Two To Go: Bayou Heat (Pantera Security League Book 2) (2 page)

Paranoia? Maybe. But it’d kept her alive.

“I was able to run the names you found in the original message against the files we managed to download from Benson Enterprises,” she told Raphael, turning back to face him.

She was nothing if not resourceful. From online to inside. When she’d first started up with the PSL, she’d discovered that she might not have her parents’ skill as a Diplomat, but she did possess an uncanny ability to blend into the criminal subculture. She felt perfectly at home with human predators. Thieves, cutthroats, dealers… And she could blend in easily despite her Amazonian size. The general population couldn’t tell at a glance that she was Pantera, but they could sense the danger that smoldered around her with an unspoken warning that a person with a half a brain didn’t want to screw with her.

“You got a hit?” Raphael pressed.

She nodded. “RR. Russian Room.”

Not surprisingly, the leader scowled. “What is it?”

She reached into the pocket of her leather coat, pulling out her phone. With a few swipes of her finger she found the image she was searching for. A narrow brick building with a large front window and an iron door. It was three stories, with old-fashioned fire escape ladders zigzagging between the barred windows and a flat roof. She held it up to show him.

“On the surface it’s a small restaurant in New York City,” she explained.

Raphael leaned forward, studying the image. “And beneath the surface?”

“Underground fight club.”

He released his breath with a low hiss of fury. “They’re using Pantera to fight?”

“That was my first thought too,” Elyon said, feeling her cat scratching at her insides. Poor furry girl. Wanted out again. One taste was never enough. For either of them. “But I don’t think that’s what’s going on. I’ve done some heavy-duty research on the place and it looks like the typical hangout for overly aggressive humans who feel the need to pound the crap out of each other.” Sounded like a show not to missed. If only she had the time.

Raphael nodded, trusting her words without question. That was what she appreciated most about him. He gave her a task and then trusted her to complete it. No looking over her shoulder, or pestering her with micromanagement.

“What’s the connection to Benson?” he instead asked.

“His corporation owns the building,” she said. It’d taken her hours to unravel the complicated tax forms that’d at finally led back to Christopher Benson. But she was nothing if not persistent. And an insomniac.

“What’s their interest in a human fight club?” Raphael spoke his thoughts out loud.

“I’m on my way to find out.”

“You’re taking this one?” Raphael demanded.

“Unless you have an issue with it,” she said, then gave him no time to argue. “I’ve already prepped my backstory and uploaded it to the usual sites used by fighters.” A smug smile curved her lips. She might be a Suit by birth, but her hacking skills were pretty damned impressive. Even if she did say so herself. “Come on, it’s perfect for me. If anyone looks me up, I’m the Angel of Death who is just returning from Hong Kong.” She patted the pocket of her coat. “I also asked for an old friend to email me an introduction.”

Raphael arched a brow. “Do I know this friend?”

“Only if you happen to be a part of the Serbian mafia.”

His lips twitched. He knew better than to ask how she became acquainted with a man who ran Serbia’s crime syndicate.

Hey, she knew a lot of people. Most of them unsavory characters who lived in the shadows of life, and who most upright—or uptight—citizens tried to avoid. But, no judgment.

“How are you getting there?” he asked as a warm breeze blew across the bayou.

She inhaled the familiar scents and
almost
wished she had an hour or two to just kick it by the water’s edge. “I have a private flight booked for this afternoon.”

He studied her for a long, silent moment. “Do you want me to have Leo go with you?”

Her brows snapped together. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

He stepped toward her, the power of his cat filling the air with sizzling heat. “We don’t have enough intel to know what you’re walking into.”

She slammed her fists on her hips, her own cat sliding near the surface as she glared at her mentor. No longer did it want to come out and play. The furry bitch inside her wanted blood. Seriously. If it’d been anyone but Raphael questioning her solo abilities, she would have made them regret even voicing the question.

“I can handle it,” she said through tightly gritted teeth.

Raphael made a sound of impatience. “I know that, Elyon. But it’s not always bad to have a partner.”

She stepped back. It was her natural reaction to anyone who tried to invade her personal space. Whether it was physical or mental.

No. Trespassing. Period.

Even with Raph.

“I prefer to work alone.”

Raphael released a soft, resigned sigh. “Yeah. That’s what scares me.”

Understanding dawned. This partner thing wasn’t about capability to him. It was about vulnerability. “I think you’re going soft in your old age.”

He wasn’t baited. “Call it whatever you want.”

“Okay. I’m calling it a pain in my ass. You’re not my father, Raphael.”

“No, but I hope I’m your friend.”

Damn him. He was always doing this kind of shit to her. His kind, truthful words making her flinch. Making her belly go kind soft. Okay, fine. She knew she could be difficult.

She was aloof. Aggressive. And prickly.

A genuine bitch.

But she deeply valued the few people she allowed past her barriers. Like The Six. And this awesome leader of the Pantera. The male who’d found her, freed her.

“Of course you are,” she said, chewing her lip. “Course you’re a friend.”
Jeez.

He folded his arms over his chest, giving a faint shake of his head. “When I asked you to be a part of the Pantera Security League, I hoped that it would give your life a sense of purpose.”

“It has.”

He acted as if he didn’t hear her. “But I didn’t count on the fact that your work would isolate you even more.”

“I’m not isolated,” she protested. And she wasn’t. She spent most of her time in big cities, trolling the streets for information that couldn’t be found by more formal techniques. It was amazing what she could learn, shit that was just floating along in the sewers of humanity.

Raphael wasn’t fooled by her flippant response.

“Oh yeah? When was the last time you spent more than an hour or two with your friends?” he challenged. “Or taken a lover?”

She sucked in a harsh breath, holding up her hand. “Cerviel’s bullshit has rubbed off on you. Clearly.”

“I’m deadly serious.”

“So am I. And grossed out. You might want to check yourself.” Okay, so maybe he was kind of a father figure, after all.

“This isn’t about mating,” he pressed. “This is about connection. With anyone or anything.”

“Okay, this conversation is over.”

Raphael ignored the prickle of warning in the air. Typical. “Because you don’t like the questions,” he bit back.

“No, Raphael,” she said tightly and pointedly. “Because who I do or don’t have in my bed is none of your damned business.”

He stared at her, eyes narrowed, silent as the grave. Waiting for more. Waiting for her to cave.

“Christ.” Elyon spun on her heel and started away, from the water, safe house, and him. “I’m out of here. I have explosives to prep, and an asset to retrieve.”

“Be careful, Elyon,” Raphael called after her. “I’m here if you need me.”

Please.
She didn’t need anyone. Not that she was going to turn around and tell him that because weapons prep was a helluva lot more interesting than standing around defending her capabilities or chitchatting about
connection
or who she was or wasn’t boning.

As she moved farther away from the border, and her overly concerned mentor, her cat snarled with caged frustration inside her chest.

Brewing coffee.

Steaming garbage.

Sizzling meat.

New York City, baby
. Elyon grinned as she moved down the street, her long legs eating up the stained pavement. It was just after seven o’clock. Darkness had fallen over the Lower East Side, but the lights from the various bars and restaurants spilled out onto the sidewalk.

Dressed in a black leather jacket that hit her at the waist, skintight spandex pants, and heavy shitkickers, Elyon ignored the lingering stares from both men and women. She was single-minded now, utterly focused. Turning into a narrow alleyway, and only pausing long enough to stuff her small backpack into a dumpster. A bag that contained a hotel key card and enough explosives to take out the nearby brick building.

She grinned. She was definitely a female who liked to be prepared.

And hey, if she couldn’t get her target? Same rules apply. She’d be forced to turn the place to rubble.

Not to mention, destroy anyone inside.

Once satisfied the bag was hidden beneath a layer of trash, she circled back to the front door and headed inside the restaurant. Instantly she was assaulted by the smell of meat, onions, and roasted beets. In the center of the dimly lit space there were a half dozen tables, all occupied by older men and women, large plates of stroganoff or bowls of borscht spread out before them. Immigrants who occasionally sought a taste of home? she wondered. Or paid shills who kept both an eye out and shit looking real.

She sniffed. Maybe a mixture of both.

She’d see soon enough, if anyone tried to stop her from…exploring further.

Her gaze searched the shabby interior, finally landing on a black curtain in the far back, opposite the kitchen. Feeling the eyes of the patrons clinging to her, she headed straight for it, ready to answer any questions with her fists, or her knees, or her foot. Her smile widened as she pushed past the curtain. The right one had been known to break multiple bones.

And the occasional boner.

But surprisingly, no one stopped her. Behind the black fabric, she found a narrow hallway, lit with the same god-awful florescent crap you’d find in an elementary school. Moving with a lazy grace, she crossed the cracked linoleum floor and turned right into another hallway that led to a narrow flight of stairs going up. The smells of food receded and were instantly replaced by the scents of a gym. Rubber mats, disinfectant, and sweat.

Bingo.

The lighting sucked the farther away from the restaurant she went. Only a bare lightbulb that did a piss-poor job of battling the thick shadows. Something that might have been dangerous if she didn’t have her cat senses. As it was, she could easily see the man approaching her through the gloom.

As if his heavy steps and rank stench of vodka hadn’t warned her first.

The stranger was a large beast. He had at least six inches on her, which was saying something, with powerful, broad shoulders. His dark hair was cropped into a military flat-top and his features were bluntly cut, with pale eyes.

He was wearing a pair of camo pants and a white ribbed tank top, and he had that expression that said,
I’m either going to kill you or eat you
.

Poser.

And so boringly predictable.

She headed for the stairs, already prepared for Mr. Meathead to get in her face or grab her arm.

“Hang on, sweetheart,” he growled, doing both. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She arched a brow, then glanced down at the thick fingers that circled her arm. Another asshole thinking it was okay to get in a female’s personal space. As she glanced back up, making a
tsk tsk
sound with her tongue and teeth, she noticed a second human male. This one had come out of a door to the left and was climbing down the stairs.

“One. Two,” she counted slowly, her gaze returning to the hand on her arm.

“Did you hear me?” the man snapped.

Elyon grinned. She’d have to be deaf not to hear this asshole’s grunts.

Her nostrils flared and she let the scents wash over her. “Three. Four.” She continued her counting.

“Bitch, you’d better get your hot ass out of here or I’m going to—”

“Five.” She interrupted his flattering yet unwelcome threat, moving with blinding speed.

The man released a shrill scream as Elyon wrapped her fingers around his wrist, squeezing hard enough to shatter his bones.
Pretty.

She didn’t stop there.

Still holding his mangled wrist, she whirled to the side. The motion dragged him off his feet and slammed his body against the brick wall. There was a loud thud. Like a sandbag hitting cement. A very large, very sweaty sandbag.

She released her hold, a taunting smile curving her lips as the man gave a groggy shake of his head and forced himself to his feet.

“I did count,” she said in sweet tones.

The guard swore in Serbian, then charged forward. Elyon heaved an uninterested sigh, neatly stepping out of the way. Really, it was sad. There was a time when the Russian mafia hired only the best fighters. Now it seemed their standards had gone straight into the gutter.

Who the hell charged in such a narrow space?

Waiting until he was lumbering past her, Elyon swirled to lift her leg. She kicked him in the ass, sending him shooting into the brick wall on the other side of the hall. This time the sound was more of a crack than a thud as his skull connected with the bricks.

He groaned, sliding to the floor with a dazed expression.

“Nice move.” A male voice sliced through the air, his accent hinting to a childhood spent in Moscow. “Can I help you with something?”

With a last glance to ensure the guard wasn’t intending any surprise attacks, Elyon turned her attention to the man who was standing on the lowest step.

He was short and square with thick salt-and-pepper hair that was greased back from his florid face. He had heavy jowls and dark-rimmed glasses that were tinted to hide his eyes. An old trick that was supposed to intimidate opponents back in the day.