Chapter 873
“I want to end this tonight,” Alistair said, turning her to face him. His hands gripped her shoulders, his thumbs tracing the line of her collarbone. “I’ll be a shadow. He won’t get within ten feet of you without a bullet in his brain.”
Skye looked into his eyes — storm-grey, filled with a terrifying competence. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go fishing.”
The Blue Velvet Jazz Bar was thick with smoke and the mournful wail of a saxophone. Skye sat in a corner booth, a martini glass untouched in front of her. She wore a dress that cost more than the building she was sitting in — a calculated display of arrogance. Felix monitored the perimeter via drone feeds from a block away.
She felt the eyes on her before she saw him.
The chair opposite scraped back. Caleb Hayes sat down. He smelled of gasoline and expensive bourbon. Up close, the scars on his knuckles were visible — white lines against tan skin.
“You have a lot of nerve, Miss Sterling,” Caleb said. His voice was scratchy, as though he’d been screaming for days.
“And you have terrible tailing skills, Mr. Hayes,” Skye retorted, keeping her hands flat on the table. “Driving a muscle car in a stealth operation? Amateur.”
Caleb laughed — a dry, humorless sound. He signaled the waitress for a bourbon. “I wasn’t trying to hide. I wanted you to see me.”
“Why?”
“Because I like to see the fear,” Caleb said, leaning forward. The candlelight danced in his dark eyes. “The Mastermind wants the keys. The Diamond. The Sapphire. All of them.”
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“They aren’t just pretty rocks, Caleb. They’re data drives. And I’m not handing them over to a terrorist.”
“Call him what you want,” Caleb sneered. “But he holds the leash. And right now, he’s holding Victoria.”
Without warning, his hand shot out. He grabbed Skye’s wrist, his grip crushing.
“Give me the location of the stones,” he hissed. “Or I’ll break this pretty little hand.”
Skye didn’t flinch. She held his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs, her face a mask of ice. “Look at your chest, Caleb.”
Caleb frowned. He looked down.
A tiny red dot danced over his heart.
“Let go,” Alistair’s voice came from the shadows at Caleb’s back. It was the voice of absolute finality.
Caleb went still. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. He released Skye’s wrist.
“The Heir of Thorne,” Caleb said, not turning around. “I wondered how long it would take the guard dog to bark.”
“Leave,” Alistair commanded. “Or the next one goes through your spine.”
Caleb stood up and smoothed his jacket. “This was just a greeting. Tell Lucian…” he paused. “Tell him she says hello.”
Skye’s blood ran cold. “She?”
Caleb winked. “You’ll see.”
He sauntered out of the bar, whistling a tune that clashed with the jazz.
Alistair holstered his weapon and slid into the booth, immediately taking Skye’s wrist. He examined the red marks left by Caleb’s fingers. His jaw was tight enough to crack. “I should have killed him,” Alistair growled. “But we need him to lead us to Victoria.”
“He was baiting us,” Skye whispered, rubbing her wrist. “He mentioned Lucian. And a ‘she.’”