Page 6 of Three of a Kind

Fuck.

Maybe I am borderline stalker level of unhinged. It’s unnatural to be this obsessed with a woman I haven’t seen for the better part of six months. Being so close to where we saw her isn’t helping anything.

“Well, there’s jack shit to eat here,” Maverick grumbles. “I can order delivery, but we don’t even have beer.”

I shrug, shoving myself off the sofa in the rental house. “I’ll go. I need something to do, anyway.”

Maverick chuckles, fluttering his lashes. “Thanks, dear. You spoil me rotten.”

I scoff, jogging toward the stairs to change.

We brought Maverick’s truck and the trailer since we have no idea what, exactly, we’ll need for this mission.

Our boss sent us here to meet with Bless Barrett. She runs her own group of mercenaries for hire, but she’s also in the process of trying to bring her corrupt-as-fuck family down from the inside out.

The Barrett family runs New York. They’re behind a huge number of omega disappearances every year, and if that wasn’t bad enough, they’ve got a major vendetta against our boss.

At this point, it’s a company-wide goal to wipe the remaining family heads off the map.

After our fuckup rescuing Ranger’s omega, we got nominated to come to New York to help Bless make contact with some poor woman who’s tied to Avan Barrett.

Avan is the number one in the family, and apparently, his ex has been helping Bless with insider information. Only, the poor woman hasn’t had any contact with Bless, and that’s not a good sign.

I stomp up the stairs to change into my riding jacket. Since we brought the trailer, I brought my bike. I figured it would be easier to get around with it.

New York traffic is fucking terrible. It’s like everyone is in a rush, and they all simultaneously have a death wish.

I come around the corner into the grocery store parking lot and pull into a parking spot before climbing off my bike. It’s a fucking wonder I survived the trip. Next time, I’ll be driving Maverick’s truck.

I’m so annoyed that I don’t even pull my helmet off, but I don’t realize it until I’m halfway across the parking lot.

An orange rolls out into the street, catching my attention, as a car speeds in my direction.

My entire body tenses when I spot the toddler. She’s got a head of dark curls, and she stumbles right into the driving lane after the piece of fruit.

Her small hand wraps around it as my head swivels between her and the car.

Music pounds so loudly, their bass echoes around the parking lot. It’s not like they’d hear me if I screamed for them to stop.

My entire body pivots as I run for the kid. I scoop her up, spinning until the backs of my knees hit the bumper of a van in the next spot.

I lean against the rear side panel as I cradle the little girl to my chest.

Holy fuck.

That was close.

It takes everything in me not to pull my Glock from the base of my spine and take out both the back tires as the car speeds past.

“Whoa,” the kid says, holding her orange between us.

“Yeah, whoa,” I agree, focusing on loosening my grip.

“Libby,” a bright female voice says as a woman with long brown hair climbs out of the back seat.

If I wasn’t leaning against the van, I’d stumble backward as I catch sight of Brooklyn.

“Mommy, I got my orange,” the toddler—Libby—says. Her words all run together, but I’m pretty sure that’s what she says.

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