Ironic that the same woman that drove me to succeed, the woman I loved, the woman I believed loved me too, was the one that took it all away. I’d wanted to prove that I could provide for her, that I could give her everything she was used to. A big house. Money in the bank. A nice life. The agency was the first thing that had truly been mine. I’d been so fucking proud of it, wanted her to be proud of me. Coming from a home where I was constantly told I was nothing, that I was worthless, I’d needed that.
Finding out tonight my own fucking brother was keeping something from me, something that involved her family, the same family responsible for setting me up, getting me locked up . . . yeah, I was pretty un-fucking-happy.
I climbed into the elevator and punched the button for the fifth floor, trying to lock down the anger riding me hard. I got a look at myself in the mirrored doors as they slid shut—it wasn’t working.
When they opened again I was outside our glass-fronted reception area, three and a half inches thick and bullet proof—something that hadn’t been tested yet, but the way I was feeling right then finding out how many rounds it would take sounded like an excellent way to blow off steam.
I pushed the door open, and strode into the stark white reception area, not surprised to see Ruby sitting behind the desk.
Ruby Styles was from our neighborhood, and a few years younger than me. Her home life had been about as fun as mine and Van’s. And when she’d come to us for a job, we’d decided to give her a shot in reception.
She lifted her head, tucking her purple streaked hair behind her ear, and shoved her black-rimmed glasses higher on her nose. Her eyes widened when she got a good look at me.
“Is he in his office?”
She shot to her feet. “What’s going on . . . ?”
I headed for the door that led to our offices, ignoring her calling after me, anger unfurling in my gut, and punched in the access code.
Shoving it open, I strode down the hall. Van’s door wasn’t closed, and I could hear several voices coming from inside. I rounded the corner and my jaw got tight. Zeke and Neco were there along with my brother, deep in conversation.
“Something you forget to tell me about tonight’s job?” I asked.
Van’s gaze shot to me. “Hunt, let me explain . . .”
“Yeah, that’d be good.”
Zeke’s eyes slid my way, giving nothing away. The Texan was at his usual spot, propped against the wall, tattooed arms crossed. Zeke Stanton was an ex-Navy SEAL, a sniper in a previous life—a life he chose not to talk about, ever. We’d all known each other since high school. Him and Van had enlisted together, been in the same unit. But Van had opted out before Zeke, left that part of his life behind before it marked him in a way his friend hadn’t been lucky enough to escape.
Zeke only talked when he had to, did not waste time on pointless conversation. He also had a stillness, an intensity about him that was perfect for surveillance. The guy could move around unseen any-damn-where like no one else.
But while Zeke kept his distance, Neco closed in.
Not only was Neco Malik our best tracker, he had skills with a computer that were second to none. He was an exceptional hacker, could get into anything, could override any security system with the click of a few buttons. He was an integral member of the team, and one of my best friends. We’d run together when we were kids. He had it rough growing up, a half black kid in a mainly white neighborhood. Having a mother who sold herself to pay the rent, and a father who he had never met, meant life had been far from easy. As a result, he’d grown into one mean, angry motherfucker.
The guy was like a brother to me, but right then, I needed him to back the fuck off.
Neco shook his head. “Just hear him out.”
“Before you pop a fucking artery,” Jude added, walking in behind me, voice nothing but a deep rumble.
I ignored them all and waited for Van to start talking.
My brother blew out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I needed you to get into that safe, and I needed you doing it with a clear head.”
I curled my fingers into fists, knuckles cracking. Van could be a ruthless son of a bitch at times, but this was extreme even for him. “Keep talking,” I gritted out.
A muscle in his square jaw jumped. “I didn’t want to send you in. If there’d been any other way . . .” He crossed his arms, getting that stubborn look on his damn face. “You were the only one who could do what we needed in the time we had.”
union City Insurance had called us a few days ago, after they’d received a claim on a painting. The painting I’d been looking for tonight. If it weren’t found, union would be down three million. They wanted to avoid that.