Page 58 of Turmoil's Target

I snort into my whiskey. “Yeah, I bet. Regular Casanova over here.”

“Mock all you want, asshole,” Jolt says, grinning. “Point is, I’m pulling my weight. Distracting Rita keeps her outta your hair so you can focus on the real prize.”

I sober at that, rolling my shoulders to ease the sudden tension.

He’s not wrong.

As much as I like to give Jolt shit, he’s doing his part.

Keeping Rita occupied means one less obstacle in my way.

Damon comes back and Dixon moves back over, hanging up the phone.

We dive back into talking about everything and dammit if they aren’t pleased as can be with our little progress report.

They’re all smiles and backslaps, telling us to keep up the good work.

I should be riding high on the praise, but something’s not sitting right with me.

Call it a gut feeling, but I know to trust my instincts.

I glance up from my beer just in time to see two men in suits walking in.

They stick out like sore thumbs in a place like this.

Idle Spurs ain’t exactly a white collar joint—it’s all rough-hewn wood and scuffed floors, the kind of bar where the regulars are either Latino or blue collar types fresh off a shift.

These guys? They scream Fed, or worse.

Keeping my voice low, I nudge Damon under the table. “Don't look, but two guys in full suits just walked in.”

Damon’s eyes slide shut for a moment as he inhales deeply through his nose.

When he opens them again, his expression is grim. “I highly doubt it’s the Feds since we’re still tight with Elena and Reed from the Skulls Renegade MC.”

Fuck.

I don’t need him to spell out what that means.

If it’s not the alphabet boys, then there’s only one other possibility.

“Bernard’s people,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

Jolt tenses beside me, but Damon just nods slowly. “Bingo.”

I risk another glance at the suits, trying to get a read on them.

They’re both packing, that much is obvious from the telltale bulge beneath their jackets.

But there’s something about the way they hold themselves, a coiled kind of energy that screams ex-military to me.

These aren’t just some goons Seraphina’s mom threw on us.

No, if my hunch is right, we’re dealing with a whole different caliber of muscle.

The kind that won’t hesitate to put a bullet between our eyes if given half a chance.

Shit just got a whole lot more complicated.

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