Page 17 of Breaking Free

Chapter 6

TRISTAN STIFLED A YAWNas he checked his phone, feeling the fatigue of boredom slowly taking over. It was nearing midnight, and he had already spent six long hours in the cramped van with eight more to go until his relief arrived in the morning.

Axyl heaved a sigh while rubbing his eyes. “Seriously, can this Manolo guy move any slower?”

Tristan was anything but calm and collected after weeks of this shit, but he tried not to let it show. He kept his eyes on the monitors displaying the client’s lavish Beverly Hills residence, waiting for the target to appear. A con man who had systematically fleeced the sixty-nine-year-old widowed grandmother out of a small fortune for the past three months.

“Patience is key.” With a gut feeling something was about to go down, Keiran Finnegan, the director at the LA Rossi office, aka Finn, had joined them on the stakeout tonight. “We need to wait for the right moment so we have evidence to make this bust stick.”

Tristan’s top priority had always been catching the slimeball who took advantage of the lonely widow and drained her bank accounts. A close second was escaping the cramped, stuffy van. After four nights of this monotony, which was about as exciting as watching grass grow, Tristan was ready to climb the walls. Despite this, he kept his professional mask firmly in place andfocused his attention on the monitors, each screen showcasing a different angle of Nicolette Barker’s residence.

“Yeah, I just wish he’d get on with it before I go out of my mind with boredom.” Axyl’s chair groaned beneath him as he shifted for the tenth time in as many minutes. “And before I permanently become a human pretzel.”

Tristan didn’t blame him for being uncomfortable, his towering height of 6’8” and almost 300 pounds took up practically all of the equipment-packed, already cramped van.

“Stakeouts can be long and tedious,” Keiran, aka Finn to his friends, acknowledged. “But at least we have each other to keep us alert. Why don’t you update us on what’s happening in San Antonio?”

“There hasn’t been much activity recently, mostly just skips and personal protection cases.” The younger man, who had just transferred to LA permanently, shifted yet again, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms behind his head as he contemplated the question. “We haven’t had a good black ops mission in what seems like forever.”

“I think he meant the club,” Tristan drawled. “Hearing about San Antonio’s cases is just more work. Am I right, Finn?”

“Absolutely. Working evenings and overnights puts a damper on a social life for me and Esme, so I must live vicariously through others.”

Finn was the only married man among them, but they were all in the same boat. Stuck in a surveillance van night after night, no one saw any action. But Axyl told an interesting story about a fucking machine demonstration his last night before leaving town. Master Dex, Eric’s counterpart in San Antonio, arranged for a dozen eager volunteers to ride and critique each model. The top-rated machines would secure spots in two new stations on the main floor and in one of the theme rooms upstairs. The demo was open to all members and was very well attended.

He and Finn, also part owner of the LA club, exchanged a meaningful look. “Eric is slacking off,” Tristan remarked.

“No kidding,” his fellow dominant said with a widening grin. “Everything might be bigger in Texas, but this is LA where trend-setting and edgy are expected. He needs to get us up to speed on this right away.”

“I have the rep’s business card somewhere.” Axyl almost rolled over Finn’s foot and nearly clocked Tristan with his elbow as he reached for his wallet in the crowded space. “You should see the #1 pick in action—”

“Hold up!” Tristan interrupted, quickly tapping a few buttons on the monitor. The camera angle changed and zoomed in, revealing their target walking along the Southern-style veranda carrying a suitcase in each hand. “There he is,” Tristan announced, his eyes fixed on the screen as the target finally made his move.

“He’s heading for the garage. We need to go now,” Axyl declared, reaching for the sliding door handle.

Tristan followed closely behind, staying in the shadows to avoid alerting their target. The van’s engine purred to life behind them as they scaled the perimeter fence. The plan was for Keiran to block the front driveway, the only exit from the property since the back gate was out of order, thanks to Tristan’s earlier work. Meanwhile, he and Axyl would corner the thief, red-handed with the goods, in the garage.

Communicating through hand signals, they coordinated their actions to intercept the target before he could reach his vehicle. Positioning themselves by the side door of the garage, weapons at the ready, Tristan took a low position while Axyl went high as they entered.

The cars were all there—a Mercedes, an Aston Martin, and the Jaguar convertible the swindler typically drove—but the garage was otherwise empty.

“Fuck,” Axyl muttered. “Where did he go?”

“He just jumped the fence onto Sierra, where a vehicle was waiting,” Keiran said through their earpiece.

“Who’s driving?” Tristan asked. “He was working alone.”

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