4. Dallas

CHAPTER 4

DALLAS

The black counter gleams like a still, dark ocean beneath the harsh white lights of the bathroom, edges kissed by veins of gold in the marble. Opulence screams from every corner. I could understand why some people choose this path. Some are addicted to drugs and some to luxury.

I place the plastic piss cup on the counter with a quiet clink, its hollow echo bouncing off the shiny tiles.

"Let’s get this over with," I mutter to my reflection. My voice is a stranger's, rough and edged like gravel, thanks to the cigarettes they expect Hawk to smoke. I’m not special agent Dallas Bradley, not here, not now. Here, I’m Hawk, with a past that's fabricated and a future that hinges on deceit.

And hawks soar above the darkness, sharp-eyed and deadly.

My hands are steady as I reach out for the faucet but nerves, anticipation, the relentless drive—it all stirs within me, a tempest that doesn't touch my features.

The mission is clear: infiltrate, gather intel, and dismantle Isaac's kingdom piece by bloody piece.

I've trained for this, lived countless lives in shadowed corners of society, where men like Isaac and his Hellhounds reign with iron fists wrapped in velvet gloves, where they ruin innocent lives. The weight of what I do—the lies, the risks—never gets lighter. There's a gravity to this work, an anchor that both grounds me and drags me down. And sometimes, when I start a new mission, this gravity is all screwed up.

Like right now.

And then I realize I'm nervous for no reason.

I splash some cold water on my face, and the shock of it is a brief reprieve from the sudden stifling tension. When I glance up at my reflection, I see rivulets trace down my jawline, drawing paths over the rough stubble I've grown. Cody Smith aka Hawk looms back at me, an interloper in this dark world with eyes the color of a storm-ravaged sea. His high cheekbones hint at his native roots, while the rest of him is a blend, a fusion wrought in the crucible of two vastly different worlds. There's fierceness there, sculpted by necessity, by a life spent walking the fine line between lawman and outlaw.

I put my palm under the cold stream and splash more water on my face as if trying to remind myself that these features… they are not really Cody's. They are mine. They belong to Dallas Bradley. He's just loaning them to Cody.

Then, suddenly, the chill of metal presses against the nape of my neck.

"You move, you die, asshole," a voice hisses. Raw, dark, and commanding whisper coiling around my chest.

My world constricts to the point of a gun.

Fear, sharp and acrid, floods my senses, and a bead of sweat mingles with the water on my brow. It’s a delicate dance now, each breath measured, each flicker of thought racing like a caged animal seeking escape. The gun is an icy promise, a lover's caress that speaks only of finality. My fingers twitch, yearning for the weapon they cannot reach, muscles tensed and ready, though I dare not make a move.

Have I been compromised already?

"Who the fuck are you?" the man asks. "This is the staff’s bathroom."

The cold voice slices through the fog of adrenaline and water dripping into my eyes. I'm staring dumbly into the sink, the faucet still open. I can't see how old he is or what he's wearing because of the angle my head is bent. And I'm not stupid enough to do what he explicitly told me not—move.

"Name's Hawk," I say steadily despite the ice in my veins. "I'm here for a job interview. The other john's busted up. Jeremy sent me here to do the piss test." I nod toward the plastic cup on the marble counter, waiting to be filled with proof of my supposed allegiance—or at least my sobriety.

The cold metal presses harder against my neck, a silent assertion of dominance.

I don't need to see his face to know he means business. I can sense it in his voice, the authority and the madness. And those are dangerous qualities, especially when they go together.

The silence stretches between us as I listen for any sign of movement from the man behind me. I hear nothing but I do feel his breath on my skin, hot and fast, slipping under the collar of my dress shirt and spreading across my upper back and turning into a shiver that runs down my spine.

"Listen carefully," the man standing behind me continues, the gun's kiss a ghost now as it withdraws from my neck just enough for me to understand he still holds all the power. "You tell someone about this, you bleed out. We clear?"

"Crystal," I say, each word a tightrope walk over an abyss.

"Good." He slowly steps back, the dark presence behind me fading.

He moves away then and toward the door, a whisper of danger that flirts with my senses. I can't see him. My eyes are still on the sink and I don't dare to look up.

There's a silence that follows, a loaded chamber where the next move could be the last. Then, footsteps, retreating yet still commanding every ounce of my attention. He's leaving, but the weight of his gaze lingers, a shackle I can't see but feel all too acutely.

I wait until the door clicks shut, until the absence of his aura allows the tension to pour out of my limbs.

Dallas Bradley may have never seen the face of the man who just held him at gunpoint but he remembers his voice very well.