Page 8 of Isaac

"Freelance security," I answer curtly. There are definitely holes in Cody's employment history, which is part of the cover and normal for guys who are looking to work for people like Thoreau.

"Any specific gigs?" Jeremy probes, his gaze never leaving mine. He seems to be searching for something, some crack in my story that might give me away.

"Nothing worth mentioning," I say, trying to play the part. "Just random events. Weddings. Parties."

Silence fills the room.

"Look, Cody," Jeremy says finally, leaning forward and fixing me with a serious stare. "I like you. I think you'd make a good addition to our security team. You don't talk too much, you're fit, you have the experience. Know how to follow orders. There's just one formality." He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a small plastic cup, pushing it toward me across the polished surface. "Take this. We need a piss test to make sure you're clean."

I take the cup and say nothing.

"Is that going to be a problem?" Jeremy asks, nodding at the cup in my grasp.

I keep my expression impassive, aware that every word and gesture could affect the outcome of this mission. "No," I reply simply, meeting his eyes without hesitation.

"Good." He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "Get it done, then bring it back here."

"Understood." The cup feels cold and slick against my palm, a tangible symbol of the lies I must maintain to succeed in this dangerous game.

As I turn to leave the office, I feel the weight of Jeremy's gaze on my back, like a physical force pressing down on me. It's unnerving, but also exhilarating–a stark reminder of just how high the stakes are in this twisted world of deceit and betrayal.

And it scares me that I may be enjoying this a little too much.

"Oh, hey man," Jeremy calls when I push the door open.

"Use the staff restroom on the casino side," he instructs. "The club one's out of order."

"Got it."

As I weave my way through the corridors of Purgatory and toward the casino entrance, I find myself reveling in the knowledge that Jeremy seems to have taken a liking to me. If I can earn his trust, getting close to Thoreau will become infinitely easier. And once I've infiltrated their inner circle, it'll only be a matter of time before I can bring their entire twisted empire crashing down around them.

One brick at a time.

CHAPTER 4

DALLAS

The black counter gleams like a still, dark ocean beneath the harsh white lights of the bathroom, edges kissed by veins of gold in the marble. Opulence screams from every corner. I could understand why some people choose this path. Some are addicted to drugs and some to luxury.

I place the plastic piss cup on the counter with a quiet clink, its hollow echo bouncing off the shiny tiles.

"Let’s get this over with," I mutter to my reflection. My voice is a stranger's, rough and edged like gravel, thanks to the cigarettes they expect Hawk to smoke. I’m not special agent Dallas Bradley, not here, not now. Here, I’m Hawk, with a past that's fabricated and a future that hinges on deceit.

And hawks soar above the darkness, sharp-eyed and deadly.

My hands are steady as I reach out for the faucet but nerves, anticipation, the relentless drive—it all stirs within me, a tempest that doesn't touch my features.

The mission is clear: infiltrate, gather intel, and dismantle Isaac's kingdom piece by bloody piece.

I've trained for this, lived countless lives in shadowed corners of society, where men like Isaac and his Hellhounds reign with iron fists wrapped in velvet gloves, where they ruin innocentlives. The weight of what I do—the lies, the risks—never gets lighter. There's a gravity to this work, an anchor that both grounds me and drags me down. And sometimes, when I start a new mission, this gravity is all screwed up.

Like right now.

And then I realize I'm nervous for no reason.

I splash some cold water on my face, and the shock of it is a brief reprieve from the sudden stifling tension. When I glance up at my reflection, I see rivulets trace down my jawline, drawing paths over the rough stubble I've grown. Cody Smith aka Hawk looms back at me, an interloper in this dark world with eyes the color of a storm-ravaged sea. His high cheekbones hint at his native roots, while the rest of him is a blend, a fusion wrought in the crucible of two vastly different worlds. There's fierceness there, sculpted by necessity, by a life spent walking the fine line between lawman and outlaw.

I put my palm under the cold stream and splash more water on my face as if trying to remind myself that these features… they are not really Cody's. They are mine. They belong to Dallas Bradley. He's just loaning them to Cody.

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