Chapter Thirty-Seven
Luke
By the time we’re back within the Denver city limits, Newman Phillips has left the stadium and gone to his luxury home on Polo Club Lane. We arrive at a security gate that Blake opens remotely for us. We travel a long circle drive with a bunch of sharply cut bushes to part at the foot of a long stairwell. Ana and I both have our weapons easily accessible as we ring the bell. No one answers. We ring again.
My phone rings with Blake’s number and I answer on speaker. “You’re sure he’s here?”
“He’s there, but there’s a weird as fuck formation to his security feed. I have a bad feeling about this. Go in.”
“Happy to please, boss,” I say, disconnecting and scanning the property. “Let’s look for a back entrance.”
Ana nods, we draw our weapons, and split up. I go left. She goes right. We come together at the rear garage where the door is open.
“Damn it,” Ana murmurs, because we both know what we’re about to find.
We ease forward into the garage, Ana on the passenger side, me on the driver’s side. “Fuck,” I murmur.
Newman’s brains are splattered all over the window. He’s dead.
Ana joins me, takes one look, and groans. “Damn it.” But she also immediately kicks into agent mode, lifting her chin toward the house. “Let’s hope the asshole who did this is still here. Someone needs to talk to us.”
Fifteen minutes later, Blake takes over the law enforcement side of things and tells us to get the hell out of the line of fire. Once Ana and I are on the road, I make an executive decision. “They’re coming for us, baby. We need to go where we have the best chance of winning.”
“The Ranch,” she says.
“Yes. The Ranch. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“I’ll have Savage and Adam meet us there.”
“And Parker?” she queries.
“Right. And Parker.”
She laughs. “You really turned sour on him.”
“He’s alive,” I say. “If I’d soured on him, and he was involved in all of this, he’d be dead.”