Authors: Coreene Callahan
Standing in Sloan’s computer lab, Rikar faced off with the bank of wall monitors, wondering where the hell to start. The com-center was class-A complicated—freaking NASA on steroids. Nothing but big screens and hard drives, soup-to-nuts Techie Town. A place he didn’t belong.
Didn’t want to, either.
The IT stuff had never interested him. Chasing info around cyberspace took patience. The kind he didn’t have. Good thing Sloan possessed it in spades, trolling the underbelly of human networks, digging up intel, keeping an eye on enemy activity. Wicked good stuff. His buddy was truly talented in the realm of IT. Too bad the aptitude didn’t extend into the world of interior design.
Rikar glanced at the beat-to-hell desk stretching wall-to-wall below the wall-mounted screens and grimaced. Man, what a travesty. The thing had to be at least a bazillion years old. All right. So it was massive and solid-looking, which under normal circumstances would’ve passed muster…had it been the only visual impediment in the room. But something far worse sat in front of it, rounding out the nasty factor.
One ugly-ass chair.
With its tall curved back, cracked leather, worn seat, and fraying seams, it looked like something that needed to visit the inside of a Dumpster. And quick because…shit. The thing was purple—as in Barney, here we come.
He shook his head. Sloan needed an upgrade…another place to sit his ass every night while he tried to keep up with the flow of information. But then, their resident computer genius was funny that way. Sentimental to the point of stupidity, the male never threw anything away.
Especially his favorites.
Skirting the purple monstrosity, Rikar planted one hand on the desktop, leaned in, and palmed the mouse. The system woke up, the swirling pattern on the screen flaring blue a second before—
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Password protected.”
He should’ve guessed. Sloan was intense when it came to firewalls, hackers, and privacy. No way would he leave his system unattended and vulnerable. Or open for any of his Nightfury brothers to saunter by and screw up. It had been known to happen. Christ, Wick and Venom had crashed the entire system one afternoon playing online video games.
So needless to say, the expression “no fucking way” got used vehemently whenever one of them wanted to take a turn on one of Sloan’s computers.
With a growl, Rikar flipped the wireless mouse, sending it skittering across the desktop. Fantastic. So much for sneaking in on the sly and making a fast getaway. Not that he didn’t want his buddy knowing what he was up to, but he didn’t know what was on that video. Had Angela told Forge what had happened to her? Revealed personal things?
Rikar cursed. He hoped not.
Not that he didn’t want her talking about it. She needed the healing that talking would bring. It was just…well,
he
wanted to be the one she came to for comfort. The one she confided in, not some stranger.
And certainly not Forge. Asshole male. Meddling idiot.
Jealous much? Without a doubt. But even with the little green monster sitting on his shoulder, Rikar’s head was screwed on straight. At least when it came to Forge. Which was a total switch-up. He’d gone from wanting to rip the male’s head off to his instincts ding-ding-dinging. Nothing about the situation made sense. Not the male’s easy capture. Not the interest he showed in his son. Or the way he treated Angela and Myst.
All of it was very un-Razorbacklike.
He scowled at the door, then turned to glare at the empty chair. Where the hell was Sloan? Just his freaking luck. His buddy practically slept in the com-center—probably in his uglier-than-shit chair. But the second Rikar needed something like a video cued up, zip-bang, gone. The male was nowhere around.
“Sloan, man,”
he said, reaching out through mind-speak
. “Where you at?”
“Right here, my brother.”
His head snapped toward the door. Mocha skin looking darker in the dimness, his buddy crossed the threshold. Tipping his chin in greeting, Rikar’s gaze dropped to the file box in the male’s hands. “Whatcha got?”
“Missing persons reports for your female. I went back eight months.” With a shrug, Sloan veered right toward the large table near the back wall of his domain. Set up like a conference room, black leather chairs—looking decidedly normal…thank fuck…easier on the eyes than ugly-ass purple—crowded around the solid wood top. Setting the box down on polished cedar, he said, “All young females, late teens to late twenties. No idea whether they’re high-energy or not, but maybe Angela will find a connection. Something we can tie to the Razorbacks.”
“Hunting habits and prey drive.” Rikar nodded, liking the idea.
If Angela could put names and faces to the female captives with the MP reports, it would help identify the variables: age, background, race, and habits. Males tended to like one type of female, and if Lothair was the one doing the cherry-picking, there might be a pattern of behavior. A method to his madness, so to speak. Locations. Dates. Times.
But even better, analyzing the data—nailing the victimology—would take time. Would keep Angela busy and safe inside the lair. And while she shuffled paperwork, he’d be out killing the bastard who’d hurt her.
Perfect.
Now all he needed to do was convince her the plan was a good one. And get a freaking move on. Rikar didn’t trust her to stay put. Not after she’d given him the hairy eyeball as he left her planted in a chair beside a still-sleeping Mac. Smart and suspicious were her middle names, after all, and she’d guessed right. He
was
up to something. Planned to watch the video and still have time to beat the snot out of Forge if the male had so much as looked at her the wrong way.
“So…” Dark eyes full of speculation, Sloan raised a brow. “Whatcha need?”
“Video feed from the cellblock.”
Pushing the box into the middle of the table, his buddy strode over to his expensive toys. One flick of the mouse. A few command keys tapped and…voilà. The giant screen came alive, showcasing a frozen image, complete with throw cushions and females.
“Christ.” Rikar leaned in to get a better look. Shit. Sloan was
da bomb
. He grinned at his buddy. “You cued it up already.”
“Figured you’d want to see it. What with your female and Myst playing
Spy Game
down there.”
Rikar snorted.
Spy Game
. He liked that movie. No surprise there. Espionage was his thing, after all. Well, except for now. He didn’t like the game Angela played. Or the fact she’d been anywhere near Forge. The male was not what he seemed. Which made him incredibly dangerous.
“So, what are we thinking here?” Sloan asked. “Something off with the Razorback?”
“Yeah…way, way off.” Snagging a chair from the conference table, Rikar dragged it over and dropped into the leather seat. He glanced at Sloan, wanting to see his buddy’s reaction as he said, “I don’t think he’s a Razorback. Or ever was one.”
Sloan’s brows popped, reaching his forehead. “Helluva risk to us if you’re wrong.”
“I know.” His eyes on the screen, he leaned forward, planted his elbows on his knees, and settled in for the show. “Just roll it, will ya?”
Palming the back of his ugly-ass chair, his buddy unloaded his weight on the thing. Metal groaned while stitching popped, standing out in stark contrast against the hideous purple leather. A crease between his brows, fingers flying over the keyboard, Sloan worked his magic and…
Roll film.
Rikar held it together until the ten-minute mark. After that, everything went downhill. Jesus fucking Christ. Forge and his big mouth…his solid heart, too. The male’s concern for Angela—his kindness and advice—floored Rikar, and as his throat went tight, the male nailed him again by saying…
“It’s not your fault, Angela. Let it go.”
“Fuck me,” Rikar murmured, his eyes stinging as he watched his female struggle.
God, she was so strong. Made him so proud. She bore the hurt like a warrior: keeping it together, not crying, digging deep even though she didn’t have to. And Forge…goddamn, the male was straight-up honest. Giving Angela the truth instead of polluting her with fear. Pushing her toward Rikar instead of urging her to back away.
The SOB could’ve ruined Rikar’s chances with her. Instead, he’d done the legwork, belying her fears while he piqued her curiosity. Rikar frowned. No wonder she’d let him touch her. She’d wanted to know…to experience feeding him firsthand. But stranger than that was the fact Forge was now his ally on the win-Angela-over front.
And that posed a huge problem.
He had an innocent male chained in the basement. How screwed up was that? Very. A freaking brain twister. One that needed to be solved. Pronto.
“Holy shit.” Sloan hit the pause button, a frown on his face as he rocked back in his seat. “He doesn’t act like a rogue…I’ll give you that. What the hell are we gonna do with him?”
“The only thing we can.” The answer came to Rikar in a flash of inspiration. “Flip him.”
“Are you frigging insane?”
“He’s a strong male, Sloan. A warrior.” His eyes narrowed in thought, Rikar plucked a pencil off the marble desktop. Staring at the lead tip, he twirled it between his fingertips. “We can use him, man. Ivar doesn’t care who fights for him or why, so he replenishes his numbers faster than we do. We get Forge on-side, and he’ll be a powerful Nightfury asset.”
“Bastian’s not gonna like it.”
“B’s already thinking it, buddy…guaranteed.”
Leaning back in his chair, Rikar stared at the frozen computer screen. His gaze riveted on his mate, he studied Angela’s face while his mind churned, sorting through and then discarding one plan after another. Flipping Forge would take some work. Real ingenuity and team effort…100 percent acceptance from the entire Nightfury pack.
Easier said than done.
His pack was a closed group. Untrusting. Suspicious of outsiders. And protective of one another. Inviting a male as strong as Forge into the mix would threaten that balance if Rikar didn’t do it right. Control the variables. Manipulate the outcome. Rikar’s eyes narrowed as an idea sparked, then took form. Pairing him with Mac might work. Would give Forge someone to teach and protect while he assimilated into the group.
So…a two-pronged attack. Get Forge to agree to join them, and then give him a job.
Could work. Might be the answer. Only time would tell. But first things first, he needed everyone on board and in on the action.
He glanced at Sloan. “Meeting in fifteen?”
With a sigh, his buddy pushed to his feet. “I’ll round up Venom and Wick. You get B.”
“Shit,” Rikar muttered.
Hauling his best friend out of bed and away from his female would be tantamount to walking into a fist face-first. Hello, Concussionland. Then again, Sloan’s job wasn’t any easier. Digging Venom and Wick out of video game central would be like pulling teeth…with a spoon. While flying backward.
Rikar grimaced. Fantastic. The day had officially tanked and hit the shitter. And Christ, Angela hadn’t even caught up with him yet.
Chapter Twenty-one
The flip-flop of her footwear echoing in the quiet corridor, Angela zipped her hoodie all the way to her chin. Not that she was ever cold. Her internal thermometer always read north of normal. Which was why she kept the temperature in her condo so low. She appreciated a good chill, so the need to button up now was all about confidence.
Or rather, lack of it.
Holy hell. Feeling this exposed wasn’t normal. Was it?
Angela didn’t know. Couldn’t figure out why she felt as though she was about to jump out of her own skin. Her reaction didn’t make any sense. Especially since Mac trailed her, watching her back as she paused at an intersection in the double-wide corridor. Maybe it was the absolute silence. The eerie echo of, well…nothing. No movement. No other voices. Just the thump of her heart and the soft pitter-patter of Mac’s bare feet behind her.
Which freaked her out the most. Her partner never made a sound. Ever. He was silence personified when he moved. So the fact she could actually hear him didn’t qualify as a good sign. Where the hell was everybody?
Okay, so it wasn’t
everybody
she wanted to find. Rikar was the target. Too bad he’d decided to play the part of the invisible man. Freaking guy. Everywhere she looked—the clinic, the computer room, the gym…which, holy crap, had a section with equipment for sharpening dragon claws—she’d come up empty.
“We gonna walk around all day?” Mac asked. “Or do you have a destination in mind?”
She glanced over her shoulder and met Mac’s gaze. Inquiring minds wanted to know. So did she, but she’d lost his energy signal thirty seconds ago. “Give me a sec. I need to recalibrate my Rikar radar.”
“Rikar radar? Jesus,” he murmured, looking intrigued and alarmed at the same time. “You can actually
feel
him?”
“Yeah, it’s more of a vibration, though…like I’m tuned into his radio frequency or something.”
Mac huffed. “He might as well have a GPS chip embedded in his ass.”
Too bad he didn’t. She was accustomed to technology-based stuff. Enjoyed high-tech computer systems and wiretaps. And using satellites to track phones, cars, and people? Awesome with a capital A. But the sudden appearance of a built-in supernatural homing device inside her head would take a little getting used to.
Along with a crapload of practice.
Controlling it wasn’t easy and concentration was key. Mining the signal—connecting to him—took effort. Maybe with time it would get easier, but for now, she needed to stay focused and in tracking mode.
Taking a deep breath, Angela turned inward, sank into her center, the place where stillness lived and chaos took a backseat. The connection flared, linking her to Rikar like an electrical appliance plugged into a wall socket. The muscles bracketing her spine coiled. Sensation swirled across the nape of her neck, then ghosted down, releasing the tension thread by thread.