Page 51 of Her Redeemed Protector

I shrug, noncommittal.

“They don’t make it easy anymore,” he mutters, bitterness in his tone. “Red tapes scare away even the incumbents. People bail. The costs and the hassles, they ain’t worth it.”

“Airport,” I shoot back. “Big government’s sweetheart.”

That sets him off, curses spilling from his lips like cheap liquor. I scan the bar, eyes flicking over the patrons, seeking any click of interest.

A signal from me, and Chase reaches for his wallet tosettle our tab. The bills he pulls out fall short, prompting me to throw down an extra five to cover it.

No sooner do we step outside than a fleeting shadow catches our eye, and Chase’s curse slices the air. “My damn wallet!”

Attention, finally. I hit the ground running, my body propelled by a surge of adrenaline and instinct honed from years in the field. The would-be thief—a kid really, barely seventeen—is quick, weaving through an overgrown path with the desperation of a cornered animal. But he’s not fast enough to outpace me.

I trip him to the ground, then grab his arm in a firm grip. Chase catches up, a few paces behind me but fierce. He snatches his wallet back with a snarl. At that moment, I can’t help but recall Savannah’s words, comparing Chase’s speed to that of a grizzly rather than a cheetah.

I pin the kid with a gaze that’s stopped grown men in their tracks. “Looking to play Robin Hood?”

The kid glances at my holstered gun, his bravado draining away. “I-I just… was lookin’ for a bit of cash for my kid sister,” he stammers.

I’m not buying it, not for a second. He’s fishing for more than a few stray bills, and I bet he knows Chase’s wallet isn’t overflowing.

I arch an eyebrow. “And how old is this sister of yours?”

He hesitates, eyes darting, “She’s… five. Yeah, five. Name’s Ka—Kate.”

He’s bluffing about the sister. What he’s really after is sizing us up, figuring out who we are.

I hold his gaze a moment longer before letting him scramble away.

As the kid disappears in the distance, Chase rumblesbeside me, “He’s got connections. Has to. He grasped at ‘Ka’ too fast, then patched together ‘Kate’ out of thin air.”

Of course the kid’s got a boss, but Chase is onto something about the name. The kid’s fingers had sketched half a name in the air almost involuntarily. But at the last moment, he changed it. I’m certain he meant Kayla. Besides, I didn’t even ask for a name. Sometimes, a liar offers up more than needed, trying too hard to seem believable.

“We’ll track him!” Chase asserts, restless energy pulsing through him like a hound picking up a scent.

I nod, already thinking ahead. “But not in your shiny ride,” I point to the gleaming SUV that might as well have ‘outsider’ painted on its side. The kid may lead us somewhere, but it may not be where Kayla is. We can’t spook them.

“Time to go native,” I quip, picturing a vehicle that will blend seamlessly with the rugged Montana backdrop. “We’re borrowing Sav’s wheels.”

19

SAVANNAH

I’m perched on the edge of a seat in the lobby of an airport hotel, blending in with the flurry of transient guests. The place is buzzing, busier than any spot I’ve encountered in Montana, likely due to the conference happening here.

My attention is fixed on William Redford, Fabian’s former business partner, who is making his way out of the hotel. Alone. He moves with purpose, all indications suggesting he’s traveling solo as he strides confidently toward a waiting cab outside.

At that moment, Fabian intercepts him. With the smooth gait of a seasoned salesman, he slides into Redford’s path, trying to hook him into a conversation. Redford’s stance is rigid, his every gesture an iceberg in a sea of pleasantries. From where I sit, Fabian is putting on a convincing show, but Redford isn’t biting. He’s probably more interested in the state of Fabian’s plastered nose than his words.

Then my phone vibrates. It’s Huxley.

“Hux? Where are you?” I whisper, not to draw attention.

“I’m holed up in Melville,” he responds.

Melville. An hour’s drive from the Brutes’ stronghold. Huxley’s tone tells me he’s onto something.

“The Blackwater Brutes. Someone’s been tagging their old headquarters with graffiti. It’s a move that screams their empire has crumbled,” Huxley’s analysis comes sharp and clear. “That said, someone was curious about us.”

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