Page 105 of Pulse

He sat in his truck in the parking lot of the Breezy Palm, a motel that could only be described as shitty. It was about an hour inland and south of Lithia, near Sweetwater, Florida. When he first pulled into the lot, Pulse barely believed the ten-room motel was operational. One door, room seven, stood wide open and hanging from the hinges. Room four had a cracked window and a remnant of crime scene tape dangling from the doorknob. A vacancy sign lit the dark parking lot with neon orange, or it would have had any letters beyond the ‘C’ glowed. The once-white building had a yellowish tinge he could see even in the dark. The paint was a peeling mess as well. Off to the right, past the last room, a rusted chain link fence surrounded a pool hecould only imagine was a lovely shade of green. Tall palm trees surrounded the structure and provided the only pleasant sight.

Birdy had informed him their target booked room ten, next to the pool and farthest from the office, for the foreseeable future. At present, he was the only guest in this dump unless they counted the prostitute renting room two by the hour. She’d arrived with a greasy-haired john a few moments ago. Pulse would be keeping an ear out for trouble there as well. He had no problem doling out a few black eyes if the trick decided to get rough with her.

The second he’d pulled his vehicle into the motel’s parking lot, instincts he’d buried five years ago came rushing back. He’d slipped into federal agent mode as though no time had passed. He registered every sound, smell, sight, and feeling. His observation skills might be rusty, but they hadn’t fled and came surging back when he needed them most.

He’d been there for thirty minutes, scouting the area and preparing for the next step. One motel employee snoozed at the reservation desk. Their mouth dangled open as they slept in their desk chair, visible through a wide storefront window. They hadn’t so much as twitched since Pulse arrived. Aside from that, the only other people he’d laid eyes on were the hooker and her client. No one had even driven past the motel. He’d spotted two exterior cameras, one outside the lobby entrance and one in the pool area. Neither appeared functional. The camera near the pool dangled from the side of the building by a fraying wire, and the other had a green moldy film over the lens.

The isolation and low risk of being recorded had to be the reason the cartel member picked this motel.

The ambiance sure wasn’t a draw.

The rest of his club—minus Spec—sat in cars on the street, waiting for Pulse’s instructions. Much to everyone’s dismay,they’d left the bikes behind, being less identifiable without motorcycles and cuts.

“Okay, I’m confident I won’t be seen. I’m going to engage the target.”

Jinx snorted. “I’m going to engage,” he mocked. “You sound like a damn fed.”

“If the shoe fits,” Tracker said.

“Funny,” Pulse muttered. “Can you all shut your traps for a hot minute so you don’t get me caught?”

“Quiet on comms,” Curly ordered.

No one spoke.

He slid from the truck without making a sound, then shut the door quietly behind him. Pulse darted across the parking lot toward room ten, dressed in black from head to toe. None of the security lights in the lot or building worked, so he could easily remain unseen. He’d have blended with the shadows even if someone driving by took a long look at the crumbling motel.

Room ten’s shades were drawn, but a light glowed along the bottom edge. The building’s shitty insulation allowed Pulse to hear the rush of the shower through the closed door. “Target is in the shower,” he whispered into his comms. “I’m going in.”

“Stay safe,” Curly replied. The others remained quiet as ordered.

Pulse pulled a lock pick kit from his pocket—thank you, Lock—and had the rusted lock open within seconds. A familiar surge of anticipation he hadn’t experienced in ages flooded his system. Even years later, he could admit nothing matched the thrill of taking down a perp. This one would be extra satisfying since this shithead posed a threat to his woman.

He won’t threaten anyone after tonight.

With excitement racing through his veins, he slipped into the room and shut the door behind him. The dull snick of the door wouldn’t be heard above the shower, even with the bathroomdoor wide open. Steam wafted into the room, illuminated by the glow of the harsh bathroom lights. After securing the chain lock—the last thing he needed was an unexpected visitor—he turned to assess the room.

The inside of the hotel room was as nasty as the outside. A faded mauve comforter with at least two cigarette burns covered the single full-size bed. Two flat pillows were propped together against the headboard as though someone had been using them as a backrest. The walls were painted tan and stained yellow from cigarette smoke, which the entire room reeked of. Not recent smoke, but stale, years-old tar and nicotine.

The decades-old television played a telenovela on low. Next to the door, beneath the window, sat a small table and two wooden chairs. Empty Chinese food containers littered the table and overflowed a trash can beside the bed.

Pulse grabbed one of the chairs by the table and spun it to face the bathroom. Then he drew his gun and plopped down to wait, pointing the weapon toward the bathroom.

Not three minutes later, the water cut off, and the metallic scrape of the shower curtain along the rod announced his target was exiting the shower. Pulse readied his trigger finger but remained relaxed in the chair. At the wet slap of footsteps on the tile, he grinned.

Showtime.

His target came into view, striding into the room bare-assed and rubbing a towel over his dark hair.

“Jesus, fuck,” he shouted as he spotted Pulse. He immediately dropped the towel down to his waist to cover his swinging dick.

Recognition bloomed inside Pulse, immediately turning to nausea. Birdy had told him Tomás Del Rios was resurrecting the cartel and posing as a DEA agent, but part of Pulse hadn’t believed him. The Tomás he’d known had been a gangly, geekyteen who’d loved reading and playingDungeons and Dragons. His father didn’t involve him in cartel business, believing Tomás too soft for that life.

Looked like he’d been wrong.

“Tomás,” he whispered. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Max. Gotta admit I wasn’t expecting you to find me here.”

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