Page 88 of Taken Off Camera
“We’re going to start with what we know,” he says, the gentleness from breakfast stripped away. “Then move to options.”
My mouth goes dry. The Sebastian across the table isn’t the man who held me last night, whose touch ignited desire in my body and comforted me when I cried. This Sebastian holds himself with confidence, secure in his place.
Keyboards click around the room as the remaining Rockfords take their positions. Ezra stands near the monitors, arms crossed over his chest, the streak of silver in his hair gleaming under the overhead lights. Jade hovers near the door, his posture coiled with restless energy.
A door opens on the other side of the room, and another man enters, sliding into a chair at the back. Even in the dim lighting, his imposing build, broad shoulders, and green eyes reveal his familial resemblance to the other men in the room. Jade tracks his movements, and the other Rockfords greet him silently before everyone’s attention returns to the front.
“We have three objectives,” Sebastian continues. “Identify, neutralize, and contain.”
Saint shifts beside me, his boot brushing mine under the table. His fingers drum on his thigh, therhythm conveying his impatience to get on with it. This is the first time he’s joined a team meeting for an operation. Usually, I hand him the data, and he plans out everything on his own.
“First, confirmation of identity.” Sebastian gestures to Milo, who swipes across his tablet.
A large monitor at the front of the room flickers to life, and Travis’s face fills the screen, rotating slowly, dozens of camera angles stitch together into a seamless digital model. The realism is unnerving, like something out of the movies.
“This is…” I falter, the words sticking in my throat.
“Military-grade,” Milo supplies, his attention fixed on his tablet. “Or it was, before Sebastian improved it.”
My fingers dig into the leather armrests, leaving temporary indentations that fill in after I release the pressure. This is nothing like the booth at the Blue Note Lounge where Saint and I hold our meetings, and the contrast sets me on edge. Do we even belong here?
“Micah.” Sebastian’s eyes find mine across the table, a flash of warmth breaking through his professional mask. “Are you with us?”
The question carries layers of meaning. Am I withthem at this moment, paying attention? Am I with them in this clinical dissection of a threat? Am I with them—withhim—in the larger sense, accepting what this family is and does?
“Yes,” I answer, the single syllable carrying the weight of all those questions. “I’m with you.”
Sebastian holds my gaze for another heartbeat before returning to business. “Let’s begin with what we know about Travis.”
Sebastian taps a command into his keyboard, and monitors set into the tabletop flicker to life, flooding the surface with cascading windows of police reports, bank statements, employment records, and medical histories.
My stomach flips at the sheer volume of information. They dug deeper than I ever did, unearthing information I chose not to break federal law to access. Sebastian hadn’t been lying when he said he had people to deal with Travis. He just hadn’t explained that it was his family, and that his protection went deeper than installing security in my apartment.
“Travis Allen Thornhill,” Sebastian begins, his fingers dancing across the keyboard to highlight specific documents. “Thirty-four years old. Employed at Central Mail Distribution Center for the past sixyears, until he stopped showing up three weeks ago. Lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment in Brickwell, which he hasn’t returned to since he went MIA from his job. No immediate family in the area. Present whereabouts unknown.”
My teeth catch my bottom lip as I scan the information, flicking through the files. I would kill to have a setup like this. “I found most of the information through public records.”
“This is just the surface.” Sebastian pulls up a new set of documents. “These are the interesting parts.”
A police report materializes, the official header stamped with a date from eight years ago. The text highlights itself as Sebastian continues.
“Three complaints of stalking behavior, filed against him in different counties. None resulted in charges due to insufficient evidence or complainants dropping the case.”
Another document expands, revealing a restraining order with a female name I don’t recognize.
“Five temporary restraining orders over the past decade. All from Omegas. All expired without renewal.”
A pattern of bank transactions appears next, numbers scrolling in sequences that would lookrandom to most people. But to me, they tell a clear story.
“His financial history shows regular purchases of surveillance equipment through shell accounts,” Sebastian adds. “Small enough to avoid triggering alerts, consistent enough to establish intent.”
The air feels thinner, harder to pull into my lungs. This isn’t just a disturbed fan. This is a predator with a history of stalking. I’m only his latest target. What happened to the others? I didn’t research their names, and the wondering now sends a chill crawling across my skin.
Milo leans forward, his tablet projecting a grid of surveillance footage onto the main display. “The cameras around your apartment building are garbage.” He pinches and zooms on grainy images. “Public infrastructure in Brickwell is criminally under-funded.”
His casual disdain, the way he talks about city infrastructure like a disappointing investment, highlights the gulf between my world and theirs. In Brickwell, we’re lucky if the streetlights work all the time. In their world, anything less than crystal-clear surveillance is an inconvenience.
“Can we enhance any of these frames?” Ezra asks from his position by the monitors.
