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  “You’re the one making it feel like you’re pulling them off with your teeth!” Lance’s voice was raw and threatening, but everyone knew better.

  “Shut up! If you had stayed put as I’d ordered, I wouldn’t have to put on a new bandage. Stay still; I’m almost done.”

  As Melina finished up, Sam went to the kitchenette and pulled two bottles of water from the fridge and threw one at Joshua. The sitting area was in a circle and Sloane, wise woman that she was, had taken the seat farthest from the cursing patient as possible.

  Sunlight was slowly making its way through the windows, shining through the first floor. Since he’d made the decision to follow Lance in his mission, they’d had trouble finding the perfect place to act as both a cover and their lair and had moved around several times before discovering this place. The ancient restaurant had been entirely redone, a full underground section, including a garage, had been added and secured. The main level housed Noctem Consulting, the fake company they’d created as a front to give them legitimacy. The upper levels held two apartments, one was at the disposal of any team member and had a couple of bedrooms, and the other was for Lance who lived mostly on the premises. Most of the team had homes in secured locations around the city, but the more options they had, the better.

  Sam could see Lance was still in pain as beads of sweats dotted his pale forehead. Lance Sorenson was a giant of a man, a remnant Viking in build and looks, but that said, he was far from invincible.

  “Okay, so you have five minutes before Sam and Joshua carry you to your bed.” Melina threw her latex gloves and discarded wrappings into the trash can and gathered what was left in the first aid kit. Only then did she look at the three other members of the team. “I’m serious, after this little chat of yours, I want him off his feet and in bed, not downstairs.”

  Lance didn’t look at all happy with the order, but one stern look from the doctor cut him off. “The only thing I want is you back to one hundred percent. If it’s what you want too, you’ll listen to me. I’ll be at the clinic for the rest of the day. Call me if you need anything.”

  Once she’d disappeared, Lance sighed. “Sometimes, she scares me to death. I swear.”

  In the background, Sloane snickered, and Joshua decided to sit.

  Sam followed suit. “So, you want an update on last night? There’s nothing much to report. I followed Orla Karlsen as she’s our best lead. She spent most of her day at the Tribune, but when to West Englewood last night.”

  Sloane whistled. “The girl has balls. Blonde, beautiful, brains... she’s a triple threat.”

  Sam arched an eyebrow. “Were you following me?”

  “I have access to the internet, stupid. The woman worked on the East Coast as a freelance foreign correspondent in war zones for years. She came back, and newspapers across the country wanted her, but she settled for Chicago and the Tribune, but only if she was allowed to choose what she investigated. She’s won a Pulitzer and flirted with nominations several times. Mostly works solo, the more dangerous the assignment, the better. She’s not seen a lot on the social scene, or social media for that matter. Seems to keep to herself a lot.”

  Sam had seen pictures and had gotten close enough to touch. Beautiful wasn’t the right term to describe her. She was like a sunrise over the ocean, a bright flame you wished you could touch. However, getting close to Orla Karlsen wasn’t his mission. Keeping her under surveillance and discovering what she knew was.

  “She met Martin Pebbles, aka Freckles, known drug dealer and petty criminal. She was there about ten minutes before returning home. I tried to use the amplifying listening device, but it was sketchy through the walls. I was able to confirm she’s investigating Phantom.”

  Lance nodded. “We expected that based on the intel from the police. I’m still waiting on some intel from other sources, but so far, we know Phantom is being prepared for distribution. Someone won the bid, and we need to stop it. Whatever the cost.”

  Joshua, who had remained silent so far put his elbows on his knees. “If the war was won, Phantom will hit the streets soon. The only thing working in our favor is that whoever invented that shit, made sure very few people know the recipe and they mean to keep it that way.”

  “Yeah, but it’s only a question of days before it starts killing people.” Lance winced. “We need to keep a close eye on Karlsen while keeping up our side of the investigation. Sam, you’re on it with Josh as back-up. Our computer mastermind should be in-house too, so if you need extra support, you’ll have it.”

  Devin Curtis was not only a first-class hacker but also a renowned computer game designer, who made shitloads of money. He’d contributed a great deal to their business in addition to helping create some useful gadgets for their nightly escapades.

  When they’d founded Noctem, one of the things they’d agreed upon was that there’d never be more than one vigilante on the streets at a time, the exception being high-level emergencies. It was a way of controlling the rumors, curiosity, and patterns and reducing the risk of anyone thinking of the vigilante as an organization.

  Being alone was dangerous, and Sam was very aware of the load on his shoulders during his time as the vigilante. He’d been on the other side of the law for a long time but had never touched or dealt drugs. Violence and death could certainly impact family, but drugs destroyed one’s life to a completely new level and affected people way beyond the circle of crooks.

  Lance gave his last instructions to Joshua, who went back to the lair with Sloane on his heels. Sam had seen the slight movement of his head, silently telling them to leave them alone, a move that was far for innocent. Lance obviously wanted to talk to him. “From the beginning, it’s been your case, Sam. You’re the one who suited up for this. However, I want you to be careful. So far, we’ve acted in small, contained situations, but this one is affecting the entire city and might explode in our faces if we’re not careful. And now we’re dealing with a renowned journalist. That means we have to keep our cards even closer to the vest.”

  Sam had to agree with him. After reassuring his friend and helping him back to his room, he decided to do some more research and surveillance on Orla Karlsen.

  After a quick shower and now comfortable in his chair at the command center, he started by accessing the cameras from Orla’s building, as well as past recordings. He’d followed her home last night at a distance, making sure she was all right, and she saw her heap of a car turn into the underground parking.

  One positive point about the woman was how seriously she took her security. The building was in a secure area, coded at each entrance with plenty of locked doors, and had several cameras. She acted without considering the consequences when outside her home, but he recognized someone who needed balance in her life and a haven to go home to. Too bad that even from afar, Sam could see numerous problems and blind spots that made her vulnerable.

  He dug some more and discovered she was an only child. No children. No current attachment. A definite workaholic from what he found. What drove her? Investigative reporting was a difficult job, dangerous at times, and mostly dominated by men. He couldn’t help but admire her, appreciate her constant quest for the truth, to show the world for what it was.

  Sam had read her articles, and they were fantastic, explosive, and focused on the human side of things with a definite Chicago flair. The more he learned about her, the more his admiration grew.

  And that was a bad thing. When he’d decided to follow Lance and become a vigilante, he knew what it entailed, and how attachments would be pushed aside, if not abandoned altogether. There was no fantasy in his world, only the gritty reality that meant that apart from a quick fuck, women were out of bounds.

  One last time, he opened her image on the screen and leaned back in his chair. It was his favorite one of Orla. She was obviously in the Middle East, dressed in tan cargo pants and a black t-shirt. Her hair was in a ponytail, but the wind was playing with endless free strands around her beautiful face
. She was crouching in front of two children, her smile genuine. The beauty and kindness that came through the composition gripped him like nothing else.

  It took every ounce of strength in him to close the window and step back. Orla Karlsen wasn’t part of any fantasy, and he had a mission to do. Mindlessly, he rubbed his knuckles over the words inked on his chest: Usque Ad Finem, To the very end. The same words were etched on each member of the team and represented what they were bleeding for. The safety of the city and its people mattered above anything else, and when he suited up, that’s exactly what Sam did, he kept the city and everyone in it safe. To the very end.

  Chapter Three

  Chicago vibrated like usual, but Orla couldn’t shake her unease. Something was off, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Far from a rookie, she worried about her instincts for a second. Was she losing it, or was there someone following her every footstep?

  From the moment she’d stepped out of her apartment late in the afternoon, that nagging feeling had intensified to the point where she’d almost turned back. Instead, she headed to the newsroom and carried on as normal. The Tribune was buzzing as usual as everyone raced to meet his or her deadline. Kelli was out, and Orla decided to check her messages and emails. It would soon be time to head out. She was tempted to call her therapist about her paranoia and hoped it wasn’t a resurgence of her PTSD, but she decided to shove that worry to the background for now and concentrate on the job at hand.

  Day turned to night, and she went home to change. She had to look polished and professional in the newsroom, but it wasn’t the right look for where she intended to go.

  It amused her to see how she chose the same pieces of clothing she’d worn during her missions in war zones. Dark colors, sturdy fabrics that slightly hid her curves as a way to avoid drawing any kind of attention were her go-to wardrobe. Black pants, dark green canvas jacket, her messenger bag, sturdy boots, complemented with her green beanie created the perfect outfit for a night out investigating.

  When she emerged from her building’s underground parking, Orla didn’t notice anything unusual or out of place, and that settled her mind, allowing it to focus on the task at hand, which was to seek out Damon Evans. If she could talk to him, get a hint of the negotiations that had taken place, she may have enough clues to connect to the big fish and source of the drug. It was too bad this particular smaller fish swam in a very nasty tank.

  The ride to the El Diablo bar took no more than twenty minutes at that time of night, traffic being light. Each of those minutes helped her align her mind with what she had to do. She’d kept an eye on Damon Evans since he’d become the Storm Wayfarers MC president years ago. Not that people didn’t switch chairs a lot in those circles, but he’d been the youngest president in Chicago at least, and it had drawn a lot of attention, and triggered several immediate battles to challenge his position.

  Orla had done a paper on the MC’s war back then but her angle had been more about exposing the cracks in the attackers’ armors and how it showed the possibility that MCs were struggling to keep their ground in the intensifying criminal activity that included gangs, the mafia, MCs, and other foreign kingpins. If she were recognized, it would add another level of danger to the situation.

  Soon, she saw the glow of red lights announcing the strip club, the neutral zone frequented by mostly MCs in the Chicago area. Orla had passed in front of it several times during the day, but this would be her first visit at night.

  As she parked beside an endless row of Harleys, her anxiety fled, replaced by anticipation and a surge of adrenaline. Orla had found her footing again. When she exited her car into the cool night air, the tension was palpable. If it was hot and she was surrounded by sand, she’d think she was back in the war zone. Maybe she should have brought her flak jacket.

  When confronting guerrilla warriors or Chicago’s worst, there wasn’t much difference in her attitude. As a woman, she’d always be seen as weaker or a potential spoil of war. She’d survived so far because of her brain, her wit, and her experience, and this little visit would be no different even if it were thousands of miles from the Middle East.

  Small groups of men were hanging outside as a loud beat poured from the club. Most of them ignored her, but the doorman, a black man with a mean tattoo covering the right side of his face didn’t, and he blocked her way.

  “I don’t think you want to go in, Missy. Turn around and get your cocktail elsewhere.”

  Orla bit back a laugh. “No offense, big guy, but I know better places to drink than your hole in the wall. I’m here to see Damon Evans. I know he hangs here.

  The bouncer arched an eyebrow, obviously debating what kind of trouble she would get herself into—or provoke—inside.

  “Come on. I’m only here to talk a minute. I’m not carrying his child. I’m not carrying a gun, and I plan to leave quickly so you won’t have trouble because of me.”

  The Cerberus guarding the door mumbled something incomprehensible before stepping aside with a grimace.

  The smell was the first thing that assaulted her senses. This bar stank of so many things, it was difficult to pinpoint if it had been cleaned since its opening. She was glad for the low lighting, red walls, and black floors, as they probably hid most of the filth.

  The place was packed. In the middle, the main stage was surrounded by a rowdy bunch. Strippers were busy on side stages surrounded by love seats that had seen better days. It was difficult to distinguish faces in the dense crowd, so she headed to the bar at the far end. Bartenders were the best source of information, regardless of location.

  Scantily clad women passed her as if she was invisible, not surprising as it was clear she wasn’t the one holding the money. Throughout the space, it was easy to spot those who would lose their money first.

  When she leaned against the bar, Orla knew that even if nobody seemed to look at her, every single soul knew that a stranger, and more importantly a woman, was in the house. It took some time to get the bartender’s attention. He was a man in his late fifties, bald, obviously tired, and seemed to have no interest in serving her. Annoyed, the man finally stood in front of her. “What do you want?”

  Unfazed, she smiled instead. “A beer, first. Information, second.”

  She pushed some money toward him, and his frown deepened. “I don’t have information. You a cop?”

  “Nope, I’m not. I just want you to tell me if Damon Evans is in the house and point him out to me. That’s all. Easy money for you.” She pushed the wad further in his direction, and from experience, she detected the constant gleam of avidity mixed with hesitation. As always, she knew which one would win.

  The money vanished, and the barman poured her a beer. When he returned, he leaned close. “When you turn, he’s at your two o’clock. The blonde one. I see you’re not using your tits to get his attention. You’d better have something important to tell him because when he’s with his gang here, the last thing he wants to do is talk business.”

  Orla nodded. “What’s his beverage of choice?”

  “Starts with beer, then shooters. Shouldn’t be long now. That’s when his brain starts to dissolve.”

  Taking a couple more bills from her pocket, she pushed them in his direction. “Shooters for everyone from the MC. Delivered by their favorite strippers. And because I’m so generous, I’m offering a lap dance for his lieutenants. For Evans, just give him this.” She put her card on top of the money. On the back was a question she hoped Evans would be able to answer.

  The barman shrugged and prepared her order. She removed her beanie and fluffed her hair. If anyone doubted she was a woman, that was gone now, and even in the dim red light, her hair would act as a beacon.

  Busty women came and went with the shooters, and now it was time to cross her fingers. She watched as Evens lifted the card and read the message she’d written on the back.

  If you lost your bid on “P”, then you’re a lucky bastard.

  When I find w
ho won, he won’t be as lucky.

  It wasn’t a threat, because she knew without a doubt that Chicago PD would rain the fires of hell on the drug distributor with everything they had once they were found.

  Cheers echo over the music followed by catcalls and women giggling. Orla took a sip of her beer and drew patterns in the condensation on the glass; her brain was in overdrive as she worked on plan B. She hated plan B because that meant it would take much longer to reach her goal. She wanted the Phantom investigation to be quick, so she could go back to her pet project of chasing down the vigilante.

  Her mind wandered. Was the mysterious man or woman on the wrong side of the law like the men in this bar? A cop turned dirty? Who in their right mind dispensed justice outside of the law and sleep well at night? A lot of whys swirled in her mind until the music stopped for a couple of seconds between songs, and heavy boots thumped behind her. A man leaned on the bar by her elbow.

  “I don’t know how I feel having a reporter in my favorite bar. Or having her ask questions she shouldn’t.”

  Orla took another sip of beer before turning to her right. The president of the Storm Wayfarers wasn’t a muscle man as she’d imagined, but had more of a swimmer’s frame with his bleached blond mane and goatee. He reminded her of a musketeer. He had an amused twinkle in his eyes, but Orla wasn’t stupid. He might appear approachable, even normal but Damon Evans hadn’t become an MC president while being a nice guy.

  “As a reporter, it’s kinda my job.”

  The man pursed his lips and nodded. “I know your reputation, Ms. Karlsen. I do read everything that concerns my territory. Chicago is my home.”

  “And mine too. So, you can guess why there are things I can tolerate, and others I will fight against.”

  The smile was still there, but there was calculation in his eyes. Again, a man in his position had to possess the skills of a politician. “And you’d go so far as to threaten me?”