13. Dallas

CHAPTER 13

DALLAS

I slink through the darkened alleyway somewhere on the outskirts of Las Vegas, my breath steady and measured despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. This is a familiar territory, in a sense.

The storage facility looms ahead, a monolith of steel and concrete silhouetted against the vast night sky.

My pulse remains steady as I approach. I’ve got tunnel vision, focused solely on my goal. And the goal is to get this task done so it could bring me closer to Thoreau.

I’m careful to avoid any surveillance cameras or guards. The black bandana covering the lower half of my face is just an extra precaution. Anonymity is everything.

"Stay focused, Dallas," I whisper under my nose as I reach the facility’s wall.

Frankly, the sound of my name feels foreign to me now. No one has called me that in weeks. Except for Nicole. But our one meeting was too brief for me to get used to being myself.

Cody "Hawk" Smith, that's who I am in this world.

Scaling the wall in a convenient little nook I stumbled upon two days earlier when I was canvasing the area became as easy as slipping into one of my worn, comforting James Dean T-shirts. God. I miss those. Hawk likes solid colors. He’s fucking boring like that.

The industrial containers inside the facility are arranged like obedient school children in trim rows, their concrete flanks whispering secrets in hushed echoes as I pass by.

The gap running between them is narrow. Perhaps an SUV could slide through if its driver is ballsy enough to bet his paint job on it. It's claustrophobic yet somehow freeing at the same time—pure catnip for an adrenaline junkie like me.

As I move closer to the designated storage unit, I spot some goon in a guard’s uniform perched nonchalantly against the corner. This dude is as big as a mountain.

Could be a former military like me. But that doesn't intimidate me. No sir.

Sure, I’m not as impressive. I’m lean but quick. My hard-earned wisdom taught me that packing too much muscle mass is just about as useful in combat as bringing a serrated butter knife to a gunfight.

Speedsters like myself—they don't wear out quite as swiftly as these heavy-duty fellas.

I move closer, each footfall silent.

The guy is unaware of the danger lurking just beyond his peripheral vision.

In one swift motion, I wrap my arm around his throat, cutting off his airflow.

"Go to sleep," I whisper in his ear while he’s thrashing in my hold. I can’t see his face and can’t feel what he feels, but I imagine his eyes are wide, panic flaring briefly before he fades into unconsciousness. "Sorry, buddy," I husk out as I gently lower him to the ground, hoping he'll forgive the necessary deceit. "Nothing personal."

With the guard incapacitated and the coast clear, I turn my attention to the locked door of the storage unit. Time is of the essence, but I refuse to let the pressure rush me into making mistakes.

I will my hands to be steady as I work on picking the lock.

One. Two. Three.

Piece of cake.

A few moments later, the lock clicks open, and I exhale a breath. With a final glance over my shoulder to ensure no one's watching, I slip inside the storage unit and close the door behind me, plunging myself into darkness.

A walk in the park , I think to myself, trying to shake off the lingering nerves. Flipping on the small flashlight I brought with me, I sweep its narrow beam across the cluttered space, searching for anything that could further my mission.

Let's see what we've got here.

I cast the light over stacks of cardboard boxes, some sealed and others with their flaps yawning open like tired mouths. A dusty tarp covers an antique-looking motorcycle, and in the corner, a pile of rolled-up rugs leans against the wall.

Flashlight set on one of the boxes, I dig through the rest of them, finding a treasure trove of evidence that the owner of this unit has his hands in. Fake identities, stacks of cash, and even a collection of what appears to be authentic artwork—all hidden away in this unassuming storage unit somewhere on the fringe of the city. All important proof the Bureau would appreciate. Unfortunately, I’m not here to collect intel on the unknown man who owns this unit. I’m here because of Isaac Thoreau.

And then… Jackpot!

My fingers brush against the cold metal of a locked container tucked away at the back of a cluttered shelf. I fish it out from its hiding spot, testing the lock’s strength with a calculated tug.

The lock resists my initial attempt. Playing hard to get, asshole . It isn't until I channel every smidgeon of frustration and knowledge into that tiny piece of metal, does it crumble in defeat against me.

Victory is swift and noisy, the once-guarded mysteries catapulting all over the dark room with each paper flying haphazardly like winged ghosts.

What the hell?

I grab the light and flash it over the spilled documents. My heart goes into my throat, my adrenaline levels spiking.

Passports.

A lot of them.

All foreign.

I drop into a crouch and quickly rifle through them, the taste of anticipated dread tangs bittersweet on my tongue, until I spot Marina's name on one.

I pocket it and rise to my feet, ready to leave.

But the man of law in me hesitates.

You’re not Dallas.

You’re Hawk.

But self-persuasion doesn’t help.

"Ah, shit," I curse under my breath as I grab the rest of the passports and stuff them into my vest pockets, the weight of their importance somehow heavy against my chest.

I'm stuck in a cloudy mess of uncertainty about what's truly happening—what Thoreau is wrapped up in. But there's one fact that slashes through the fog: passports snug in the pockets of foreign nationals belong to them and only them. Navigating life without these pages full of stamps is like swimming against a punishing current or standing at the edge of an abyss with no ground underfoot.

These people are being trafficked to be forced into labor or prostitution or worse—sold to the highest bidder.

And if Thoreau is somehow involved in this, he’s way dirtier than any monster lurking in the darkest corners of my imagination.

But I don’t have the time to dwell on these things. I walk over to the door and push it slightly open, just enough to squeeze through. Then I turn off my flashlight and slip outside.

Fuck…

A figure emerges from the shadows of the opposite storage unit. Guard’s uniform. And he’s got a couple of inches on me. Maybe a few pounds too.

People who own this facility know to hire the right muscle for the job.

"Who the hell are you?" he barks out.

My instincts kick in before I can even register what's happening—I lunge forward, needing to eliminate him before things get out of control.

Adrenaline surging, I throw a first punch.

But he's quicker than I anticipated, and his fist connects with my jaw before I can react.

Pain radiates through my face, and I taste blood in my mouth from where I've bitten the inside of my cheek from the impact.

I stagger backward, hitting the wall of the storage unit, but I don't stay put for long. Just can’t afford it. With a swift push, I propel myself off the surface, ready to face whatever comes next.

"You’re trespassing," the figure growls, launching another attack. His movements are swift and calculated. He’s clearly no amateur.

Neither am I.

We engage in a deadly dance, exchanging blows and dodging attacks with lightning speed. Sweat starts to bead on my forehead, mingling with the blood still trickling from my split lip.

If I fail here, everything could be lost.

Each punch I throw carries with it the weight of everything that's at stake—not just for me, but for all those who would suffer if Isaac Thoreau is indeed involved in the human trafficking ring.

We continue our brutal dance in the darkness for a few more minutes. The sound of fists connecting with flesh echoes through the alleyway, bouncing off the tall storage walls.

My breath comes in ragged gasps as I narrowly dodge a particularly nasty blow.

And then he does something I don’t expect. He pulls out a knife and swings it at me.

The cold metal of the blade flashes dangerously close to my face, and I can feel the lethal intent behind it. He’s determined to end me here.

"Who sent you?" he grunts through clenched teeth while I aim a hard punch at his midsection. My knuckles collide with what feels like steel rather than flesh; he’s as tough as he's fast.

"Doesn't matter," I hiss out, knocking away his fist as he sends a vicious kick at my ribs. I narrowly avoid it, feeling the air rush past where my body had been only moments before.

He’s angry now. He swipes at me again with the knife, and this time I'm not quick enough to avoid it. A searing pain slices across my cheek. Blood trickles down my jawline and neck. The bandana's cut, slipping from my face to hang around my neck.

I paw the side of my face, wiping away the warm liquid before backing away for a second to reassess my strategy. The pain serves as a reminder that failure isn't an option—not when lives are at stake. Mine included.

"Is that all you got?" I spit out the question, feeling both the exhilaration of the fight coursing through my veins and the growing frustration, which only fuels my resolve.

"I’ll end you," he growls, his voice low as if meant only for me although it’s just the two of us here.

Okay.

Enough.

It’s time to get serious.

I can see the exhaustion beginning to wear on my opponent; his movements are no longer sharp, his breaths more labored.

I allow my own fatigue to fall by the wayside as I focus only on the task at hand—finishing this fight so I could be on my way.

In a split second, I lunge to the side to distract him, then forward, and execute a swift and powerful move–a spinning backfist that connects with the asshole’s jaw, sending him crumpling to the floor, unconscious. The knife drops to the ground with a clunk.

"Guess you didn't see that coming," I mutter, wiping the blood off my cheek. The adrenaline is pulsing through my veins like an electric current, leaving me breathless as I make my way toward the exit.

I may have won this battle, but I'm only just beginning to scratch the surface of the war brewing beneath the city's streets. And as much as it terrifies me, I know I'll have to delve even further into the darkness if I want to bring the truth to light.

"Welcome to the Underworld, Hawk," I whisper to myself as I vanish into the night, determined to see this mission through, no matter what it takes.

The city lights blur outside the vehicle window as I drive back to the club, my mind still reeling from the narrow escape at the storage unit. The tension inside me coils like a venomous snake, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

I’m ten minutes away from the Strip when a new text message flashes across my phone screen. The unknown number. And it sends that familiar chill down my spine.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white. I refuse to look at it but the temptation is too much and eventually I grab the phone from the cupholder and read the command:

Meet on the roof when you arrive

Definitely Isaac.

The corners of my lips curve up slightly. I don’t know why I smile at the thought of him.

However I have to adjust my course, making a detour before going up to the roof.

When I enter the break room, I scan it carefully, not wanting anyone to see me here right now. I’m technically off.

Satisfied with the fact that I'm alone, I approach my locker and position myself with my back to the only surveillance camera in the room. My hands move with precision as I remove my vest and shove it into the backpack inside the locker. Then I quickly fish out Marina’s passport from the vest’s pocket and slip it into the back pocket of my pants.

It's a delicate dance, ensuring the security camera can't capture my actions. I know not all bouncers working for Isaac are involved in his shady dealings. Having them question me when they see me all cut up or worse—hiding a bunch of passports—will create some serious problems.

Once I've concealed the damning evidence, and quickly used some antiseptic from the first aid kit to clean the wound on my cheek I make my way to the bank of elevators and go up to the meeting spot on the roof of Crown Tower.

Over the past few days, Vegas has been under the promise of an impending downpour, the gray clouds clinging to its skyline like a lover not ready to let go. The long-awaited rain starts drizzling gently, almost non-existently, dotting my skin with cool, barely-there droplets when I set foot through that all-too-familiar door marked Roof Access .

The air thickens with the earthy scent of rain-kissed asphalt mixed with a tantalizing whiff of nervous anticipation of the encounter. Every fiber in my body screams for something. Not caution. Something I can’t comprehend.

Across the damp expanse, against the neon backdrop of the city, stands Isaac, a cigarette dangling from between his lips. Our eyes lock as I make my approach, and the tension between us is a live wire threatening to spark at any moment.

I don’t understand it. Don’t want to.

Wordlessly, I pull out Marina's passport from my pocket. As I hand it over, our fingers brush just like last time we met here.

An unexpected shiver travels through me.

I wonder if this is intentional when Isaac's brown eyes flicker with something I can't quite place. Almost as if he sensed my reaction.

Before leafing through the pages of the document, he exhales a plume of smoke into the stormy air, the raindrops colliding with it before it dissipates.

"Good," he says after checking the passport, his tone unreadable. He slips it into the inner pocket of the leather jacket, then silently extends the pack of cigarettes toward me.

"Thanks," I accept, taking the offer as a tentative olive branch in this dangerous game we're playing.

Isaac’s hand reaches up and he flicks his lighter, lighting the cigarette I’m holding between my teeth. A fleeting mouse click of a moment has us almost cheek to cheek, the space between whisper-thin and electric. I can feel his fingers hovering at my lips, feel his breath on my cheek. Its strange warmth laced with whiskey, an unspoken promise sliding over me like molasses.

What the fuck is going on with you, Dallas? a voice shouts from the back of my mind, but I’m too transfixed by this strange intimacy settling over us.

Is this what it feels like to be accepted into Thoreau’s inner circles?

Or is this something else?

Shoving the questions from Dallas down, I return to being Hawk, inhaling the bitter smoke and no longer trying to make sense of the emotions swirling inside me.

"Anyone saw you?" Isaac asks.

"They saw someone," I supply. "Not my face." At least I hope so. That second guy was a handful.

Isaac nods.

We remain silent with the drizzle all around us. Our bodies are separated by no more than a few inches of humming, adrenaline-filled space, and cigarette smoke.

"Stay away from Jeremy's sister," Isaac says suddenly, the words cutting through the quiet like a knife through butter. His gaze is steely, unyielding, but there’s softness in his voice, almost as if it’s not an order but a suggestion.

"Jessica?" I raise an eyebrow, the surprise evident in my voice. "I'm just being nice to her, man. We work together." I take another drag of my cigarette, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickens under his scrutiny. "I ain't interested in anything more. Just don’t like to be a jerk to a girl."

Isaac continues to stare for a few long moments until the words I don’t expect to hear from him roll off his tongue.

"Then who are you interested in?" He steps closer, erasing any kind of barrier the air creates between us.

The question hangs there, charged and electric. He exhales a cloud of smoke into my face, and I resist the urge to cough, my eyes watering slightly.

"Nobody at the moment," I reply, holding his gaze.

Why does it feel like he's trying to strip me bare, to see right through me?

"Good," Isaac says, his voice low and guarded. "Because what we do here isn't exactly by the law. You understand that, right? You can’t get other people dragged in unless you know you’re set. And you’re not set, Hawk. You’re one foot in and one foot out."

"I get it."

"Do you?" He tilts his head to the side a little and tosses the cigarette butt on the ground, then steps on it with the tip of his black shoe. "You worked for the US fucking government for ten years."

He waits. Waits for something tangible from me. Something that solidifies me as his ally.

"And saw firsthand what this government does." The memories of Afghanistan wash over me, the past of the real man named Dallas Bradley is suddenly intertwined with the past of the non-existent man Cody Smith. And it’s a terrifying feeling. "Sometimes I wonder about all this shit–the laws and the government. I killed people. Over there, overseas. I killed people that simply believed in something different. And I didn’t question it then. I was young and needed a steady paycheck and had only a very specific set of skills I could trade for that check. Now that I’m older I question everything when I see vets begging for food on the side of the road."

Isaac studies me intently, his eyes searching for something within me, some hidden truth perhaps. "You're questioning the system."

"Maybe I am," I admit, my words heavy with vulnerability. "Sometimes it feels like everything's just...broken, you know?"

"Broken or not, we play by our own rules here," Isaac says, his voice softening ever so slightly. "Laws don't mean much when money and power talk louder."

"Guess you're right," I say, taking a final drag of my cigarette before tossing it over the edge of the rooftop. The embers fade into the darkness, a fleeting spark snuffed out by the unforgiving night. "Just wish things could be different."

"Me too," Isaac murmurs, his gaze never leaving mine.

And then he does something–he reaches out and swipes his index finger over my cheek, the one that stings from the cut, collecting some of my blood and rubbing it between his thumb and the tip of the very same index finger that just touched my face.

My breath catches in my throat.

Isaac speaks next, "Would you spill blood for someone who doesn’t give two shits about you or would you spill it for someone who’ll take care of you for the rest of your life like you’re family?"

In that moment, as he glances back at me and our eyes lock again and as I find myself caught in the intensity of Isaac's gaze while the silence stretches between us like an unspoken confession, I feel the pull of some undefinable force tugging at the frayed edges of my heart.

I push the feeling away, bury it deep down where it can't betray me. Because in this world, trust is a luxury neither of us can afford. And as much as I want to give in to the siren call of Isaac's hint of vulnerability, I know that to do so would be to risk everything I've worked for–and that's a price I'm not yet willing to pay.