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“It is now. He’s hiding out of harm’s way, probably hoping we just shove Tamsyn into the waiting arms of his armed goons so they can drag her back up the mountain. This way, he becomes a target every bit as much as me. Only difference is, I’ve got a lot more faith in our team than he does in his—no one trusts a team bought and paid for; there’s always someone willing to pay more for their loyalty.”

“We’ll have him covered,” Grit said absently. “I’m already pulling a sniper back.”

Eli just pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t make me explain to your fiancée why your brains are splattered all over the club grounds, Merrick. Be fucking careful how you handle him.”

“Grit’s got my back,” Merrick said gruffly. “Your word, Eli.”

“We’ll take care of her like she’s our own,” Evander promised. “But it’s a moot point, seeing as you’ll be here anyway. Go, set the fucker up for a fall.”

“He’s done that himself.”

*

Striding along the path toward the residential cabins, Merrick rolled his shoulders. The sun was out, it was a pretty decent April afternoon, and yet there was an eeriness that came with complete and utter silence when the air should’ve been full of bird song. The paths were empty, devoid of the usual hustle and bustle of club patrons walking to and from the play areas or restaurant.

Somehow, he hadn’t pictured bringing Jedidiah to task in the middle of the damn day. He’d imagined a dark, stormy night, clouds rolling over the moon, kicking the ever-lovin’ shit out of the cocksucker under the cover of night.

Still, even sunlight couldn’t mask the itch burning under Merrick’s skin. He was well aware Jedidiah might decide to order one of his paid lackeys to pop him off before he made it to the meeting spot—a sniper could pick him off through the trees if he chose his location well, and Merrick believed Jedidiah’s ego wouldn’t need too much bruising before he ignited.

By rights, he wasn’t a violent man. He lost his temper—he was human after all—but never control over his fists. If someone started an altercation, he would finish it; he rarely instigated one himself.

Jedidiah, however… well, he might just inspire Merrick to tap into the dark side.

Boots crunching on the gravel, he didn’t bother trying to hide his approach. Whatever was going to happen would happen; it was a comfort knowing there was a team out there already working on evening the odds.

That didn’t stop his heart from jolting or his fists from raising when someone stepped out from behind one of the cabins like a fucking ghost. He vaguely recognized the man as one of Grit’s security guys. “Christ, give a man a heart attack, why don’t you?”

“Sorry, sir. Grit asked me to give you this.” The man—Adelson, Adamson?—held out his hand, setting a small earbud on Merrick’s palm. “It’s a two-way. You can hear him, he’ll be able to hear you. He told me to tell you not to turn your back on Drake.”

Yeah, he had no intentions of being that stupid—there’d be a knife between his shoulder blades before he could blink. Men like Jedidiah Drake wouldn’t know honor if it slapped him across the face like a wet fish; they touted it, proclaimed honor and duty, pride in what they did, but all it came down to was posturing.

Monsters in expensive clothing, reigning over a kingdom designed for cruelty.

That was all they were, would ever be.

They would die as monsters.

“Thanks.” Pushing the bud deep into his ear, Merrick nodded. “Got it.”

“Good luck.” Adamson returned the nod, then headed down a different path.

Checking his watch, Merrick cursed and picked up the pace. He waited for Grit’s voice to fill his head, but there was nothing. Honestly, he was grateful for the quiet. Having someone chattering in his ear would only distract him from keeping his wits about him.

He made it to the boundary line where club ground gave way to the forest with thirty seconds to spare. Hands in his pockets, he planted his feet and waited, listening to the sound of footsteps coming closer through the trees.

His first impression of Tamsyn’s father was from thirty feet away. The man was a strutter, he noted with amusement. A fucking peacock flashing feathers that weren’t as exciting and glamorous as he thought.

Tamsyn had been dressed in ragged castoffs when she arrived at Serenity, in the clothes new arrivals to the community had discarded. Ill-fitting, unsuitable for the elements.

Jedidiah wore money. The hiking gear he wore might as well have come straight off some rack in a fancy outdoor pursuits store. The boots alone cost several hundred dollars, and were barely scuffed.

Whoever’d been scouring the mountain and forest for Tamsyn, it hadn’t been her father.

Merrick watched the trees for an ambush. He wasn’t cocky enough to believe he’d spot any of Jedidiah’s backup—they were trained mercenaries, after all—but he did have faith that Grit’s team was superior in every way, shape, and form.

At face value, Jedidiah was an attractive man. There were certainly elements he’d passed down to his daughter, like the color of her hair and the curve of her jaw, but everything else belonged to the woman who’d been in that photograph on the website.

Her father was politician handsome, slick and oily. The kind of slick that made a man want to scrub his hand clean after a handshake. While his hair was mostly gray down the sides, it was still that rich brown in the middle—no bald spot, which was a shame. It seemed like that would rankle his pride.