Remy (Golden Glades Henchmen MC 4)

At least I could maybe get a little sleep at night for a change.

I’d been barely able to catch an hour or two for a week, since I’d first heard about the dog fighting ring from some asshole having an actual phone conversation about it at my work one day.

From there, it had been a mission for me.

I was eating, breathing, and not sleeping about the whole operation since.

I knew when the shop opened and closed, how many people worked there, what they looked like, what cars they drove, which direction the cameras pointed in.

I even knew how many people to expect to be there on a fight night—which took place twice a week.

Was it risky?

Oh, hell yes.

Was I incredibly brave?

Ah, hell no, actually.

Hence the sweating. And not being able to keep any food down for the past twenty-four hours. And, you know, the way my whole body felt like it was trembling as I made my way into the built-up lower level in my quietest shoes.

Yes, I’d tried all of them on to test out their quietness.

I guess I figured it would be nearly soundless inside.

Which was pretty stupid of me, in hindsight.

Of course it would be loud. Lots of dogs stress-barking and whimpering and scratching to get out of their cramped little cages.

The cages was where I kind of screwed up.

I hadn’t anticipated them being dead-bolted shut.

As we already established, I was a rookie criminal. I knew how to open a BILCO door without it screaming—a plan that involved a walk-by WD-40 spraying.

And, yeah, that was as far as I had gotten in my new criminal lifestyle journey.

So I knew nothing about opening a lock.

After a frustrating attempt, I heard footsteps coming toward the back of the jewelry store above, and I knew enough about the layout to know that the back room was where the stairs were that led downstairs.

I was running out of time.

“I’m sorry. I’m so so so so sorry,” I told the dog whose face was inches from mine with the lock that refused to budge.

Turning, I saw a dog I had missed when I’d run in.

A gray bully with a broad head and sad gray eyes stuck in a corner with a chain biting into her neck, the other end of it clipped to a hook in the wall.

I didn’t stop to think.

I just ran over, yanked off the chain, scooped her up, and ran like my freaking ass was on fire.

Yes, ass.

Sure, hair was the more common vernacular.

But I was pretty sure my ass being on fire would be even more startling.