Page 6 of Protected Hearts

Good thing he had perfect vision too—it enabled him to see the brake lights on the car. It idled at the entrance of the driveway for a brief minute.

There was a gate to get through.

Shit. He could meet with all varieties of trouble when he approached that gate, yet he didn’t have a choice. The fear in that woman’s eyes was real. It compelled him to give chase.

He was a Malone. A former SEAL. He was no quitter.

The brake lights blinked as the driver let off the pedal. Then the vehicle disappeared from Oaks’s sight.

After waiting for an appropriate amount of time, he put the moving van in gear and headed in.

He approached a wrought iron gate. Two burly guards in black stood at the ready.

Oaks paused at a call box, sifting through his brain for how to handle this. That woman’s life—and his—depended on his next steps. One mistake and he’d be tossed off the premises.That wouldn’t deter him, only delay him, and his gut told him that there wasn’t much time to spare.

One of the guards twisted his head toward the van, giving Oaks a brief view of his throat and a tattoo marking it.

The position, the shape…both revealed the man’s origin.

The Russian language flowed like water to Oaks’s lips. In fluent Russian, he announced that he had a delivery for the man of the house.

Both men exchanged a look, then directed their attention back to Oaks. He was glad now that he’d ditched the cowboy hat that so easily became a part of his identity back in Wyoming but made him stick out like a sore thumb in the city. His dark hair and the coarse beard sprouting on his jaw couldn’t pin him on any map, which was why he was so damn good at being a SEAL.

Rough Russian words projected through the speaker on the call box. One guard waved for him to enter as the other moved to a small shed and opened the gate. There wasn’t even a creak of hinges as the gates swung open.

Oaks breathed a little easier. Step one complete. He’d gained access.

As he drove at a slow pace past the guards, he nodded to them in acknowledgement, making sure to look closer at the tattoo on the guy’s neck.

Definitely a gang symbol used in the Russian mafia. And the guy had spent time in prison too. The cathedral design had four towers—one for each big kill.

Oaks snorted to himself. They might be hired guns for whoever occupied the estate they guarded, but they weren’t much for security if a little of their native language could get someone by them.

A mansion sprawled out before Oaks. The black car was parked in the driveway, and he didn’t bother trying to concealthe moving van. He parked behind the car and walked right up to the front door.

A new plan filled his head as he stabbed the doorbell with a blunt fingertip.

As soon as the door opened, he walked straight in like he owned the place, hand outstretched toward the guy who admitted him.

Fluent Russian bubbled off his lips while he gave the guy a bone-crushing handshake, as was the custom.

The guy withdrew his hand, dropping it to his side, where he rubbed his fingers together as though to regain the blood that Oaks just mashed out of his veins. “What do you want?” he asked in Russian.

“I have a shipment. For the man in charge.”

“And who would that be?” Suspicion lit up the man’s gray eyes.

“They don’t tell me such things. It’s below my pay grade.” He laughed at his own ineptitude.

Rule number one: Act like you own the world.

Rule number two: Play to your weaknesses. They often get you further than placing spotlights on your strengths.

“I have a big shipment.”

The man’s eyes flickered with recognition. Oaks had hit upon some truth. They received shipments here often enough that he understood the man in charge would take interest in the matter.

“This way.” The man tilted his head for Oaks to follow. As he did, he took in the man’s size. The way he looked suggested a certain region in Russia, but his accent in another. Likely his descendants had moved around, probably during wars. Not many people would recognize these inconsistencies, but he prided himself on knowing his shit.

---