22. Dallas

CHAPTER 22

DALLAS

I'm parked in the shadow of Orion, the newest titan of luxury and vice that looms over the Strip. It's one of the newer buildings, slick and pretty. I've already prowled through the polished halls and the casino, scanned the corners that cameras miss, checked the security's schedule. Vlad's words from his last phone call to Isaac spin in my head—the meeting will be on the VIP terrace, high above the city.

And here I sit, behind the wheel of the dark green Toyota, a vehicle as unremarkable as thousands of others in this parking lot overlooking Orion. Earlier today, according to Isaac's instructions, I drove to see Se?ora Vargas, who handed me the car keys along with the breakfast plate packed to go. She had that knowing glance when we spoke, a glance of a person who's seen dark things done before and most definitely can keep her mouth shut.

I let my gaze drift to the hotel across the street once more, committing exits and entries to memory.

My thoughts pivot, unbidden, from the cold machinations of Solovey's impending demise to Isaac. Sweet, damaged Isaac. He's the only real thing in this mess, a paradox of strength and fragility that makes me feel human amidst the subterfuge. Makes me feel the way I did before Afghanistan. Whole.

A sting hits my eyes—tears, damn it. The kind that burn like whiskey, carving trails of weakness down a man's face. If I walk away now, my mother, my sister...they become photographs, possibly voices on a burner phone. Possibly voices in my head. But staying means a bullet with my name, or worse, one with theirs. My hands clench, knuckles white against the wheel, until the pressure is too much, and I lash out.

"Fuck!" The word is a gunshot in the silence of the car, the steering wheel an innocent victim beneath my fists.

I sit there, sloppily rubbing away the tears from my cheeks, until my anger subsides, until I'm good and ready to continue with my errands.

Time slips by, marked only by the hum of the city and the occasional siren wail. The drive is a blur, my mind a racket of plans and what-ifs.

Purgatory's back alley greets me like an old friend, all secrets and grime. I pull the car to the warehouse and kill the engine. When I slip out, every sense in me is wired for danger. Jeremy is already waiting inside. We exchange nods, our greeting devoid of warmth. He hates my guts. That's a fact and I won't try to change his mind.

"Got your ticket outta here," he growls, shoving the paper bag into my hands.

Carefully, I retrieve the passports and flip them open, scrutinizing the details—the same last name stamped onto each identity. "Proctor" now links me and Isaac, a forged bond that could be our new life or death. The paper feels too crisp, its edges sharp against my calloused fingers. I trace the embossed seal, almost expecting it to smudge under my touch, but it holds firm—indistinguishable from the real deal.

I'm impressed. I never thought I'd be but I am.

I'm outside the law now, a renegade with no badge to shield me. It's a bitter pill, swallowed with the realization that I've been sculpted into an instrument of deceit by the very institution I pledged to serve. Irony's cruel joke is that the only allies I have left are those who exist in the shadows I once hunted.

"Looks good." My voice sounds hollow as I tuck the passports away.

"Remember, you ain't invincible," Jeremy warns. His eyes are narrow slits, trying to read my intentions like they're scrawled across my face.

"Thanks for the reminder," I reply, but he steps forward, invading my space, like a predator marking territory.

"Listen, if you're playing some angle—if anything happens to Isaac—I'll come for you myself." Jeremy's voice is a low growl, vibrating with barely restrained violence. "I'll find you wherever you're hiding and break your fucking neck after I break all the other bones in your body."

"Jeremy, I swear—" I start, but he cuts me off, seizing the lapels of my jacket with a grip that spells out consequences more than any threat could.

"Isaac's been through hell. I won't let you—or your pretty-boy act—tear him down." He snaps his fingers over the visor of my baseball cap.

Anger flares up inside me, hot and all-consuming. "I'd never hurt him," I spit back, furious. "I care about him. I'm trying to protect him." The words spill out of me without checking with my brain first. The words I can't tell Isaac myself for some reason. The words I never really learned how to offer to someone I have fucking feelings for. But here I am, letting the guy who despises me show my biggest secret.

"Are you?" Jeremy challenges, his hold on my jacket loosening but his stare remains unyielding.

"Damn right, I am." I hold his gaze, letting him see the truth, the determination etched deep in my bones.

For a moment that stretches too long, we're locked in a standoff, two men with everything to lose. Then, with a grunt, Jeremy releases me, stepping back as though I've burned him.

"Better be," he mutters, turning away to hide whatever thoughts are churning behind his steely facade.

I don't wait for another absurd threat. I slip past the vehicles and bikes, the passports burning a hole in my pocket. The warehouse door slams shut behind me. Its bang is a punctuation mark on the sentence of my new life. I exit into the alley where a slap of reality welcomes me after the heat of confrontation that still simmering in my veins.

"Dallas!" my name is called. Female voice. The urgency in it snaps me to attention, and I pivot on my heel, my hand automatically going for the Glock under my jacket but I don't follow through. It's Nicole darting from around the corner, her eyes wide with the kind of fear that spells trouble.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I hiss out, rushing over to her.

She grabs my arm as soon as I'm near, yanking me aside with more strength than expected. "Don't you fucking know you're all over the news? The Bureau says you've flipped. You need to tell me what's happening."

"Christ, you can't be here." I glance nervously toward the warehouse. "This isn't the time or place. You're on the Hellhounds territory."

She doesn't relent. "Dallas, talk to me. Please."

I wish I knew what to say, but I'm in too deep. I can't betray Isaac. And if my career ends here, I'm not going to prison and not letting them put me into the ground.

"Dallas?"

"Solovey," I mutter, the name tasting like bile on my tongue. "I'm close to luring him out. I just need a couple more days." The lie is smooth, too well-practiced, a dark cloud masking the stars of truth.

"Are you sure?" Doubt laces her tone.

"Someone in the Bureau is talking to Maurice Thoreau and other people who shouldn't be privy to the government operations." I watch skepticism painting Nicole's features as I relay the news to her.

"Are you saying there's an info leak? Inside the Bureau?" Disbelief in her question speaks volumes.

"Yes."

"Fuck Bradley, this is serious."

"You're telling me. I'm a goddamned rogue agent when I didn't even do anything." Except for sleeping with Isaac, killing Tucci, and participating in a whole lot of other illegal activities. Just not the ones they are accusing me of. "What happened to the passports I gave you?"

"Cap claimed he passed them on to Vice."

"They buried it," I say flatly. "Solovey could be arrested right now if they bothered to get those kids off the streets and have them testify. His bruiser, Shtyk, is the one in charge of the operations. I have a witness."

"You know I can't do anything about the passports. Neither can Cap. Not our department."

"Exactly. Someone doesn't want for this to get out. Have you ever asked yourself why we are even doing this if in the end, it doesn't matter? Bad guys walk anyway."

"You're spiraling, Dallas."

"And you're blind to what's going on."

Silence falls between us, awkward, filled with simmering tension.

"Trust me, Nicole. I'm going to deliver Solovey." I infuse my words with conviction, though deep in my heart I know that by delivering I don't mean on a silver platter, I mean something completely different. But Nicole doesn't need to know that. She needs to be gone before someone sees her and this is a foolproof method to get her off my back quickly.

"Okay." Her nod is hesitant, but it's all I need. She says her goodbye and disappears back into the obscurity of the corner from which she came.

The door creaks open, and the cabin's warmth swallows me up. Isaac is there, leaning over the kitchen counter, his hands deftly assembling a sniper rifle. The pieces click together with mechanical precision, ready for their deadly purpose. Just thinking about it makes my stomach curl, but we have no choice. We need to do this.

I don't know when I started to think of it as ours. Vlad only asked Isaac but he simply won't be able to pull it off on his own. It's too risky. Too many moving parts. Too much security surrounding Solovey. With my combat skills and his street smarts, we can do a better, cleaner job.

"Everything went smoothly?" Isaac asks, lifting his gaze from the rifle. His voice is steady, but his eyes betray a flicker of concern and perhaps even anxiety as he pauses to look up at me.

"Getting him at Orion's going to be tricky. That place is a goddamn fortress," I admit, crossing the room and standing opposite Isaac on the other side of the counter, my gaze fixed on the weapon between us. "Security on every floor, cameras in every corner. Obviously, inside and outside, and I suspect, Solovey's own detail has full access to the feed. Seems like a no- go. We're too exposed if we try to sneak in." I shake my head, the frustration tightening in my chest. I grab a napkin from the stack by the toaster and a pencil, then draw up the building plan—or at least what I saw today during my scout—and all exit routes. "We'll have to take the shot from the building across the street." I scribble the building in question on the side of the napkin, explaining some basic geometry while at it.

"Shit." Isaac sets down the rifle part he's holding, processing the information with a nod. "Gonna be tight."

"Nothing I can't handle. I've shot from a distance much further and from an angle way trickier. If Vlad isn't lying and the meeting will take place on the eastern terrace, it's doable."

Isaac looks at me for a long time, his jaw working. Finally, he blurts out, "Let me do it instead."

"No. We talked about it. I've been trained…to—" My tongue won't move to say "kill people" "—operate a sniper rifle. You haven't. If you miss, we're screwed. We only have one chance and I'm certain of my skills. Are you certain of yours?"

He shuts his eyes, teeth grinding so hard, I swear he's about to crack one. But in the end, reason wins. "Fine." He looks at me again. "Fine. I won't ask again."

"Good. Topic closed." I rummage through my jacket's pocket and pull out our passports, tossing them onto the counter with a wry chuckle. "Mr. and Mr. Proctor?"

"Thought it'd be fitting for the cover," he replies with a half-smile, an edge of amusement softening the lines of his face. "Newlyweds have a way of staying under the radar."

"Newlyweds?" My heart does a little flip in my chest. "I wonder who the hell gave you that idea… baby?"

He wiggles his eyebrows.

"Guess it's time to play house then." I round the counter and step closer, reaching out to cup his cheek—a gesture that feels tender and reckless all at once. Because we already both know how distracting this proximity can be to each other. His stubble scrapes against my palm, grounding me in the present moment.

"Your acting skills up to par?" I tease, my thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw before brushing over his lower lip.

Isaac tilts his head, capturing my gaze with those smoldering eyes that seem to hold the weight of the world. "Might need a little more practice," he murmurs before leaning in to eliminate the rest of the distance between us.

Our lips meet. It's a slow burn at first, our mouths moving together, exploring, savoring. But heat builds, igniting a fire that can't be contained. My tongue slides against his, tasting the bitter tang of fear and the heady sweetness of longing. Isaac's breath hitches, his hands finding purchase on my hips, pulling me closer.

"We shouldn't," I gasp into his mouth, the word falling like a prayer or a curse.

"Why the fuck not?" he whispers back, yanking at my jacket. "It's all we have left—that's entirely ours." The jacket hits the kitchen counter with a slap, the sound swallowed by the urgency between us.

"Because we need to concentrate."

"Concentrate on this." He grabs my hand and puts it on his cock, hard and ready in his jeans.

"You won," I breathe out.

Shirts tear, fabric straining beneath our frantic fingers. Our chests press together, skin hot and already slick with sweat and I can feel Isaac's heart hammer against mine. It's a drumbeat calling us to war—a war against the world, against fate.

Our pants follow next, crumpling at our ankles. In this instant, words are no longer needed between us. I know what he wants. It's in his gaze. He wants to stop thinking, to forget about who he is. The same things I want. And I know how to give it to him. In one fluid motion, I spin Isaac around, bending him over the kitchen counter. His groan vibrates through the air, a low seductive note that has my impatient cock leaking pre-cum.

"Look what I got us," I rasp, reaching for my jacket and pulling out a small tube of lube from its pocket.

"Fuck, Dallas..." Isaac's response is half-moan, half-sigh as I pop the cap open and prep him, fingers working to ease the way.

With a steadying breath that catches in my throat, I slide into him, his heat engulfing me like a vice. It's an exquisite pressure, the kind that threatens to shatter your resolve and remake you all at once. His body yields to mine, tightness giving way to a rhythm we both know well.

"Harder, Dallas. Give it to me," Isaac commands, voice ragged.

"Is this what you want?" My words are gravelly, thick with lust as I grip his thighs for leverage, each thrust punctuated by the clattering of the half-assembled rifle on the countertop.

"Fuck, yes," he cries out, his white-knuckled fingers wrapped around the weapon, anchoring him to this moment.

I oblige, driving into him with a ferocity that borders on reverence—the kind reserved for acts of desecration or worship, and I'm not sure which side of the line we're on anymore. Isaac's screams fill the room, raw and unfiltered, a litany of pleasure and pain intermingling in the air between us.

"More, Dallas... fuck, harder!" His plea spirals into the hot air of the room, like a call to which my body answers with primal certainty.

"Yours," I grunt, the sound torn from the depths of me as I give in to the relentless urge to claim, to possess. "All fucking yours."

Our bodies collide with violence now, every impact a web of need for release. I fuck him until I can't remember my name anymore. I fuck him deep and hard and raw and just the way he wants it. I fuck him until his voice is shot from panting, until his cock is spilling cum, until we're nothing but an overstimulated bundle of nerves and pulsating heat coiling tighter, threatening to become one big rapturous snap.

The expanse of the desert stretches out like a canvas of desolation, the jagged mountains in the distance standing as silent witnesses to the deal we're about to make. Although it's evening, the sun is still cruel. The weather has been moody in general as of late. Rain. Cold. Wind. Heat. It feels almost as if this city knows what's going on, knows we're are on the run from whatever it has to offer.

I draw a deep drag from my cigarette, the smoke floating into the air, transient and fleeting. Hawk's a smoker. Not Dallas. But Dallas picked up the habit from Isaac and now there's no point in going back, is there?

"Can you walk?" The question slips from my lips as I watch Isaac bathing in the last rays of the evening sun. He's leaning against the hood of the car, eyes shut, arms folded on his chest, face soft, almost angelic-like.

"Maybe," he responds with a smug smile laced with arrogance and something softer, unspoken. His voice is smooth as aged whiskey and just as intoxicating. He pushes himself off the hood and steps closer, the heat between us complementing the heat emanating from the scorching earth beneath our feet. He plants a kiss on my cheek—a gentle contradiction to the animalistic act we'd shared just hours before. "Love your cock, Mr. Proctor," he whispers slyly into my ear and laughs a little.

I find myself caught in the gravity of his laughter.

I find myself smiling too. Such a rare occurrence these days. But he makes it happen.

Our moment of intimacy is shattered by the distant rumble of an approaching vehicle. I turn toward the sound as Isaac steps back, widening the gap between us until it's enough to conceal what we truly are.

A truck speeds in our direction, its dust trail hurling behind.

"You sure that guy is solid?" I ask Isaac just in case.

"J says he's good."

"Okay. Let's check him out then."

The vehicle comes to a stop, and an older man with a weathered beard and eyes that have probably seen too much gets out. He squints against the waning sunlight, appraising us with a mix of curiosity and caution from a distance.

"Howdy," I say.

"You Blade?" he asks, shifting his gaze from Isaac to me.

"No." Isaac moves forward. "I am." His tone is suddenly full of the authority of a man accustomed to command. "You Arlo?"

"That's right." Arlo's attention is immediately on Isaac. "Jeremy told me there's an urgent job." The man's voice is gravelly, like the dry earth we're standing on.

"Correct," my companion asserts. "Pay is good."

The old man approaches us, scanning our faces some more. "What's the job, fellas?"

"We need to be out of the country, preferably unnoticed, tomorrow afternoon," Isaac continues.

"How many?"

"Just the two of us."

The old man scratches his head, a gesture that seems out of place amidst the gravity of our conversation. "How much you willing to pay?"

Isaac supplies the number. It's a generous figure, enough to make the man's eyebrows climb.

"Alright," the man concedes after a pause that stretches thin like the last note of a dying song. "I can get it done. Panama's as far as I'll take you."

"Deal," Isaac replies, and their hands clasp—another bond sealed in sweat and necessity.