Page 60 of The Omega Project

Emily’s summons is like a hook in my chest, dragging me through the last couple of meetings I can’t put off without tanking the entire business. But I greet every unnecessary question or rambling explanation with an arctic stare, and we fly through the rest of our agenda, meaning we’re on the jet and headed home two days early. Under normal circumstances, Creed would tease me all the way across the Pacific, but instead he keeps reaching across the aisle and rubbing my shoulder, murmuring ‘good job’, or something similar. But watching our progress on my flight tracker app only adds to the soup of impatience in the air, and eventually I have to restrain him from marching into the cockpit and wrestling the controls off the pilot so we can fly faster.

When we land, it’s six in the evening, and all I want to do is go home to one of Lang’s lasagnes and an up-close inspection of my packmate’s new bonding bites. But instead, I’m greeted by a text from Derek asking me to swing by The Swagman when we land. Lang is caught up in a faculty meeting, and Emily has taken a shift at the pub where she used to work. I’m not sure why, except that this close to Christmas the whole city is teeming with revellers stewing in equal parts festive spirit and cloying summer heat.

“Ridge is on her,” Creed tells me, consulting his own phone messages as we pass through an abridged customs check. “Buthe said the place is pumping, and he needs more eyes on.”

I grind my teeth at the news. Ridgeway is a good operator, but The Swagman is a live music venue, and the crowds can get rowdy when a local favourite is playing. Creed keeps checking in with him as we make the twenty-minute drive downtown, but I can feel the tension vibrating under my skin like a simmering pot. I’ve been monitoring the online chatter since Lang took our pack public at his book launch, and while for the most part it has died off, a few of the news outlets are trying to flesh out the story.

True privacy, I’m well aware, is a thing of the past. You can’t own one of the largest security companies in the world and think otherwise. In fact, my employees excel at taking advantage of the many apps and forums – often self-populated – that lay our lives bare. Tracking people, mining their data, and scanning their biometrics are key tools of our trade, and using them, even to ensure the safety of my own packmates, is second nature. It’s also a hill I’m willing to die on.

As my enemies well know, many of whom exploit the information age to ruin lives and cripple competitors. It’s the reason we had to fly to the States on short notice, and why I had to take so many meetings in person. A rival security company – that’s low on morals and high on cash funnelled out of suspect regimes – decided to test my patience. Instead of a smear campaign, they’d gone after our client list, threatening to exposetheirsecrets if we didn’t fold into their larger organisation. Since one of their major hubs is out of New York, I’d decided to reject their advances in person, or as close to that as you can get when they’re hiding behind a wall of corrupt politicians and a stable of corporate assassins.

It's not lost on me how calmly I’d dealt with that crisis compared to the tension humming through my body as we approach The Swagman. It’s a sprawling, square building, painted black and covered with old band posters eaten awayby the elements. Grimy windows have been plastered over with budget soundproofing panels, but the sound of heaving music still seeps out, along with a pulsing red light that gives the bouncers’ faces a hellish glow. They’re both alphas, and they stiffen as we approach, their narrowed eyes flicking between us like they’re trying to work out who’s going to give them more trouble. I’d call it pretty even given our current mood, but when the bigger of the two settles on Creed, his brutal face cracks into a wide smile.

“Apollo!” he crows, using Creed’s military callsign, that’s also a reference to the Rocky movies.

“Jansen. What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Keeping arseholes like you out in the cold,” he quips, but he’s already ushering us past the long line of hopefuls sweltering in their denim and leather. “You here for the thrash metal?”

“Pack business. And if you can extract your thumb out of your arse, we could use a little backup.”

The bouncer is suddenly all business. “What’s up?”

“You know a server called Emily?” Creed flashes a picture on his phone. Not her official work ID, but then, we both have more pictures of our packmate than we can count. This one has her wearing the bar uniform of a black tee with a swagman printed on her left breast. “You can’t miss her red hair.”

“Sure, I’ve seen her around. She’s a beta, right?”

“She’s ours,” I say coldly, and the guy’s spine snaps taut as he registers the authority in my voice. “Where is she right now?”

“Probably working the floor. Or she might be on break.” There’s a hint of unease in his posture as he takes a walkie-talkie from his belt, but I’m already cutting through the entryway and heading into the main bar. There are leather booths framing the room, but most of the space is a sprawling mosh pit beneath a large stage. Red spotlights throb through swirls of smoke, but the rest of the floor is soupy darkness – basically, a securitynightmare. I count four other bouncers perched on speakers or manning the doors, but a mass murder could take place in any number of corners before they registered it was happening.

“She’s waiting tables,” Jansen says, pointing his two-way radio at the booths. “She’ll either be up there or in the kitchens.”

I nod, and he falls into step behind us as we cut through the crowd. Dancers jostle us until they realise we’re not here for the music, and then a path opens all the way to the staircase linking the two floors. There’s no sign of Emily, and I stop the first server I see, her eyes flaring wide as she meets my gaze. “I’m looking for Emily.”

She recoils from me, her eyes darting around like she’s about to flee for her life, but Jansen steps up and stops her. “These are her packmates, Lisa. You need to tell us where Emily is.”

“On a break.” She’s juggling a full tray, so she points towards a door with her chin. “Actually, she should be back out here by now…”

I don’t wait for her to finish her sentence, meeting Creed’s grim gaze a moment before we head to the breakroom door. A quick glance reveals a weary-looking server massaging his feet and sucking down an energy drink and I get another one of those wide-eyed looks. “Emily Nash?” I growl, not bothering to dampen down the command in my voice.

“Not here, man.” He sits with his drink frozen against his lips. “Fuck, do I need to call the cops?”

I give the bouncer a warning look, and while he deals with the skittish server, Creed and I hustle for the back exit. He’s coordinating with Ridgeway via text, but my mind is churning with worst-case scenarios. The media luring her into a tell-all interview would actually be a relief, given the number of enemies who might see her as leverage now that she’s connected to our pack. What I’m not expecting is to shove the fire door open andfind her standing over her moaning ex, a can of pepper spray clutched in a shaking hand.

The sound that tears out of Creed isn’t completely human, and it’s enough to make her back sag against the dirty wall behind her. Fear-dulled eyes cling to mine as Creed crosses the alley so fast, bits of gravel pop in his wake. “He followed me when I took out the rubbish.”

There’s a small plastic bag at her feet, but I’m one hundred percent focused on the other piece of trash in front of me. Rick Wagner is wearing jeans and a leather jacket with his sports bar logo on the back, and I use that as my target as I press my boot into his spine. He’s squirming and cursing as he rubs at his streaming eyes, but he must have some self-preservation left because he freezes as I lean my weight on him.

Only when he’s pinned do I allow myself to look at Emily. “Are you alright?”

Creed has already scooped her into his arms, and I know he’d be calling for an ambulance if there were any obvious signs of injury. But I need to hear it from her own lips as she says in a trembling voice, “I’m fine. Just shaken up.”

I’d take her at her word, but when she rubs her palm on her jeans, she dislodges some gravel, and a red glow burns behind my eyes. At some stage, she was on her knees to get a rash like that, and a growl echoes in Creed’s chest as he comes to the same conclusion. Kneeling down on her ex’s back, I grip his nape, scraping his face across the filthy floor until he’s blinking up at me in terror. “You’re going to regret every moment of your miserable existence,” I vow, then glance at Creed. “Clear them out.”

“No one comes out here,” he commands, the force of his authority making the bouncers sway in their boots. “Get inside and secure the area.”

“One of you cut that security feed,” Ridgeway growls, pointing at the camera above my head. “And find me whoever I’m gonna murder for not keeping their eye on it.”

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