Page 9 of Chasing Kit

I hesitated, the command warring with years of training. A direct command from Derek wasn’t a request, it was a test. Finally, I sighed, letting the tension bleed from my shoulders, and walked over to him. I took the glass he offered and raised it to him. “Cheers.”

Derek winked and clinked his glass to mine. “Cheers, my friend.”

I took a long sip, but his phone chirped loudly before he could raise his drink to his mouth. He frowned and answered the call.

“What? Aren’t you supposed to be with Kit?” he grumbled, annoyed.

I lowered my glass at the mention of Kit. My interest in him was a liability. He was my boss’s son, a civilian who wanted a career catching men like us. He wouldn’t survive in my world. Derek had kept him insulated, but that protection was only as strong as the secrets it was built on.

“What the fuck do you mean someone texted him photos of me?” Derek’s shoulders tensed, and rage flooded his face that had me slamming my glass down on the island.

My fingers twitched toward the gun in my shoulder holster.

“Are you sure? You saw the photos in the stingray device? Fuck.” He listened for a moment and swore. “You had one job, Leland. One. Where did he go?”

Clenching my teeth, I waited with bated breath. What would our next move be? It sounded like Kit was in danger. Leland, Kit’s best friend, was also paid by Derek to keep an eye on his son. It was a simple task. Leland only had to keep Derek in the loop, and there’d never been an instance where he needed to call Derek about something serious. Until now.

“Okay, if he has the Bentley, I can track him. Fuck.” Derek punched the red button on his screen to end the call, then began tapping furiously.

“Sir?” I stepped forward, poised and ready for an order. I was a soldier first and foremost, trained to follow complete missions, and when it came to Kit, I was prepared to kill.

“Someone texted Kit photos of me. Leland saw them through the stingray device. Kit knows.” Derek’s gaze sharpened. “Leland said they told Kit about him, too, and now he’s on the run in the Bentley.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked gruffly, my jaw still tight. Whoever sent those texts was going to beg for a quick death. My hands curled into fists at my sides.

“Give me a second.” Derek grunted in frustration, fingers flying across his phone. “There. Fuck. He’s at the goddamned airport. Let’s go.” He stalked past me, and I followed without a second thought. We strode out of the house to the white BMW I drove for him. My mind went quiet and narrow, the way it always did when there was a job to be done. Every one of my senses was on high alert. Driving became an entirely new experience as I sped toward the airport, weaving through slower cars and earning a few middle fingers in response. I ignored them all.

My brother’s dog tags hung heavy against my chest. I narrowed my focus on their weight. When hypervigilance flooded my body, the cool metal was an anchor, a reminder of what I’d already lost and couldn’t afford to lose now.

“Damn it. I have a tracker on his phone, but he turned it off.” Derek slammed his fist against his door, but I ignored him.

By the time we reached the airport, Derek was a jittery mess, an emotion I’d never seen on him. His leg bounced throughout the entire trip, and as soon as I stopped in the pickup zone, he was out of the BMW, striding toward the valets to inquire about his Bentley. I turned off the car, uninterested in the airport worker in a yellow vest who waved at me to move.

I held his gaze, letting my size and the coldness in my expression do the work.

He hesitated, then backed away without a word.

If I got a ticket, I would deal with it later. Kit came first.

“I’m his father,” Derek snapped at the valet, who looked no older than twenty. The freckled man was visibly shaken, offering Derek a nervous smile.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I⁠—”

“The car is mine.” He leaned over the desk, his voice low but carrying the weight of a command. “Tell me what I want to know.”

The freckled man’s brown eyes widened as his gaze slid to me. “Oh. Uh, let me check.” He quickly typed on the laptop in front of him, humming and nodding. “Yes, it’s here. The Bentley.” He read out the license plate. “The driver, a Mr. Christopher McIntyre.”

“That’s my son.” Derek’s eyes went flinty. “Can you tell me where he went?”

The man shook his head rapidly. “No, sir. We don’t ask that kind of information. He just left the keys and said to give this note to a man named Derek. Said someone would be by for the car eventually.” Visibly swallowing, he grabbed a thin piece of paper and held it toward Derek.

Derek snatched the paper, opened it, and as soon as he read it, he growled furiously before passing it to me.

Dad,

You’re a liar.

Your son,