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I roll my eyes. “Yes, Dad.”
But he isn’t fazed. He grabs my arm and nods. “You know I love you like a brother, Hawk. Stay calm and focus on the plan. It will work.”
Suddenly I’m kinda choked, because Rook never shows much emotion, and I don’t know how the hell to respond, so I just nod and pat him on the shoulder.
And then my phone rings at long last, and I make a mad grab for it.
“Jamie Fleming,” I say breathlessly.
“Drive alone along East Cold Spring Lane, cross Loch Raven Boulevard, and then turn into Fenwick Avenue and second left into Northgate Road.” I repeat the directions in my mind as the man goes on. “Stop there and wait. We’ll come to you. Don’t even think about telling anyone where you’re going. Needless to say, if we see any suspect movement, Hawk Fleming, your girlfriend is dead.”
The call disconnects before I crush it in my hand.
Just as well.
“Gotta go,” I tell Rook. “Northgate Road.”
“Let me help you unload your bike.” He throws the car door open, but then he pauses and gives me a long look. “You’ve got this, kid.”
“I’ve got this.”
As if I have any fucking choice.
***
Pulling on my helmet and my leather jacket, I climb on my bike. At least this is a good feeling—the first good feeling I’ve had since Layla walked away and the fucking bastards got her.
My heavy biker boots rest on the ground. My hands grip the handles.
I’m as ready as I’ll ever get for this trip back into hell. Revving up the engine, taking one last deep breath, I push the kickstand and get rolling.
In the time between the first phone call I received at Storm’s estate to the second call in the car with Rook, we took care of a few things. Like the GPS tracker Rook stuck to my bike, in case the address I was given doesn’t prove to be the final one.
Among other things.
Fuck, this is nuts. Rook’s plan is on par with my suicidal one that ended up with me tied up in that basement—but thankfully I don’t have much time to ponder the level of craziness because I’m already turning into Northgate Road and slow to a stop, planting my feet on the street and balancing the bike.
I pull off my helmet and let the icy wind whip my hair across my face. The street looks empty.
Scratching at my beard, I climb off my bike and kick the stand into place, then walk in a circle.
My phone starts buzzing in my pocket before I’m done.
Cursing, I fish it out and connect the call. “Yeah? I’m here.”
“Of course you are.” I can hear the sneer in the voice and my other hand clenches into a fist. “Leave your bike where it is. Walk to number thirty-two and take the elevator to the third floor.”
Click.
Dammit.
The street narrows in my eyes, darkening at the edges. True tunnel-vision, complete with a soundtrack—the mad pounding of my heartbeat in my ears.
“Number thirty-two, third floor,” I repeat as I stride down the street, my boots thumping on the sidewalk and tap my hearing aid/ear-piece, hoping Rook is receiving me. I spot the number and climb the steps to the building entrance. The door is open a crack. “Going in.”
Sweat is running down my back. The vest is a bit too tight, but Rook insisted, and hell, I’m following his plan to the letter. If I die because I changed one iota, he’ll haunt me forever.
Entering the elevator feels too normal under the circumstances, but I obey those orders, too, and curse everyone under my breath.
