Page 8 of Pulse

Forget no more drinking. He leaned forward and snagged a beer from an ice bucket on the ground.

“What are you doing here?” Jo barked without an ounce of warmth.

“We’re looking for Max Vargas. I believe he is known to you as Pulse.”

He froze, beer hovering near his lips as all eyes swiveled his way.

Max. Fuck, he hadn’t gone by that name since the day he tossed his resignation on his boss’ desk five years ago. No one, not one single person in his current life, knew him as Max Vargas. He’d legally and officially changed his name when he’d moved.

These assholes knew precisely who he was, and that sucked. He set the beer down and cleared his throat. “I’m Max. Who are you?”

“Mr. Childs, please stand.”

Fuck that. He didn’t so much as twitch. “I’m not doing shit until you tell me who you are.”

“The fuck?” Jinx muttered. “Isn’t his name Gabe?”

“Pulse,” Jo whispered. “They’re cops.”

Yeah, that much he got.

The female cop had a pixie haircut and an annoyed expression. Her face was slender with sharp, makeup-free cheekbones and a pointy nose. She stared him down as he’d done to his fair share of criminals in the past while reaching into her blazer lapel. “I’m Detective Wallace, and this is my partner, Detective McGee.”

Twin badges gleamed in the light.

“Please stand.”

Ty stepped toward him, as did Curly, but McGee held out a hand, halting them in their tracks. The detective wasn’t tall—he might hit five-foot-nine on a good day. Bulky muscles made up in width what he lacked in height. Not someone he’d want to receive a punch from. The detective’s stature reminded him of Enrique. Just what he needed—to be dragged back in his mind to those days. Calling him Max had done it, reminded of time undercover with the Del Rios Cartel.

The worst thing that could happen tonight would be for the detectives to inform his club exactly who Max Vargas was. Thankfully, as an undercover agent, his former DEA status wasn’t publicly searchable for his safety, so if his brothers got curious and googled him, they’d come up empty.

Mostly.

That didn’t mean these detectives wouldn’t blurt it out if they got annoyed with his lack of cooperation.

He set the beer down as he stood. “Something wrong, Detectives?”

Wallace whipped out a pair of handcuffs. “Max Vargas, you’re under arrest for the assault of Alicia Minor. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

“What the fuck?” What a load of horse shit. “Who’s Alicia Minor?”

Instead of answering, the cop rattled off the Miranda warning.

Jo jumped to her feet. “Wallace, what the fuck is this?”

“This is an arrest, Jo. You know how this works.” Her thin nose turned up. “Or you used to.”

“Oh my God, Ty, we have to do something.” Kelsie’s fear made his heart clench. That girl had been through so much shit recently she didn’t need anything else to stress about.

“You didn’t answer my question. Who the fuck is Alicia Minor?”

Wallace turned him around with a rough hand on his shoulder. “She’s a prostitute who works a corner in Tampa.”

Cool metal clasped around his wrists with a deafening click. Memories tried to assault him—Camila appearing where she shouldn’t have been, Enrique encouraging her to fire on the agents, Camila’s body riddled with bullets. Sweat broke out across his forehead as he shoved those horrors back into their box.

“Miss Minor was found beaten and bloody earlier tonight,” Wallace said. “She was able to give us a name and description that both match you perfectly.”

“What the fuck?” What was this? He’d worked in Tampa earlier but came straight from his shift to the clubhouse long before dark when the streets woke up. He whirled around and stared at Wallace, trying to find any indication of what she was playing at.

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