tossed him a sloppy salute and with a shake of his head, he walked down the street and around the corner to the bar. They entered, and it took a second to adjust to the gloom. Even at this time of day, there were plenty of people sitting around, drinking.
Rhys headed for the booths at the back. Haven attracted way too much attention. She was still in her skirt, and looking gorgeous.
He grabbed her hand, and shot a few glares around.
Then he spotted his contact, Hammon, sipping what was probably watered-down bourbon.
Rhys pushed Haven into the booth, then followed her in.
Hammon was in his late fifties, grizzled, with short, gray hair. He’d spent way too long in the sun in his life, and it showed in his leathery face.
The man eyed Haven. “See you upgraded your sidekick, Norcross. She’s prettier than that hardass Buchanan.”
“Don’t look at her. What have you got for me?”
Hammon shifted. “Heard murmurs of a big sale.”
“Those murmurs say what was for sale?”
The older man leaned his elbows on the table. “Nope. Just that it was worth a lot of money.”
Rhys drummed his fingers on the table. “Names.”
“No, don’t have names.”
Rhys growled. “Why the fuck call me down here to this shithole to tell me nothing, Hammon?”
“Because I got a possible location where they’re storing it.”
Haven gasped and Hammon glanced at her, or rather, at her chest.
Rhys snapped his fingers to regain the man’s attention. “Where?”
“Just down the street. Warehouse that used to be an old factory.” He rattled off an address and sipped his drink. “No one there right now. I was waiting around and saw a bunch of guys leave.”
“I’ll check it out.”
Hammon sniffed. “I don’t want payment, just help when I need it.”
“If this pans out, I’ll owe you.” Rhys rose. He was used to doing unsavory deals with unsavory people, but often it got him the information he needed.
“So, who’s your girl, Norcross?”
Rhys ignored the man and kept walking, towing Haven behind him. He wanted her out of there. And he wanted to punch every scumbag in the face who was looking at her.
This possessive need was new to him. He rarely got possessive over a woman.
Outside, Haven glanced down the street. “So, are we going to check that warehouse out now?”
“No, I’ll check it out. I need to drop you at the Norcross office first.”
“Rhys, no.” She grabbed his hand. “It’s right there. Your—” she hesitated for a second “—friend said the place is empty.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“Just a quick look.” She shot him a pleading look.
“Did you just flutter your eyelashes?”
“Maybe? Did it help?”
She had thick, dark eyelashes. Shit, what the fuck was wrong with him, thinking about her eyelashes?
She fluttered them again. “Please, just a quick look.”
Dammit, he didn’t want to put her in danger. He shouldn’t have brought her in the first place. Still, the risk was low, and she’d be with him. He muttered a curse. “Okay, a very quick look. You do exactly as I say.”
She nodded.
They headed down the street, and soon Rhys saw the warehouse. It was brick that had been painted white long ago, but the paint was now faded and chipped. The roof looked like it was held up by a prayer.
There were no vehicles, or signs of activity.
“This way.” He led her down the side alley between the warehouse and the neighboring building.
He paused by an overflowing dumpster. The windows in the warehouse were beyond dirty, and a few were broken. There were no cameras or other security that he could see.
He climbed up on the Dumpster and looked through. The place was mostly empty, except for some gear in the center covered by drop cloths. He waited, listened.
“Place looks empty.” He leaped down. He continued on until he reached a rusty, metal side door. He pulled out his lock picks.
“You can pick locks?” Haven breathed.
“Yeah.”
“Did you learn that in the military?”
“No.” He and his brothers had gotten themselves into plenty of trouble as teenagers.
“Will you teach me?”
“Hell, no.”
She pouted, but then the lock clicked and the door squeaked open on rusty hinges.
They slipped inside. The place was gloomy and dust hung in the air. It had that scent of emptiness and lack of use about it.
Rhys headed for the pile of items in the center. He lifted one of the cloths and Haven lifted the corner of another.
It was furniture—a wooden table, some dressers, an uncomfortable-looking couch, some small tables with spindly legs.
Haven gasped. “Rhys, this isn’t my area of expertise,