19. Dallas

CHAPTER 19

DALLAS

Several days bleed into each other like spilled paints of various colors since the ambush and that night—the one where alcohol betrayed Isaac Thoreau and let his secret slip from his lips. Or rather pushed his lips to test-ride mine.

Now, the ghost of that kiss lingers like a shadow I can't shake off, haunting my thoughts even in daylight. Special Agent Dallas Bradley is no longer sure he’s got his shit figured out because he enjoyed the feel of Isaac Thoreau's tongue in his mouth just as much as someone like Hawk would.

And that’s a problem.

Because Dallas Bradley likes to do things by the book and being intimate with a target isn’t going to be anywhere in that proverbial book.

Some nights, when Cody "Hawk" Smith is prowling the neon-lit corridors of Purgatory, Isaac Thoreau is watching him from afar with those smoldering eyes. He said he didn’t mean it but his gaze tells another story.

And that’s a problem number two.

Because the insatiable curiosity in me refuses to be tamed.

On work nights, I crash at the hotel per Isaac’s request, restlessly waiting for something to happen. The king-sized bed's unfamiliarity is a cold reminder of my double life.

Nights off, and I'm a ghost driving back to an empty apartment, navigating streets packed with tourists.

The sun already high in the sky has barely cracked open the sky when a knock shivers through my hotel door. I’m on my feet before my brain even processes the sound, muscle memory or paranoia—take your pick. My trusty Glock is under the pillow next to me. I grab it and pad toward the door, keeping the weapon hidden behind my back.

When I swing the door open, Isaac stands there. Again. He's all dark hair and extra-rich chocolate eyes framed by long lashes. A storm dressed as a man. Black slacks, white shirt, wrist wrapped with a Rolex.

"Need you to come with me," he says, voice low, like a secret being passed between us.

"Where to?" I ask.

"You'll see." His lips twitch with a small smirk, something I’ve never seen him do. Actually, our visit to Shonda Murphey aside, I’ve hardly ever seen him show any emotion except for controlled aggression. But now his poker face cracks a little to reveal the real man behind the mask.

"I gotta shower," I supply, pushing back the strands of hair that fell into my face with my hand.

"Rough shift at the club last night?" he asks, pinching one eyebrow as his gaze drops to the Glock I’m holding at my thigh.

"Something like that."

"I’ll wait in the parking lot," Isaac declares. "Half an hour enough?"

I nod. "That’ll do."

Thirty minutes later, I’m in the parking lot. Time is irrelevant, but promises are chains. I find myself slipping into Hawk with ease that frightens me more than any gun to my head could when I climb into an SUV Isaac is driving.

There are two paper cups with coffee in the cupholder and he motions at one.

I take him up on his offer. Yesterday was a real clusterfuck at Purgatory and my body is hurting. I need fuel as much as I need air right now.

Isaac’s SUV eats the road beneath us while we weave through the streets. The landscape outside is a blur as we make for the edge of the city.

We hardly talk. Isaac has music on. Something vintage. Could be from the sixties. His index finger is tapping over the steering wheel along with the beat and I can’t bring myself to break this spell, to yank him out from this little bubble of his. So I remain mostly quiet unless he asks me a question first.

Eventually, when the skyscrapers of the Strip are left long behind, we pull up to the car dealership.

"Let's go check out a few rides," Isaac says, stepping out into the warm Vegas air.

So, he’s buying a car…

And he needs my help why?

But I don’t voice any of these thoughts as I follow him into the lot.

The gleam of polished chrome and the scent of new leather pull me into the moment, a stark contrast to the usual grime, sweat, and gunmetal of my days. Isaac leads the way like a kid in a candy shop, only these treats have horsepower and come with a hefty price tag.

"Pick one," he says, a challenge in his tone that brooks no argument.

I shrug, playing it cool. "Dealer's choice." But inside, I'm a live wire, every sense attuned to the danger of joy riding with a man who's both my mark and an enigma that's getting harder to solve.

He points to a line-up of cars, a buffet of speed and luxury. We start with a sedan, too sleek, too civilized. Then a sports car that's a bit too on-the-nose for guys like Hawk or Isaac. I’m the one taking them around the block, wondering if Isaac is too lazy for this type of activity.

When we get to the latest GT model, all black and growling like a caged beast begging for release, something clicks the moment we slide into those leather seats. It's not just a car; it's freedom on four wheels.

"Look how smooth she rides," Isaac says, his voice a low rumble that matches the engine's purr. His face is turned my way, his eyes on me like a light stroke of a paintbrush on my skin.

I suppress the shiver that runs through me and nod in agreement, fingers coiled tight around the steering wheel.

We roll through the streets around the dealership, the Mustang responding to my touch with the precision of a lover. I smile under my nose as I direct the car, feeling its power thrum through me. Cover or not, I appreciate good cars.

Beside me, Isaac is a study in relaxation, his posture slouched, legs spread wide in the confines of the passenger seat.

His hair is a tousled mess from the wind whipping through the open windows, giving him an air of reckless abandon that's just too infectious.

When he laughs softly at the exhilaration of the drive, it's a sound that's free and untethered, and it does strange things to my insides. His smile is a rare thing, genuine and unguarded, lighting up his face in a way that makes him look almost... innocent.

It's disarming—seeing this side of him.

"Feels good, doesn't it, Hawk?" Isaac says, turning that smile on me like a weapon I have no defense against.

"Better than good," I admit, because lying is pointless when the truth is written all over my face. "I’ve driven some V8s in the past, but this one is a beauty."

As we speed down the road, everything else fades away and all that remains is the electrifying sensation of velocity and adrenaline and an unexpected sense of unity between us.

In this bubble of roaring engines and distorted scenery, Isaac isn't the leader of a criminal empire, and I'm not a federal agent with a duty that weighs like a millstone around my neck.

But moments are just that—fleeting, ephemeral. And even as I relish the rush, I know that soon this will end. Soon the adrenaline will wear out and logic will take its place.

We pull back into the dealership's lot, the Mustang's engine purring down to a soft growl as I cut the ignition. The silence that follows is heavy, almost sacred, like the first minutes after a storm when the world's still holding its breath.

We climb out from the GT and stroll past the row of other sedans with their shiny hoods winking at us invitingly. Isaac turns to me, his eyes catching flecks of sunlight, and asks casually, "So, which one you like best?"

I glance back at the sleek black beast we just tamed together, exhaling slowly, trying not to let the words choke me. "The last one," I say, my voice more certain than I feel. "Most definitely."

Isaac's gaze follows mine, a half-smile playing on his lips as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking, as if he could see the way my pulse raced with every rev of that engine.

"Let’s find the salesman." Isaac jerks his chin toward the office building.

"We'll take the GT," Isaac declares once the fella who’s been helping us rushes outside. Isaac thumbs back toward the Mustang with a nonchalance that speaks of someone used to getting what they want. There's no discussion, no haggling; just the expectation of obedience.

I should feel nothing. This isn't my world, these aren't my choices. I'm here to observe, to report, to take down. But as Isaac finalizes the deal with a firm handshake and the flash of a platinum card, something twists inside me—envy, longing, or maybe it's just the bitter taste of a life I can never truly own.

The final scrawl of a pen, the soft click of a closing folder, and we're stepping out into the sun-soaked parking lot with Isaac holding the key fob in the curl of his palm.

I squint against the light, my head still echoing with numbers and terms I won't remember.

"Hopefully, I could help," I say, rubbing the back of my neck. "I don’t know if I’m much of a car buff…"

"But you like it though?" Isaac asks, stepping into my personal space.

"It’s a great ride."

"Good." He reaches out to take my hand and places the key fob into my palm. "Because it’s yours."

I'm hit with a wave of disbelief, reality skidding sideways for a second like tires on ice during blizzard. "No, Isaac, I can't—" The refusal dies on my lips. This isn't how things are done, not in his world.

"Consider it a thanks. For saving my life." His words are granite, filled with unuttered rules of debts and honor.

It's a gift Dallas should decline, but the weight of the keys feels right, an unexpected fit. And Hawk would accept the car.

I close my fingers around the fob. "Thank you," I manage, the words scraped from somewhere deep, somewhere that doesn't belong to Special Agent Dallas Bradley. Or maybe it does.

"You’re welcome."

We stand like this under a ruthless Nevada sun, staring at each other for a few heartbeats, something happening between us.

"You hungry?" Isaac finally asks.

"Could eat," I admit, following, the tension slipping from my shoulders one coil at a time.

"There’s a great place down the street," he throws over his shoulder, moving toward the SUV and typing something on his cell phone. "Meet me there. Sending you the address."

"Never tried a burrito that could double as a dumbbell?" I comment, eyeing the hefty roll on Isaac's plate. The scent of spices and seared meat blend with the diner's warmth, a cozy contradiction to the industrial chaos of the outside.

Isaac chuckles, his fork poised like a weapon over his rice. "Better than lifting weights at the gym. At least you get to eat the evidence of your workout."

"True," I concede, biting into my own less threatening taco. "But if I start bench pressing my lunch, take me out back and put me out of my misery."

"Deal," he says, his grin sharp and quick, gone as fast as it came.

"How'd you find this place?" I glance around the snug space, noting the generations of family photos crowding the walls, the worn but clean counter that's seen more years than either of us.

Isaac is quiet for a long moment, perhaps even too long for someone to provide an answer to a simple question.

Lastly, he speaks with a shrug. "Accident." He spears a chunk of avocado. "Took a wrong turn one night, ended up here." Pause. "Best wrong turn of my life."

The door to the back of the restaurant swings open, and a Hispanic woman weaves her way between the tables toward us. She’s in her mid-fifties, small and with a huge smile. There's a history in her steps, a story in every line etched onto her face. She smiles at Isaac when she’s next to our table and I can see the genuine affection in her eyes.

"How’s the food, mijo?" she asks Isaac, her voice soft, laced with a thick accent, carrying the strength of someone who's endured.

"Delicious as always, Se?ora Vargas," Isaac replies, the corners of his mouth lifting in a rare unguarded smile. "If you were a few years younger, I’d steal you from your husband and marry you for your food alone."

"Gracias, mijo." She pats his shoulder, turning her smile to me. "And you, young man?"

"Best Mexican food I've had in a long time," I tell her, and it's no lie. This is not one of those Mexican food places for Americans. This is deeply authentic. The flavors are a revelation.

Senora Vargas beams, pride lighting up her wrinkled face. "I'm glad to hear that."

"Everything okay here?" Isaac asks, his gaze communicating something beyond those words when he looks at the woman. The mood suddenly shifts. Becomes serious. Watching them, I catch a glimpse of something beneath Isaac's surface—something that doesn't square with the hard edges and cold decisions I know him for. It's a brief flicker, a spark before being snuffed out by the ever-present weight of his world.

The woman glances at me first before answering his question but he just offers a slight tip of the chin.

"Everything okay, mijo," she whispers finally. "Thank you."

"Good."

The mood changes again when Se?ora Vargas says in a lighter tone, "You boys enjoy, eh? If you need anything, just let me or Rodrigo know."

We both nod and continue eating as she shuffles back to her domain behind the counter.

"She and her husband own this place," Isaac explains when we’re alone.

"It wasn’t really an accident, was it?" I venture carefully.

"It was," Isaac insists. "But what happened after wasn’t."

I take a wild guess. "Some bozos were pulling their strings, bothering the couple?"

"Yep. But we took care of it."

"I take it those guys don’t come here anymore?"

"Something like that," Isaac murmurs, his focus on the remnants of salsa on his plate. "People like them shouldn't have to deal with that kind of bullshit." He looks up at me. "Do you know why people from the south of the border come to this country? They come because their own government doesn’t give a shit about them. They get slaughtered in the crossfire between the cartels. They are here to make a life for themselves and to work."

I nod, absorbing this sliver of information, this unexpected shade of gray amid the black and white of my mission. It's a complication, a wrinkle in the fabric of what I thought I knew about Isaac Thoreau. I push the thought aside, concentrating on the meal, but it clings stubbornly, demanding attention I can't afford to give.

For a while, we are simply surrounded by the clink of forks against plates, punctuated by the sizzle from the kitchen.

"Didn't take you for the neighborhood watch type," I say cautiously, hoping Isaac is in the mood to actually tell me something useful, something I could take to Nicole. So far, he has given me a new car and treated me to a meal today. I also learned that he understands the struggles of small immigrant-owned businesses.

"Those people, they work hard," he replies. "They make food with their own hands, pour their soul into every dish." His voice is soft, almost reverent. "They don't need some thugs breathing down their neck for protection money. My guys can do that for free."

My chuckle is a defense mechanism, a way to deflect the dissonance stirring within me. "Robin Hood style, huh?"

"Life's too short to be one-dimensional," he says, and for a moment, his gaze meets mine, an unguarded spark before the armor slides back into place.

I'm wading through murky waters here, senses straining to find footing where none exists. Isaac Thoreau, the man who commands respect through whispers and gunfire, also stands as a guardian to those in need.

"Guess we all play hero in someone's story," I mutter.

"Maybe." Isaac's reply is noncommittal.

Despite the food being amazing, my appetite wanes. I’m swamped by the revelation that the line between right and wrong in Isaac's world isn't just blurred—it's been erased and redrawn in shades of gray I can't quite comprehend. My mission is clear-cut; gather evidence, build a case. But the man sitting across from me defies the simplicity of law and order.

"Complicated times," I say, more to myself than to him.

"Nothing worth doing is ever simple, Hawk." Isaac wipes his mouth with a napkin, the gesture meticulous.

A knot forms in my stomach, not from the food, which is—I’ll stress again—exceptional, but from the tangled web of loyalties and lies I've woven around myself. The deeper I delve into Isaac's domain, the more the lines of my own identity blur, smudging like charcoal on paper.

Isaac's phone rings and the calm of our meal is shattered. For a second I find myself wishing he didn’t answer but he does.

He listens, his expression tightening with every word as the person speaks on the other end of that call. I can't hear the details, but I know it's not happy news—the anxiety is suddenly written all over Isaac's face.

"We gotta go," he says, putting the phone away. The urgency in his voice turns our leisurely lunch into a half-eaten memory.

"What’s going on?" I ask, already pushing back my chair while Isaac is fumbling with his wallet.

"Possible lead on the ambush," he says.

I glance at the table as we stand to leave. A crisp hundred-dollar bill lies there, an extravagant tip that screams both generosity and haste. Isaac doesn’t look back as we stride out, leaving the scent of spices and warmth behind us.

"We take your car," he instructs as we march outside, then adds when we’re at the door, "Let me just tell Rosa that I'll be back for my ride later." Isaac turns around and weaves past the tiny tables and toward the kitchen where I glimpse him talking to Se?ora Vargas. I don’t wait for him. Whatever is going on seems urgent. I rush over to my brand-new Stang to get the engine going while Isaac handles his business with the restaurant owner.

Two minutes later, he slides into the passenger seat, the muscles in his jaw working overtime. He doesn’t speak, and neither do I. There are times when words are just noise, and this is one of them.

We shoot out of the parking lot, leaving nothing but rubber and a cloud of questions in our wake.

We’re somewhere outside the city's concrete embrace. Anxiety clings to my skin like a second layer as I stand in the corner of the warehouse, watching Jeremy and Isaac exchanging terse whispers.

I hear Jeremy ask, "Why did you bring him here?" and Isaac quickly shutting him down.

In front of them is a man tied to a chair, head lolled forward, his breaths shallow and ragged.

"Was expecting someone else," Isaac mutters, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows and exposing vein-ridden forearms. His voice is unhappy and carries an edge sharper than a knife.

"Razor's a ghost," Jeremy grinds out the words through clenched teeth. "We got what we got."

Isaac's jaw clenches, a subtle tell I've learned means he’s upset. He moves closer to the bound figure. The man's eyes flicker open, meeting Isaac's gaze with the kind of resignation you see in animals who know they're about to be put down.

"You know who I am?" Isaac asks, voice abnormally calm.

"Blade," the man chokes out.

"Talk," Isaac demands, his tone leaving no room for anything but compliance.

The man’s eyes dart to Jeremy, but he finds no mercy there. Then to me. But I can’t offer anything either. My hands are tied so to speak.

Jeremy shifts beside his boss, the scar on his cheek pulling tight—a grim slash of history on his angry face. He's a storm cloud in human form, bristling with the promise of violence yet to come.

Some of it is probably reserved for me, like marrow awaiting liberation from bone when permission from Isaac sets Jeremy free. I know it won’t happen if I play my cards right. But you can never be too careful.

"Don’t make him repeat himself," Jeremy warns.

"Razor... I ain’t got no line on him," the man in the chair says. "But I heard Tucci’s been jawing with Razor. Recently."

"About what?" Isaac presses, his patience fraying like a rope at its end.

"How the hell would I know?"

Jeremy steps toward the chair and pulls out a hunting knife. "Does that jog your memory, fucktard?"

There’s a long pause stretching across the warehouse, filling its corners. My heartbeat is suddenly fast and uneven and pounding in my ears like a warning siren.

"Word is, Tucci's mixin' it up with some foreign hotshots," the man in the chair blurts out. "Doing business behind Morelli's back."

"And how does Razor factor into all of this?" Isaac asks.

"I don’t know, man. I swear. I’m telling you the truth."

Another pause.

"Foreigners?" Isaac finally decides to follow the Tucci trail. "What kind of business?"

"Girls. Young ones. Shippin' 'em. Across the ocean or flying on private birds. That's the rumor. All I know is those guys are bad news. They are dangerous and got people in high places…And some say—" he stops talking, choking on his own breath, his eyes swinging between Isaac and Jeremy as if trying to figure out who’s the lesser evil.

"What. Do. They. Say?" Jeremy brings his hunting knife into the game again, waving it in front of the man’s face. "They say Tucci’s got it out for Thoreau and he ain’t waiting on Morelli to give him a go."

Isaac falls silent, then, with a swift pivot on his heel, he starts walking toward the exit. Jeremy moves in tow, like a shadow.

Once they reach the cold metal door bronzed by years of use, Isaac turns his head in my direction.

His eyes are fathomless. There's something wild in them that elicits both fear and intrigue from my gut. He offers me nothing more than a curt nod of his chin—a wordless demand.

I obediently follow them outside while the man in the chair is yelling at the top of his lungs, wanting to know if we can let him go.

Outside, the air feels like a hot slap, little contrast to the suffocating atmosphere inside the warehouse. Isaac strides ahead, perhaps a couple of dozen steps, his frustration leaving ripples in the silence. I follow, drawn by the invisible tether of his command, ignoring Jeremy’s presence.

Isaac halts to a stop and rakes both hands through his hair, then shifts his attention to Jeremy. "You keep catching the small fish. He’s not the one we wanted."

"I know, man. But he’s the only one we could find."

Isaac spins on his heels again, the wind whipping at his white shirt.

"We could still use him," Jeremy hisses out. "Get to this Razor fucker through Tucci."

"I don’t like it."

"Think Tucci called the hit?"

"If what that asshole said is true and Tucci has some kind of backup and working without Morelli’s permission, then yes, we have a fucking problem."

This lead is a thread we can pull, unraveling Tucci's scheme—if we dare tug hard enough. But the decision isn’t mine to make, it’s Isaac’s.

His profile is etched against the harsh sun, a mix of contained fury and seething discontent.

"Let’s pay Tucci a visit," Isaac finally declares.

"You sure that's smart?" Jeremy protests. "Uncle's gonna flip if we start rattling Tucci's cage without a green light. He’s already unhappy we’re mixed up with the Italians."

"Since when do I need permission to protect what's mine?" His eyes flash with an intensity that could ignite the very air between them. It's a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at Jeremy's feet.

I watch from a few paces back, feeling like an intruder on a private war. The tension between them is a tangible entity that feeds on doubt and defiance. Jeremy clenches his jaw, a muscle working furiously under scarred skin. He knows better than to push Isaac, but loyalty is a vise grip around his reason.

"Fine," he grinds out. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

"Never do," Isaac replies. He looks at me, those smoldering eyes locking onto mine. "Hawk, you're coming."

"Okay," I agree without hesitation. This is more than just gang politics now. This is something big.

"We don’t need him, Blade." Jeremy gives me an evil side-eye.

"He’s coming," Isaac repeats calmly.

The three of us are quiet then and time seems to stand still while the silence stretches thin as we exchange tense glances.