When He's An Alpha (The Olympus Pride #2) - Suzanne Wright Page 0,116

road, but none had stopped. “If Gideon or one of his minions did go looking for Taggart and Clementine, they might have decided not to bother searching the house after seeing that the Charger is gone.”

“Maybe.” Tate exhaled heavily. “I’d like to do another search of the house. I’m not optimistic that we’ll find anything that might point toward Gideon’s location, but it’s worth a shot.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Keeping his promise to Havana that he’d relay any intel he received, Tate sent her a message: Just spoke to River. No good news to report as yet. Tate gave her a brief summary of what the cat told him.

Her reply came quickly: Bummer. Was hoping I could pull out the pom poms later. Like you’ve said lots of times, Gideon can’t hide from us forever. We’re getting closer, so don’t brood. Later.

Tate snorted. Later, babe. And I don’t brood.

She sent him a message with several emojis of a face with a long nose.

Shaking his head, Tate pocketed his phone and took a swig from the soda he’d bought at the deli. He was just about to pass the bakery when the door opened, and five familiar shifters stepped out. Spotting Tate and Luke, the Phoenix Pack wolves turned to face them.

“Oh, hey, how are you guys doing?” asked Taryn, the Alpha female, holding a huge box of baked goods.

“Fine,” replied Tate. He and Luke exchanged greetings with her mate, Trey, their Beta Dante, their Head Enforcer Tao, and Trey’s grandmother, Greta.

“I heard about all the chaos surrounding your woman,” Trey said to Tate. “We’ve been doing our best to locate Gideon York, but he’s proven to be pretty elusive.”

“How’s Havana?” asked Taryn.

“Good, all things considered,” Tate replied.

Giving him a wan smile, Greta patted his arm. “You have my utmost sympathy, boy.”

Tate’s brow creased. The antisocial, maladjusted woman generally wasn’t a person who felt compassion for anyone. “I do?”

Greta rested a hand on his shoulder. “Anyone who’s been lumbered with a devil shifter for a mate deserves sympathy.”

Trey rounded on her. “Greta.”

“Well, it’s true,” the old woman insisted. “They’re a bloodthirsty lot, and they seem to live by the motto that any day is a fine day to kill.”

Tate knew that. He also liked it, as did his cat. Which was the only reason he didn’t whack his brother over the head for nodding in agreement.

Taryn sighed. “Don’t take her bitchiness personally, Tate. She can’t be nice, she sold her soul to Satan himself long ago. I’m guessing she was granted eternal life in return, because we just can’t get her to die. She has the wrinkles, the scaly skin, the fuzzy gray hair, the rickety bones, the musty old lady smell … but her heart still beats.”

Greta scowled. “Oh, you wish me gone, do you?”

“Every time I blow out my birthday candles. Now let’s get going, Bride of Beelzebub.” Taryn herded her toward an SUV that was idling at the curb.

Trey sighed. “Yeah, this is my life. See you around.”

Tate inclined his head while Luke tipped his chin.

“I am not senile!” Greta shouted at Taryn.

“But you are fucking demented. Now get in the SUV, Wrinkles.” Taryn all but shoved the woman into the vehicle. “I did not push you, I was just trying to help.”

Exchanging a smile with his brother, Tate took another drink of his soda. Taryn was crazy enough to be a pallas cat.

It was as he and Luke began their drive to Taggart’s old address that Tate heard his phone beep again. It was a message from Deke: A guy called Dieter just showed up at the center to speak privately with your mate.

Tate felt his nostrils flare. Son of a motherfucker. “We’re making a pit-stop at the center,” he told Luke, glad they were only minutes away from the building.

“Why?” asked Luke. “Everything okay with Havana?”

“Depends just what her ex has to say to her.”

“Her ex? What ex?”

“Funny story.”

Havana was in the middle of straightening out the filing cabinet in Corbin’s office when someone knocked on the already open door. She glanced over her shoulder. Her devil narrowed her eyes.

Looking like a man who’d been kicked in the gut, Dieter slowly walked in, rubbing his nape. “Havana,” he greeted softly.

She closed the metal draw of the cabinet and turned to face him. “Hi,” she said, her voice just as low.

He cast the two enforcers leaning against the wall a brief look. “Can we talk alone?” he asked her.

She studied his expression. He didn’t look as though he’d