Page 94 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“Are you listening to me?! Wait for backup, Allie! Don’t go storming in there—” Griffin begins, his voice stern and commanding.

Too late. I’ve already hung up, adrenaline surging.Sorry, Griffin, but waiting isn’t part of today’s plan.

I jump back onto the bike, Biscuit’s soft fur brushing against my hand as I secure him once more. We’re a team, a dynamic duo with love on our side and a villain to chasedown. The AirTag beacon feels like a lighthouse in the fog, guiding me straight to Thatcher.

Pedals spinning beneath me, I vow to save him, take down the bad guys, and maybe—if we’re lucky—Thatcher and I can nab that happily-ever-after ending he doesn’t believe he deserves.

Chapter 27

Thatcher

Pain lances through me as the butt of the Enforcer’s gun slams into my temple again, a searing reminder of every blow that’s led to this moment. The bindings bite into my wrists, sticky with blood, as I strain against them.

I force my stinging eyes open and the Enforcer’s blurry fist comes into focus. I see a large, gold ring with three rubies in the shape of a triangle on his thumb. The exact shape of the bruise found on my wife’s neck during her autopsy.

“It was you,” I rasp. “You killed Jenna.”

An evil grin spreads on his face. “Unfortunately, the accident didn’t kill her on impact. I had to…help her along on that journey. You should be proud, though. She put up a good fight for a dying woman.”

I fight against my restraints, trying to lunge at this monster. “You son of a bitch?—”

“Nuh-uh-uh,” he tsks, then crashes his fist against my jaw.

It’s not the physical agony thathas my heart jackhammering against my ribs. It’s not even this recent discovery. No, it’s the sound of footsteps, drawing closer. Because I know what those footsteps bring…or rather, who. I heard the cadence and rhythm of those footsteps nearly every day for years.

Admiral Brady. The man who was my boss. My ally. Hell, my friend. Now he’s here to sign my death warrant for reasons that I can’t even understand. The sting of that betrayal is worse than anything Drakon or his goons could ever do to me.

I lift my heavy head to look at him, squinting through the swelling around my left eye, trying to make out shapes in the shifting shadows. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting an eerie, greenish pall over the concrete walls. The chair I’m tied to creaks as I test my bonds again, but they hold fast. Zip ties, from the feel of them. Inexpensive. Discreet. And easier to find than rope.

My head throbs in time with my pulse, each beat sending a fresh wave of nausea churning through my gut. I don’t think I’ve been here for very long, but still, time blurs, bleeding out between the punches and the questions, the demands I won’t ever answer. Not that it matters. I knew the risks when I joined the team; even though I’m no longer active military, I knew that oath would forever put a target on my back.

My blurry gaze swings over to Admiral Brady. I never thought it would be my previous commanding officer selling me out to the enemy.

The door swings open with a rusty creak, and there he is. Drakon. He looks like he recently stepped out of a board meeting, all clean lines and polished veneer. But his eyes…those cold, dead shark eyes. They tell a different story.

The man who haunts my nightmares, wearing myfailures like a twisted crown. And now, in this abandoned warehouse, stale with the copper tang of my own blood, I know he’s come to collect his dues.

Ironic considering he murdered my wife. Hadn’t he already collected?

“Thatcher Bryant,” he says, my name dripping from his lips like venom. “You’ve been a hard man to find.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“No. I’m an easy man to find. Just hard to get to.”

I simply stare at him, channeling every ounce of hatred I feel into that glare. He smirks, circling me like a predator toying with its prey.

“Nothing to say?” Drakon presses. “No witty retorts from the great Thatcher Bryant?”

“Fuck you,” I rasp, my throat raw from thirst and screaming.

He laughs, and it’s a sound that crawls under my skin, burrowing deep. “Eloquent as ever, I see.” He leans in close, so close I can smell his cologne, expensive and cloying. “You took something from me, Thatcher. My brother. My best friend. My business partner.”

“And you took my wife.” I swallow hard, tasting blood.

His eyes impossibly grow even colder. “Your team killedeveryoneinside my brother’s home. His wife. His children. Many of my men. You took an entire lineage of my family. Of my business. Killing your wife hardly makes us even when you didn’t lose millions and nearly crumble an empire. You killing my brother almost ruined my trade business.”

“I did my job. Your brother was a terrorist.” I slowly look up into his cold eyes. “Youare a terrorist.”

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