests. “But you're barking up the wrong tree. We don't take kindly to threats in these parts.”

“What is this, a western? Do you want to meet at high noon and see who the quicker draw is?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest to mirror his stance. “I don't have patience for this posturing, and I definitely don't care about the intimidation routine you’re trying to sell. Decide right now if you want to dance, because I’m finished playing games.”

He takes a threatening step closer, and the playful man from before morphs into a stone cold killer. His eyes drill into mine. “Don’t think because you have a set of tits I’ll treat you any differently than I would if you had a dick,” he sneers.

I don't back down. I just tilt my chin up, meeting his hateful gaze with my own. “I don't expect you to,” I snap back. “I expect you to know who you’re talking to.”

A low growl builds in his throat. I can feel the tension radiating off him like heat from an engine. It's exhilarating. I don't care that I'm outnumbered or that I’m in their territory. My pulse thrums in my ears. I’m ready to strike if he gives me the slightest opening.

Riptide shifts his weight, his eyes locked on our little standoff. He looks like he’s debating whether to let us tear each other apart or stop the bleeding before it starts.

“Back off, Indiana,” Riptide commands, his voice like grinding gravel. He steps into our space, effectively breaking the tension. “She's not worth the trouble.”

Indiana lingers for a second longer, his hand twitching near his waist, before he grunts and takes a half-step back. “She's lucky you're in a good mood, Rip.”