Page 43 of Fired at the Heart

He shakes his head. “Just don’t hurt my family.”

“They’re safe.” I give Rico the signal.

With an impassive expression, he draws his knife from his belt and approaches the first prisoner in line.

“Hey, I think we found someone in management,” Lena announces. “Upstairs office.”

I pull my mask back into place and stand. “Let’s see if he can tell us more.”

Caleb cracks his knuckles. “I’ll make him talk.”

“Not if I get to him first.” I move toward the stairs and climb up, heading for the office as men begin to scream and beg behind us.

14

The office reeks of sour sweat and the sharp tang of urine.

The warehouse owner, a portly Beta with thinning hair and expensive shoes, sits with his torso bound to a rolling chair, his wrists zip-tied together and his left eye swollen shut from where Rico introduced his face to a filing cabinet during the initial takedown. Dried blood from his split lip forms a crooked line down his chin.

I circle behind him, letting him track my movement until I disappear from his peripheral vision. The absence of sight heightens fear. A trick I learned early in this business.

Cassian guards the door, his hand resting on his holstered gun and a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. He’s watched this dance a hundred times before.

Caleb stalks forward, hands flexing at his sides. “Let’s keep this simple. Where’s Jade?”

The owner’s good eye darts around the room. “Don’t know anyone named Jade.”

Raphael leans on the desk, arms crossed. His posture appears relaxed, but tension tightens his shoulders. “We’re not here to play games. Young Omega, blond hair, blue eyes. Part of your ‘special shipment’ a few days ago.”

“I move merchandise. I don’t learn their names.” The owner’s chest heaves with panicked breaths. “Look at the manifests. Everything’s documented.”

“We did.” I complete my circle to stand in front of him again. “Your manifests ended last week.”

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows across the cramped office. File cabinets line one wall, their drawers hanging open from our earlier search. A desktop computer sits dark and lifeless. Rico made sure of that, removing the hard drive before the owner could wipe it remotely.

Caleb grabs the back of the chair, tilting it onto two legs so the owner’s balance becomes precarious. “The Finishing House. Where is it?”

The owner’s face pales. “I don’t?—”

“Wrong answer.” Caleb lets the chair drop forward, and it rolls a few inches before stopping.

“I’m just a middleman,” the owner pleads. “I receive the merchandise, I process it, and I send it where I’m told.”

I step closer, invading his space, letting him catch my scent. As an Omega, I shouldn’t frighten him, but he’s seen enough death in this line of business to recognize it when it stares him in the eye.

“Where do the special shipments go?” I demand.

His jaw clenches. “I told you, I don’t?—”

Caleb’s fist connects with the man’s stomach, cutting off his words. The owner doubles over as far as his restraints allow, gasping.

“Wrong answer,” Caleb hisses. “Try again.”

Raphael pushes off the desk. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.” He steps between Caleb and the owner. “Listen to me. We’re not interested in shutting down your operation. We just want the Omega. Tell us where to find him, and we walk away.”

“This is just a business.” The owner straightens. “I have clients who value discretion. If I start giving up information?—”

“If you don’t start giving up information,” I cut in, “your business concerns will be irrelevant. Dead men don’t have client lists.”

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