Proof of Life (The Potentate of Atlanta #4) - Hailey Edwards Page 0,29
hair. “And not only because of your questionable judgment when it comes to the OPA’s expense account. It’s my job to tell you the hard truths.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Have you seen your dad yet?”
“Nope.”
“Are you going to visit with him?”
“We have to make an appearance together at some point.” I bet he was looking forward to it as much as me. “Even if it’s in the lobby.”
For a nice change, Bishop let the topic drop before I ripped it out of his hands and stomped on it.
“Do you sense that?” He kept his head forward and his stride even. “It’s like…”
Skin crawling up my spine, I sensed the presence a heartbeat later. “We’re being watched.”
“Milo isn’t responding.” Bishop checked his phone. “He may be laying low.”
Even a dimmed screen doubled as a beacon for trouble on a dark street. He might not be able to answer without giving away his location.
“Maybe.” It was a better alternative. “We’ll give him five minutes, but then we’re hunting him down.”
“Deal.” Bishop shook his head with a grin. “Before long, the team will be meeting at HQ face-to-face.”
“I don’t want to violate their privacy.” I chewed on my bottom lip. “I hope they understand that.”
“We have precautions in place,” he reminded me. “At the end of the day, they know what they signed up for, and they’re aware the OPA will take any measures necessary to protect them, even at the cost of their anonymity.”
As it happened, we didn’t need the five minutes. Within three, the sensation evolved into the familiar click-clack of claws on asphalt. I let myself believe, for a second or two, that it was Midas come to check up on me. But he had never given me the heebie-jeebies, even there at the start, when I was convinced he would kill me the second he learned my true identity.
The phone in Bishop’s hand buzzed like an angry wasp, and Milo’s name flashed onscreen, but Bishop couldn’t afford to divide his attention with a threat closing in on us.
“Hadley Whitaker,” a male voice boomed. “Beta of the Atlanta Gwyllgi Pack.”
A knot formed in the vicinity of my stomach and clenched until my abs trembled. “That’s me.”
A man stepped into the streetlight, flanked by two others and a mangy, underfed gwyllgi on all fours.
“I’m Lon Burke, Alpha of the Knoxville gwyllgi pack.”
Of average height, the man was wide and thick with muscle. Salt-and-pepper hair hung to his shoulders, and his neat beard had been trimmed close. He wore jeans, a Henley, and a pair of boots.
The guy had seriously gotten himself all done up to do this. He wasn’t even wearing fighting clothes.
“I challenge you for the rank of beta in the Atlanta gwyllgi pack.”
The cadence of his speech told me this was formal, and he had brought his own witnesses.
Under my breath, careful not to take my eyes off the guy, I asked Bishop, “Can he do this?”
“It’s highly unorthodox, but you are Midas’s mate. The pack will honor the outcome.”
“Frakking hell.”
“Will you fight?” The challenger shoved his hands into his pockets. “Or will you forfeit?”
“Midas is going to kick your ass for this later,” I warned him. “Then Tisdale will stomp on what’s left.”
“I’ll take my chances,” he said in a friendly voice. “They’re an honorable bunch. They won’t be happy for me to step into the prince’s role, but they’ll have to crown me all the same.”
There was no literal crown, and if there was, Tisdale would beat him to death with it first.
“Hurry this along.” Bishop took a healthy step back. “Kick his ass, kid, then we need to get back to work.”
“We’re trying to figure out who blew up two-thirds of your pack, not that you seem to care.”
“What pack?” Lon angled his head to one side. “There are a dozen left, maybe, here and at home.”
“And what happens to them if you win?”
An easy shrug rolled through his shoulders. “They go their way, and I go mine.”
“Why kill Claudia if her position was only a steppingstone to the one you actually wanted?”
“We had old scores to settle.” A smile kicked up one side of his mouth. “I’ll make this quick.”
No regret. No grief. No…nothing.
Even if Midas had never taken me to the den, even if I had never met his pack, never met Samzilla, I would gnaw off my own arm before I let this guy spread his corruption through a healthy, vibrant pack.
Hands in my pockets, mocking his posture, I asked, “Rules?”