Chapter Twenty
Sebastian
“Ihave something,” Easton says, coming into my office, and my head snaps up.
There’s barely anyone in the office this morning, being a Saturday, but he would have known I was here. I can’t remember the last time I had a Saturday off. I wasn’t going to give anyone, especially fucking Vincent, a reason to question if I should be in this role, and if that meant working my ass off, then I’d do it.
An air of determination surrounds him, and I can feel myself taking on the emotion flowing off him, my anticipation building.
“What is it?” It’s been four days since the only lead we had turned out to be a big fat waste of time. Four days since I kissed Grace in the lounge room and fucked everything up.
“You know the address in the file Aiden put together was a bust. But I have a lead on where he’s been living.”
“Let’s go,” I say, and every thought except finally getting my hands on the fucker, leaves my mind. Without wasting a second, I stand and make my way around my desk towards Easton.
Easton bites the inside of his cheek, his eyes sharpening, and I know he’s going to protest, but I’m sick of sitting around waiting. This is taking too fucking long. It could be because we’ve never been this close to finding their murderer, or maybe I’m bloody impatient, but I want him. And then I’m going to fucking kill him.
“I’m going, whether it’s with or without you. So just let me know which way it’s going to be,” I add before he has a chance to spout some bullshit about it ‘not being safe.’
“You’re not fucking going by yourself,” East says, eyeing me. “Not that you’d know where to go anyway.”
“Don’t think I couldn’t get the answers I want from one of your men. They may work under you, Easton, but ultimately they work for me.” I pin him with a hard stare of my own. “Nothing you say is going to change my mind, so either suck it up so we can go or stay out of my way.” I brush past him without waiting for a response, and I hear him curse before his heavy steps follow me out of my office.
Twenty minutes later, I shut the passenger door of Easton’s Mustang.
“Which one is it?” I ask, gazing down the street of run-down houses. Blood pumps faster through my veins already in anticipation.
“It’s down here,” Easton says, and I follow him past a few houses until he stops in front of an old weatherboard. Overgrown weeds cover the front lawn, and a discarded couch lays amongst them, covered in dirt and rips that expose rotting foam.
Making our way up the driveway, instead of going to the front door, Easton continues down the side of the house and palms his gun. His steps are measured but no less determined, and I question whether we should have brought backup. How much did he actually find out about this place, other than it could be where Ian is staying? How many people live here? Easton spent most of the drive over here pissed off and brooding at our standoff in the office. So, he didn’t do much talking, and rather than add fuel to the fire, I let him have his pout party for one. Maybe I shouldn’t have.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The sound of bullets ripping through wood permeates the air, and Easton rears back from the side door.
“Fuck!” he growls, stumbling before he catches himself.
Shit.
I surge to his side, grabbing his arm and yanking him away from the door that now has three new holes in it. “Fuck, are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” he grunts, shrugging off my hold, but with the movement, I spot streaks of thick crimson running down his arm.
Without thought, Easton surges for the door, lining himself up.
“Easton!”
The wood splinters as his foot makes contact—the door swinging inwards.
With no regard for himself, he wastes no time rushing into the house, gun raised. Cursing, I follow right behind him.
I might not have a weapon on me, but if I get my hands on the bastard, he won’t stand a chance. Anger and vengeance spur me forward, and thoughts of anything else slip away. I hardly notice anything about the interior of the house other than the fact I don’t see the bastard I’m looking for.
Easton and I spot the open sliding door at the rear of the house at the same time, but it’s the guy fleeing towards the back fence that steals all of my attention. With a rumble crawling up my throat, I take off, not willing to let him escape.
He stumbles but stays upright as he continues to run, and a growl escapes me. I’m about to burst through the back door when he turns, his arm flinging out.
A heavy weight slams into my side as more shots ring out, and I land hard, crashing through some kind of small table.