An anomaly of any kind could be their key to busting this open. They were moving on the search without police support in obedience to Franzen’s orders. Their CO had been part of the information loop since the second Z called him right after hanging up with Garrett. Since they now knew, with barely a shadow of a doubt, that King was still running his show from prison, they could deduce he’d likely had an audio tap into Rayna’s place coordinated and inserted two fake cops at Pike Place today. That took care of the Seattle PD for the trust grid right now. Even the Feds wouldn’t be brought on board until Franz deemed it appropriate. Their sole purpose right now? Gather the facts. Follow up on everything credible. Find out everything they could from whomever they could.
Right now, that meant getting a hell of a lot more information about the damn van.
Garrett clenched back his impatience in order to prompt Zeke as calmly as he could, “What did the paint look like, Z?”
Zeke turned and looked at him. Damn. His friend’s eyes were hollow, his lips tight. Maybe things with Z and Rayna had proceeded faster than he assumed. Garrett felt shitty for his friend, though on a selfish level, misery did love company. And goddamnit, he was sick with misery. He couldn’t lose Sage again. He wouldn’t. If he had to, he’d rip this fucking city apart to find her.
“The paint looked…feminine.” The last word left Z like it was the zinger in a whodunit plot. Garrett didn’t get the significance. But Zeke sure as hell seemed to. His gaze ignited like he’d become Fort Lewis’s answer to Sherlock Holmes.
“Feminine?” Wyatt echoed. He was clearly as nonplussed as Garrett.
“Yeah,” Z returned.
“What the fuck?” Garrett muttered.
“I’m serious. It looked like a tampon box.”
“What the fuck?”
“It looked airbrushed. Lavender and pink. There was a pair of hands touching along the side, and…” He stared across the street, again pulling the Sherlock Holmes act. “There was a white cat laying across the back wheel well.”
“A white what?”
“A white cat. That’s really weird.”
“Thanks for clearing that up, man.”
Wyatt stomped back onto the sidewalk. “This isn’t the time for jokes, son.”
“No, sir.” Zeke began to pace again. This time, his strides were wide and strong—and excited. “No joke at all. Just a lot of pieces sliding together.”
“Awesome,” Garrett inserted. “You want to enlighten us now?”
Z spun back toward them, arms folded, determination stamped across his face. “The paint job wasn’t real.”
“Huh?” Wyatt grunted.
Garrett narrowed his gaze as comprehension kicked in. “You mean it was a wrap?”
Zeke nodded. Wyatt threw a frown at both of them. “A what?” the man asked.
“An automotive body wrap, Uncle. They use them a lot around the city, mostly on buses, as advertising gimmicks. They have special machinery that can laser print an image onto plastic wrap that’s adhered to the bus, turning it into a rolling billboard.”
“After the campaign or event is over, the plastic is peeled off,” Z finished.
“We’ve been toying a little with the technology on our ops vehicles, but the wrap is still a little prissy. It doesn’t like dirt.”
“Small problem there,” Z confirmed.
Wyatt snorted. “So the pussies were only pretending to have pussies. And that van is sitting somewhere now, decked in a completely different design.”
Zeke snorted. “I’d bet my left nut on it.”
“Fuck,” Wyatt gritted.
“Seconding that,” Garrett added. He looked back to Zeke. “How does this get us anywhere, man?”
Zeke’s face resembled a kid about to go on his first roller coaster. Sheer excitement and blatant nausea warred for control of his features. “Because I wasn’t looking at the hundredth ad for the balloon festival on that van. The art was custom—hand-painted.”
“Still in the dark, dude. There are a lot of artists in this city.”
“And they’re all sitting in their studios with the extra flow to buy one of those big-ass machines that makes the wrap panels, right?”
A jolt of new energy made Garrett surge forward. “Hell. That sure thinned out the haystack.”
“I’ll give you one better.” Again, that weird mix of feelings rolled across his friend’s face. Zeke looked ready to do a touchdown dance and then puke about it. “I think I can find our needle.”
* * *
This was their needle?
Garrett swung glances up and down the narrow passageway alley in which they stood. At least that was what he called it for the time being. Truthfully, “alley” would’ve been an upgrade. “Ambush Zone” was feeling more in line with the area’s scuzzy vibe. Some instincts were pounded into a guy’s brain cells forever, and Garrett’s had gone Mach five from the alarm bells in his.
Luckily, he felt more normal when he caught Wyatt doing his own surreptitious recon. Z didn’t add his own trepidation to their paranoid batter. These alleys had been the man’s childhood playground. Beyond that factor, his friend was clearly familiar with this specific address—though like its neighborhood, the word “address” was given a wide berth for definition here.
Z reached for a spot behind the grimy door frame and pressed in. The hidden doorbell let off a series of bell chimes inside the building, making the place sound like a cathedral being readied for worshippers.
“Should I have worn a tie?” Garrett cracked.
Zeke let out a dark laugh. “Only if you want her to whip it off your neck, braid it into a whip, and then beg you to open her up with it.”
Wyatt coughed. “This should be interesting.”
Two seconds later, a woman’s toned arm shoved open the door. Tattooed angels and demons danced their way up it, reaching for another piece of ink that took up the top of her shoulder—a diamond wrapped in thorny roses. Garrett’s gaze was distracted from the artwork by a face that was surrounded by a sleek mane of ebony hair broken up by silver and lavender streaks. In spite of all the distractions, the woman’s face was striking. She used minimal makeup, which was a good thing. Her huge purple eyes, prominent bone structure, and full mouth didn’t need much enhancement.
At the moment, that mouth curved up at Zeke in a grin that truly defined the cat about to eat the canary. The metaphor wasn’t tough to come by, considering the woman wore a skintight black outfit—and had Zeke responding with a very visual gulp.
“Well,” she finally murmured. “Ezekiel Gabriel Hayes. What’s an angel like you doing in my naughty corner of hell?”
Before Garrett could let out half a snort of derision, Zeke horse-kicked backward. His heel caught Garrett’s shin with perfect precision.
Without skipping a beat, he lifted the woman’s knuckles to his lips and replied, “Luna honey, my halo got shot off before I busted my sixteenth birthday.”
He dropped her hand, but determination didn’t just live in the woman’s gaze. Luna latched a finger into the V of Zeke’s shirt. “What about my horns?”
Garrett joined Wyatt in stunned silence as the woman lifted an angular leg and wrapped it around Z’s waist. For a moment, Garrett wondered why this woman’s name had never left his best friend’s lips, even after the three years of their friendship. That was before he caught the terse lines of his friend’s face along with the invisible screws that tightened Z’s jaw. Understanding formed. Garrett had heard about Luna, though not by name. She was—how the hell did Z put it?—a “unique” sort of girl. A submissive with appetites that were beyond the edge coupled with a personality that didn’t have a proper off switch. Z had actually shuddered when talking about girls like her. Their refusal to call a safe word could land an unsuspecting Dom behind bars for abuse, assault and battery—maybe even murder.
Zeke grabbed Luna by the waist and pried her off. “I think it best we keep your horns safely tucked away, girl.”
She narrowed her eyes, flashing an energy that really did seem a little demonic, before pivoting toward him and Wyatt. “Maybe your friends want to see them.”
“No.” Z tightened his hold on her waist, keeping her in place. “They don’t.”
Garrett held up his left hand. “Engaged.”
Wyatt copied the move. “Married.”
“Hell,” Luna spat.
Garrett couldn’t help it any longer. He looked at his watch with a grunt. “We’re at ninety minutes and climbing, Z.”
Luna scrunched her lips. “What’s his issue?”
“I’m afraid it’s one I share,” Z offered in a more diplomatic tone. “I need to talk to you.”
Luna tossed her hair over both shoulders. “Fine. Talk.”
“Inside.”
“No. Here.”