Page 26 of Angel

“Find out what she wants and give nothing away. Standard procedure.”

I tap my heavily ringed fingers on the table, and my voice lowers.

“Gabriel is on the case of the killer. All he has right now is that Giovanni was found in a cheap motel hanging from the doorjamb. He was stabbed several times, and his dick was in his mouth; his throat had been cut.”

“Man, fuck that shit,” Titan shivers.

For a moment we say nothing, dealing with the horrors of the scene my words present.

“Gabriel will brief me in the morning as usual. I’m guessing he will produce a fuller picture by then.”

I glance at my phone; the other message sent chills me to the bone.

“Then there is the message she received from an unknown person.”

They will all have seen the message. It was sent in the group chat. The one all our operatives use to reach the inner circle without seeing the details of what was sent themselves.

“Any ideas?”

I add, scanning the faces who reveal nothing. They never do.

“A crackpot, perhaps.” Titan muses, his pose thoughtful, his fingers pinching his chin.

“Who knows where she lives and has the resources to send an expensive bouquet with a printed card?”

“A fan.” Ghost shrugs, revealing we’re all none the wiser.

I tap my finger on the table, rhythmically, carefully, steadily.

“We need eyes on all of Sophie’s residences. Details of her employees, acquaintances, anyone working with her, no matter how small, from the bottom to the top of a production. Past lovers…”

I stop; the word conjuring up images that leave a bad taste.

I shift, my mind in business with an edge of Sophie Clere. The way she glared at me in the moonlight. The way she pursued me, threw her hands on me, and demanded my attention.

The guys are silent, their minds working hard. It’s what we do. Like the data engine I created, we analyze. My men are experts in their chosen fields. Mine is data. Ghost is facts and investigation. Havoc is muscle and solving problems with his fists, and Titan’s is clinical, an expert in cleaning up crime scenes and bodies. His background used to be in pharmaceuticals, forensics—bodies. Then there’s Zac. He’s our moral compass. The man who plans strategy and is an expert on locations.

We all hold our special fields, and they work well together; we are a team. Unstoppable, ruthless, with no compassion.

I stare at the image of the card, my mind working hard. Every possibility running through it, like data through my algorithm.

Murderer.

I speak aloud.

“Why would he, or she, call Sophie Clere a murderer? What does the reference mean?”

Havoc growls, “Perhaps they blame her for Giovanni’s death. A coworker perhaps, an ex-girlfriend, a relative of his.”

“I’ll ask Gabriel to investigate.”

We fall silent at the mention of the man who runs this entire organization. He is a faceless part of it. I am his only contact. The others met him, but they don’t know it. He created the Wild Angels for a very good reason that nobody knows about but me.

To their credit, they never asked. Never voiced their questions out loud.

I glance around the room; my meaning is clear, and one by one we raise our hands and plant them face down on the arrows. No other words are needed. We have our instructions.

As Ghost makes to leave, I envy him his task. A pulse flickers in my jaw as I watch him go. Silent, no looking back, his focus only on one thing. Sophie Clere.