Page 9 of Balthazar's Fire

“Service entrance?” Balthazar whispered as he read the sign overhead. “Why would Monroe’s business need goods delivered?”

“Maybe he’s into more shit than we know about.” Draco’s response was equally quiet as they reached the end of the brickwork, and peering around the edge of the building, he blew out a breath.

“Maybe,” Balthazar agreed.

That was entirely possible, as was the fact that whatever those enterprises were, they were probably illegal. Michael Vaughn had been sure he’d picked up the scent of something murky in Oliver Monroe’s father’s dealings. That was why he’d always been reluctant to trade with the family, and had warned Balthazar to be cautious.

“It seems empty,” Draco reported. “No one’s about.”

Draco didn’t say it, but his tone inferred what Balthazar was thinking—that things were a little too quiet for their liking.

“So far, so good, then,” Balthazar broke the strained silence. “Let’s push on. We don’t have much time.”

“Okay, but first…” Reaching into his pocket, Draco pulled out his hand gun. “I’m going to keep this handy—for close encounters.”

For once, Balthazar couldn’t criticize Draco’s attention to detail. “Good thinking,” he replied, feeling for his own weapon.

He didn’t want to fire, didn’t even particularly like the fact that they owned them, but he would use them if need be, and as they crept along the rear of the tower, he was thankful that Draco had the foresight to bring the weapons with him. In truth, Balthazar had been so eager to get there that he hadn’t thought the process through properly. For the first time, Draco had read the situation better than Balthazar, and he was man enough to admit it—to himself, at least.

Reaching the doors of the alleged service delivery area, they paused, surveying the space for Monroe’s men, but there was no one. Balthazar’s heart galloped so wildly that he felt as though it threatened to leap into his throat.

“Where is everyone?” he hissed over his brother’s shoulder.

“No idea,” Draco whispered back. “Either they’ve all been called to deal with Cole, or this isn’t really a working area at all.”

A clear path into the building should have been a positive thing—the very best they could have hoped for—but something about the ease of the situation rattled Balthazar. Would men like the Monroes seriously just allow anyone to wander in from the street, or were they about to be ambushed by those who were loyal to Monroe’s empire? Balthazar didn’t want to stick around and find out.

“There,” he breathed, pointing past Draco to the single door that was visible. “What does the sign over the door say?”

“I need to get closer to be sure,” Draco answered without glancing back. “But I think it reads ‘basement’.”

“Stay low and let’s go and look,” Balthazar ordered with as much cordiality as he could muster. For the next half an hour at least, he needed Draco’s help and compliance.

Crouching behind his brother, Balthazar inched forward, crossing the entrance and hovering at the side of a stack of boxes.

“Definitely the basement,” he confirmed as he read the sign over the nefarious-looking black door. “That’s where she is.”

This was going to be much easier than he’d thought.

“Wait,” Draco warned. “I hear someone.”

Lowering behind the boxes, they held their breath as the black door burst open.

“Fucking hilarious!”

Peering over the cardboard surface, Balthazar eyed the bald-headed guy who was talking and his scrawny looking pal. They certainly seemed pleased with themselves, and tensing, Balthazar prayed that wasn’t bad news for Cherie.

Cherie. Balthazar concentrated on her name as hard as he could. Are you okay?

Nothing.

Radio silence filled his head, the lack of reply ratcheting up the tension in his body.

Was she still held down there? Was she okay?

“Did you see her face?” the bald man asked.

Well, that answers one question, at least.

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