Page 24 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

"I know." I lean back into his solid warmth. The smell of black coffee and leather surrounds me. A fortress. "But we have to use that. If they’re focused on 'Tom,' they aren't focused on the bigger picture."

I drag my finger down the list of Syndicate assets listed in the Broken Halos brief. The chop shop. The local precinct. The county clerk's office.

"Look at this," I say, tapping a heavily annotated page. "The collection routes. They pool the cash every Tuesday night. Right here in town. Before they run it up the Eastern Ridge."

Tyler's arms tighten around me. The operator shifts back into focus. The raw protector merging seamlessly with the tactical weapon.

"The drop house," he murmurs.

"Precisely." I turn my head, brushing my cheek against his rough jaw. "You've been mapping them for eight months. You know the routes. You know the players. And now they know you're here, but they think you're just a stubborn civilian."

I pull the Tuesday schedule Nadia sold him from my pocket. I set it next to the Broken Halos brief.

The pieces align. The administrative control the Syndicate wields over Crimson Hollow is built on a rigid, predictable schedule. The corporatization of their violence is their biggest weakness. They expect compliance. They expect fear.

They don't expect a ghost.

I look up at the cracked Coltrane record. I look at the spilled vintage sleeves covering the floorboards. The fear that’s suffocated me for years is gone. It burned up the second Tyler placed his hands on my hips and claimed me.

I’m not a victim. I’m the partner of a Broken Halos prospect.

I turn in his arms. I look up into his dark eyes.

"What don't they know yet," I say.

It isn't a question. It’s a demand for a tactical assessment.

Tyler’s gaze drops to my mouth. A dark, terrifying smile curves the corner of his lips. The mask is gone. This is the man underneath. The man who breaks codes. The man who dismantles lies.

"They don't know that my club is staging three miles north of the county line," Tyler says, his hands sliding up my spine, pulling me closer. "They don't know that Mac has the Ridge Road locked down. They don't know that I have a secure radio line to dispatch."

He dips his head, his mouth hovering a fraction of an inch over mine. The heat of his breath makes my skin flush.

"And they don't know that the Tuesday Enforcer is going to disappear tomorrow night," he whispers fiercely.

A sharp thrill drops low through my belly. "You're taking him out."

"I'm erasing him," Tyler confirms, his thumbs stroking the skin behind my ears. "Quietly. Using the undercover network. No violence in your shop. No blood on your floorboards. He vanishes. And the Syndicate administration panics."

"They'll come looking."

"Let them look. By the time they realize Tom from Portland is a phantom, the Broken Halos will already be inside their walls."

He kisses me. It isn't gentle. It’s a hard, consuming crush of lips and teeth that demands surrender. I open my mouth for him instantly, tangling my fingers in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. His tongue sweeps inside, claiming my taste, tasting of coffee and unchecked aggression.

The kiss is a seal. A blood vow. A united front.

We aren't hiding anymore. We’re hunting.

When he finally pulls away, my chest is heaving. My lips are bruised. My blood is a roaring inferno.

Tyler looks down at the mess on the floor. The scattered records. The cracked plastic.

"I'll clean it up," he says, his voice rough. "You go upstairs. Lock the apartment door."

"I'm staying right here," I counter, crossing my arms. The sass is back, fortified by his presence. "It's my shop. You think I'm letting you organize the jazz section? You'd probably alphabetize Miles Davis by his first name."

Tyler stares at me. A low chuckle vibrates in his chest. A real laugh. The sound is rough and rusty, like an engine turning over for the first time in years.