The Storm That Is Sterling (10 page)

They talked a few more minutes, and while debriefing was necessary, Sterling was once again feeling that “ready to climb out of his own skin” sensation. He needed to be out of here. He needed to find Becca.

“She’s personal to you?” Caleb asked, watching him closely.

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s personal.” There was no reason to deny the truth he didn’t quite understand. Not only would Caleb sense his feelings, Caleb was the brother he’d never had. And Becca mattered to him more than anything had in a very long time.

Caleb pushed off the wall. “We’ll find her,” Caleb promised.

But would they find her before it was too late to save her?

***

Sterling left Sunrise City near ten o’clock, early for Vegas, especially on Friday night, and he planned to use every second he had available to find Becca. With a few phone calls to both his street team and various outside contacts, he determined that ICE had gone underground, dealt through some sort of private club system.

When the words “private” and “money” were involved, Sterling, or rather his bounty hunter who did anything for the right price, knew where to go. By ten thirty, Sterling was exiting the elevator of the Magnolia Casino, one of the biggest moneymakers on the strip, and followed a cushioned, red-carpeted path. Expected, he entered the security booth, where a front windowpane overlooked the casino. Computer monitors lined walls and hung from the ceiling.

In the center of the room stood Marcus Lyons, the head of security for three of the largest casino resort operations on the strip. Tall and athletic with dark hair, he wore the same black suit as his staff, but with a blood-red tie that said, look at me, I’m George-freaking-Clooney.
Whatever
got
the
guy
off
, as far as Sterling was concerned. The man was connected like a lightbulb in this city. That’s all that mattered. And the man would be king as far as Sterling was concerned if he led him to Becca. With a lift of his chin, Marcus motioned to the office in the back of the booth, and Sterling followed. Shutting the door behind him went without saying.

“What was so urgent?” Marcus asked, turning to face him.

“I have a client who wants a large stock of ICE,” he said. “He’s willing to pay premium plus. And don’t tell me you don’t know what it is. This is worth too much money to play games. He wants what he wants, and he wants it tonight.”

Marcus studied him a long moment. “If I give you this information and you make a contact, I want a piece of the action.”

“
If
I make a contact?”

“I’ve got a location, and that’s it,” he said. “But it took some serious bullying to get it.” His lips lifted as he added, “I like to be prepared for occasions such as this one. But if you go to this place, opportunity may or may not present itself. But I’ll have someone nearby. Someone watching. I’ll know if you make contact. I’ll expect to be paid.”

“I’ve always paid, and paid well for information,” Sterling said, legs in a V, arms crossed. The Renegades had deep-pocket funding, in part, from Renegades like Michael and Damion, who were born with silver spoons. “Why would that change now?”

“What’s your ‘take’ on this deal?” Marcus inquired, a keen look in his blue eyes.

He hesitated intentionally, playing the negotiation game expected of him. Not an easy task when he wanted to shake Marcus until he told him what he wanted to know. “Fifty Gs.”

Marcus arched a brow. “I’ll take thirty.”

Sterling snorted out a laugh and fixed Marcus in an “are you whacked” look. “And the real number is…?”

“We both know you didn’t tell me your full price,” Marcus countered. “You lowered the number. I want thirty, or you get nothing from me.”

Sterling whistled, putting on a show. “That’s steep, you greedy sonofabitch.”

“Not when you’re talking about stockpiling something as hot and impossible to find as ICE,” he said. “So take it.” He folded his arms in front of his chest. “Or leave it.”

“I get the location now. Tonight.”

“I get a retainer now, or no deal,” Marcus countered.

Sterling sauntered over to the desk and hiked one hip up on the edge. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash secured with a clip and tossed it on the desk. “That’s ten. I figured that would be enough to get you one of those fancy manicures you like so much.”

Marcus laughed, noticeably relaxing. “I don’t know who’s a bigger asshole. You or me.”

“I like to think we have our own brand of assholeness,” Sterling said dryly. “You’re the suit-wearing, talk-down-to-you, and then bust-your-wallet-in-the-balls, kind of asshole. I’m the dirty-boxing, back-alley kind of asshole.” He pushed off the desk. “Now where am I going?”

“When do I get the rest of my money?”

“When I get the ICE.”

Marcus considered a moment. “Don’t fuck me over, Sterling.”

“Back at you,
asshole
,” Sterling replied snidely. “You have my ten grand.”

Marcus considered a moment then he said, “Nebula,” naming the newest addition to the club scene, located inside a competing casino property. Marcus gave Sterling’s attire of jeans and a T-shirt a once-over. “You might want to make sure to blend with the crowd. It’s not your typical Vegas hot spot. This place is more leather and chains than denim.”

Dryly, Sterling replied, “And here I thought you might come with me.” He shrugged. “Too bad.” The tension between them evaporated. Despite all their mocking exchanges, they almost liked each other. They’d done too many of these deals together not to respect each other’s value. “Later, Marcus.”

“Bring us both back some money, Sterling.”

Sterling waved as he exited, ready for action.

***

To hell with changing clothes to fit into some goth-themed drug bar. By eleven thirty, Sterling was standing in the far corner of the smoke-filled, three-story portion of the Empire Tower Casino’s Club Nebula, nursing a beer for show and thinking of that moment when he’d handed Becca over to Damion. It had been Damion, he was sure of it.

Nonchalantly, he tilted back his beer again, studying the far corner by the bar where two punkers—one with a Mohawk and the other with a spiked ’do—were talking with a woman. One of the punkers partially blocked his view. A glimpse of long black hair and he set the beer down with a thud, waiting for a better line of sight, hoping like hell it was Becca, which was insane. He was making himself crazy. The place was crawling with goth-black hairdos.

“Hey, sugar,” came a purring female voice, as a raven-haired beauty shoved up close to his chair, nuzzling her ample breast on his arm. A dealer… that was the buzz in the bar. The ICE dealers were hot chicks that sized you up and decided who they offered the drug to. Apparently, the dealers sampled the goods, because this one had Clanner eyes. They weren’t black, but they were darn near it; the pupils were dilated, the dark ridge around the eyeballs wider. He wondered if Becca’s eyes would look like that after a few more doses… if they already did.
If
she
was
even
alive.

He forced a smile, reminding himself that any amount of ICE he could get was important to Becca and for their scientific team. “That’s sugar pie honey bunch to you, darlin’.”

“So,” she said, wrapping her arm around his. “Want some heat with your ICE?”

“Depends,” he drawled, his gaze going toward the bar, trying to find his mystery woman again, but his view was still blocked. Reluctantly, he flicked his attention back to his ICE babe. “You gonna share a little ICE buzz with me first?”

“Whatcha gonna give me if I do?” she asked, stroking his arm.

He flicked another look toward the mystery woman just in time to see her profile. Becca. It was Becca. He stood up.

The woman clung to him, blocking his view. “Where you going?”

“Beer goes right through me, baby,” he replied, untangling himself only to find Becca missing. Damn it.

He charged up to the bar and into the face of the bartender. “The prim little black-haired princess who was standing here… where did she go and with who?”

“I’m not a baby-sitter,” the man said.

Sterling reached over the bar and yanked him across it. The man’s eyes were wide, dilated, and filled with panic. “Headed out the back door with two of the regulars.”

Fuck! Sterling dropped the man and shoved his way through the crowd before cutting down the side hall past the restrooms. He burst through the steel door exit and into a back delivery area for the hotel, a loading dock to his right. A muffled voice reached his ears, cutting through the sound of the churning industrial fan inside the warehouse.

Easing under the open entrance of the dock, Sterling surveyed the dimly lit warehouse, but saw nothing. A stealthy GTECH leap and he was on top of the ten-foot-high dock floor. To his left, stacked pallets stretched in long, neat rows, as far back as they were high, the concrete floor that separated them shiny and clean.

Sterling inched past several stacks of pallets to his left and found the last row, where he went still, colder than any hit of ICE could make him. Becca was backed into a corner with the two men who were crowding her.

“Quid pro quo, baby,” one of the men said to Becca. “Pull that shirt up, and show me what you got. You give me some of you, and I’ll give you ICE.”

Sterling bolted into action. The only person touching Becca was him.

Sterling was behind Becca’s attackers in five seconds flat. He grabbed a handful of both men’s shirts and flung them into a stack of pallets.

“Thank God, Becca,” Sterling said, shackling her arms, ready to hug her just to prove to himself she was real.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed with such unexpected vehement anger, he almost released her. “I know you’re one of them. I saw proof. Damn you,
I
know
.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw pictures…” Her lips were trembling. “Of you and Adam. Tad showed me.”

He really hoped Tad had died on that lab floor. “Not only are Caleb and Adam twins, but—”

“He had wolves with him! You had wolves with you. It was Adam.
You
with
Adam.
”

The sound of a gun cocking echoed through the open, high ceilings. Becca inhaled sharply, and he didn’t miss the difficulty that she had doing so.

“Get down on the ground, man, or I’ll shoot,” Mohawk guy ordered, pointing a Smith & Wesson.

Sterling had half a mind to ignore the kid, but he needed the ICE the kid had on him for Becca and for study.

“Be right back,” he told Becca, and turned and held his hands out to his sides. “Whatever gets you off, man. Take your best shot.”

Mohawk’s thin face turned puffy with anger, and he pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Sterling’s chest and bounced off his body armor like a rubber ball.

“That was fun,” Sterling said sardonically. “But sorry. No time to do it again.” In a flash, he’d closed the distance between himself and the Clanners, snatched the weapon, and turned it on Mohawk man. “Then again, maybe I should take a shot of my own. Quid pro quo, and all that shit. Right asshole?”

“Look, man,” Punker said. “He didn’t mean it. Just let us go.”

Mohawk held his hands up in defeat. “Yeah, man. It was a joke.”

Sterling arched a brow. “Do I look amused?” He motioned with his fingers. “Hand over your ICE, and
that
ain’t no joke.”

“We don’t have any—” Mohawk started to say.

Sterling fired at the ground, popped two shots damn close to their feet, and cast Becca a quick inspection while the men squirmed. She was leaning against the wall, watching with wide eyes. Safe. That’s all that mattered.

Sterling’s lips twisted with a wry taunt. “The next two bullets won’t hit the ground. Think of all those little bones in your feet blasted away by the steel force of a bullet.” He shook his head. “Ouch. That hurts just thinking about it. Even on an ICE high, that’s gonna bite like a bitch. After that, we’ll move upwards.” He pointed the gun at Mohawk’s knee. Then his thigh. Then shoved the gun toward his crotch. “About midway up is where all the fun starts. If I blow it off, will ICE grow it back? Wanna find out?”

“Okay!” Mohawk said. He was shaking worse than Becca now, digging in his pockets and producing four vials of ICE.

“Come now,” Sterling said, still holding the gun at Mohawk’s groin. “That can’t be all you got. I really don’t want to see you two buck naked, but if I have to make you undress to get the rest of the ICE—that’s what we will do.”

Punker dude handed over another vial, obviously deciding he didn’t want Smith & Wesson giving him a visit down under, too.

“Good,” Sterling said agreeably, pocketing the ICE. Doc Kelly, the Renegade’s medical chief of staff, was going to piss her pants or maybe go orgasmic on him over five vials of ICE. He jerked the gun hard against the guy’s crotch and received a guttural grunt in return. “Now hand over your IDs. That way, if you say a word about this, I can hunt you down and use you for target practice.” He shook the gun in the air. It took all of sixty seconds for their compliance. Sterling motioned them away. “Get out of here.”