Page 125 of Hard Rain

Oscar Charleston owed most of his billions to a side business that trafficked children.

Cutter reported to Charleston.

Charleston sat at the top of the food chain.

The only thing they had to watch out for was Cutter himself. He could identify every one of them. But Davis wasn’t worried. His inside source—a woman working for Charleston—had reported Cutter was already en route to another location.

“Hey, you keep zoning out on me and I’m going to pull us,” Whip said, dragging Axel’s attention back to the hotel.

“Pull us back to bed?”

Now, that worked for him.

He’d take a day in bed over work bullshit anytime. The last two workdays had bled into nights burning up the sheets.

Whip rolled his eyes, fighting a smile.

Axel loved that look.

It meant his man was happy.

The car rolled to a stop, and a uniformed doorman opened the door.

Crystal chandeliers spilled warm light across the ballroom as conversations blended into a low, expensive hum. Waiters drifted through the crowd with silver trays balanced on one hand while a jazz quartet played from the far corner.

The gala had upscale private security checking invitations and watching behavior, but no magnetometers.

No weapon checks.

He wondered how many others were armed as they stepped through the double doors. It kind of made sense with the number of wealthy people and bodyguards in the mix.

Charleston had spent millions restoring the old civic building. Now it served as headquarters for the Charleston Foundation and tonight’s charity gala filling the third floor.

Axel took it all in without appearing to.

Entrances.

Exits.

Cameras.

Habit.

His gaze roamed across the room again, this time looking past the tuxedos and evening gowns.

To drink, Charleston preferred twelve-year-old Macallan.

Collected vintage firearms.

The guy wore custom suits almost exclusively in shades of charcoal, navy, and black. He never liked having his back to a room.

Last night’s briefing with Whip drifted through his mind one fact at a time.

At first, he’d thought it was overkill. There they were, sweaty from making love, sprawled on the bed, and Whip wanted to go over the case.

Who gave a shit what a trafficker drank?

Whip did.