Page 87 of Fighting For You
In a matter of minutes, Jude and I were driving in a Saint Security truck outfitted with all kinds of gear our personal vehicles didn’t have. We’d spoken only in clipped, professional phrases, both sensing we wouldn’t have a chance to return to the major subject of our conversation at his house until after this op. Maybe by then—whenever it was—I’d know how to figure out where we both stood in this relationship, how much of ourselves was in there and how much was compromise we thought the other wanted or even needed.
The goal tonight? Stop this Hollywood producer jerk from hurting anyone else, and clear the girls out of there.
“How deep in do you think Kurt is?” I asked, giving voice to the dread that’d been building steadily since we’d opened the door to Cookie.
“I don’t know, but I have a bad feeling maybe all the way.” His jaw flexed and his eyes stayed forward.
“We can handle it,” he said, right as I said, “Of course we can handle it. We’ll just—” I stopped, huffed and smiled at the way we’d both said it.
“We will,” he confirmed. No lightness in his eyes, but maybe something there—not regret for what he’d said, and not even anger with me from how I’d reacted.
I exhaled, banishing the nerves and the sick feeling that seeped into my gut and nodded. “We will. That jerk’s not going to hurt anyone else, and neither is Kurt.”
We weren’t certain what we’d find, but from what Cara filled in for us, it sounded like the party was under the guise of casting extras and some main parts for an upcoming project. By the time she left, the crowd was thinning and itsounded like maybe the situation was becoming even more concerning.
We’d alerted the police after Jenna confirmed her experience with the man, and they were on the way. They’d be on hand to take statements if anyone wanted to press charges, assuming our fears were legitimate, and the awful realities we’d seen in our years in the military meant that even the shine of Hollywood and the glamour of this film fest couldn’t make us believe they weren’t.
Cookie and Wilder pulled over on the road at the base of a long driveway. Most homes in Silverton were within the city limits, but there were a few larger places on the outskirts, and this was one. It was isolated, and frankly, the perfect place to take advantage of someone if you could get them there.
We moved up the driveway with purpose, swift-footed and eyes wide, spotting the security guard loitering at the front door instantly.
“We’re here as part of the cooperative agreement between Saint Security and Blackthorne. Let us in quietly.” Wilder’s tone brooked no arguments, and since he and Bruce had spoken to the whole Blackthorne crew before the film fest kicked off, the man likely recognized him.
“Oh, sure. Is this some kind of op we weren’t briefed on?” the guy asked, though we moved inside without responding, first Wilder, then Cookie, then me, and Jude brought up the rear.
Inside and down an oddly dark entryway, we came to a recessed living room where several girls lay on low, off-white modern couches over matching carpet and were clearly under the influence of a substance based on their glazed eyes and the heavy way their heads hung. Cookie moved to the one nearest him right away, Wilder to another.
“Hey, can you talk to me? What’s your name?” Cookie said, his voice gentle and filled with concern.
The girl reached a hand out and nearly swatted his face. “Oh my crap, you’re so hot like a model or like a hot guy or something. Are you in the movie, too?”
He spoke to her again while Wilder radioed to our HQ telling them to dispatch an ambulance.
The large living room had four possible hallways leading away from it. I turned to Jude, about to debate it, when he notched his chin toward the one to his left, the only one with a light on.
We moved together, leaving Wilder and Cookie to deal with the girls. Maybe they were the only ones left, but knowing more than likely there were more people in the house who might need help, the urgency pressed in on us.
Several rooms stood open—an office with floor to ceiling bookcases, a piano room with a baby grand, and then the hallway turned and led to an open area with a small love seat and a man seated there with his eyes on his phone until he heard the quiet shuffle of our feet over carpet and looked up.
Kurt.
He stood instantly, a smirk on his smug face.
“Well, look who it is. How can I help you this fine evening?” He tucked his phone away and hooked a thumb into one of the gromets on his flack vest.
My body had leveled into what we called war calm. Adrenaline cranked through you but with the right training, you could funnel it into a steady hand rather than a shaky one, a practiced posture instead of noodle knees. “We’re here to check on someone. Step aside and we’ll have a look and be gone.”
One cocky brow raised. “Yeah? Bummer. I can’t let you do that.”
“Yeah, you can,” I said, not surprised he wasn’t going to let us by, but also supremely annoyed that in theory this guy was supposed to be a good person. Not that I had any illusion he was anymore, but at least he shouldn’t be engaged in protecting an actual criminal.
Jude stood to my left and a step back. I could practically feel the fury rolling off him. Evidently, he hadn’t locked down all those pesky feelings like I had.
“Nah. Don’t think I will,” Kurt said, then shrugged a shoulder like he thought all of this was cute.
Jude’s voice came low and as close to a growl as could be and still be intelligible. “Move.”
The smug expression melted from Kurt’s face, and for maybe the first time, I saw every bit of ugliness he’d hidden from me when his lip turned up in a sneer.
