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“Fuck.” Saint let out a low breath as the adrenaline arrived like an old friend. “Downtown, right now.”

Wheeler’s spine straightened as his smile fell off his face. He pulled a U-turn without hitting the brakes, rear tires screeching across the asphalt as they spun in the middle of the highway, and he floored it back to the exit they needed.

“What are we walking into?”

All humour was gone, and the soldier that had made it into one of the most elite units in the country was now driving the vehicle.

Thank fuck.

“Girls are at a club with Gio Ricci. He’s been stalking Riley,” Saint said, the familiar calm flattening his voice.

Wheeler pressed his foot to the floor, and the truck roared. “On it. You think we need backup? I can get a team in.”

“Put ’em on standby.”

He didn’t mention that Gio was one of the Italians Cooper had said not to touch.

They could handle the bikers if it came to it.

But they’d need help. And more favours called in.

Wheeler’s thumb flicked over his phone as he balanced it at the top of the wheel.

Saint watched the minutes tick by, checked the gun at his ankle, and inventoried the gear in the back. They had what they needed, most likely. But there were only two of them. Going in hot would attract attention they couldn’t afford. Especially if both Riccis were there. Ryan would hear about any altercation, regardless. How the story got to Cooper would be dependent on how this all went.

They didn’t know what they were walking into. Kristi could be overreacting.

And maybe he’d get Riley that unicorn she wanted.

Kristi might be a pain in the ass, but she wouldn’t fuck around about this.

Traffic lights flashed red, the streets empty until they got downtown. Wheeler tossed the hazards on and stopped directly in front of a massive stone building. It was old, or someone had spent a fortune trying to make it look that way.

“We’ve worked this place. VIP is upstairs to the left, main floor to the right. Main entrance is there, other exits are staff only, east corner. There are private rooms in the back. It’s recently changed ownership.”

Wheeler rattled off the directions as he pulled off his vest and arranged his jacket over his weapons belt.

Saint did the same, already out of the truck. Two security guards at the door eyed them.

The place was three stories and silent. State-of-the-art soundproofing. The low-level drone of the bar district a block over faded as they reached the front pillars.

“Private security for a guest,” Wheeler said, in a tone that didn’t sound like him. Saint stalked behind him and watched one of the men size them up.

After a moment of assessment, the door opened. As they passed through, Saint heard one of them murmur into his earpiece, too low to make out.

It didn’t matter. They were already in.

Saint and Wheeler walked into the dark, like they had hundreds of times before, heads on a swivel, Saint on Wheeler’s left, half a pace behind. Deep bass music thudded through them, louder with every step. A door down the hall opened, and flashing lights painted the crowds blue and green. People undulated to the music in various degrees of undress, oblivious to their surroundings.

“Start high, work our way down,” Saint said, following Wheeler to a cordoned-off staircase.

More security in black suits—hired for their pretty faces as well as their broad shoulders—asked who they were.

Wheeler ignored them and shouldered his way through. Saint followed. The bouncers muttered to themselves but didn’t interfere. They knew what kind of place this was.

Over the music, Saint could hear yelling, and then heavy boots on the steps behind them. Five of the in-house security team passed him and Wheeler. They exchanged a glance and fell in, jogging up the stairs behind the team.

The yelling clarified into words, and he recognized the voice.