When He's an Alpha (The Olympus Pride 2)

Tate’s heart jumped in his chest. “Luke!”

“I’m good,” his brother called back. “Vernon, however, is not.” Luke jogged down the stairs just as Vinnie, Alex, and Farrell raced into the house. “He and I had something of a struggle,” Luke went on. “I didn’t mean for the shot to be fatal, but he twisted at the last second. The bullet sank into his chest. He’s a goner.”

“At least we have this guy,” said Alex, helping Tate bind an unconscious Taggart with zip ties. Meanwhile, the females shifted back to their human forms and returned to the SUV without a word.

Holding two duffels, Luke looked at Tate, his eyes smiling. “So … your mate called it. They’re cheetahs.”

Tate threw him a dark look. “It would seem so. On another note … I need to call some enforcers here to get rid of Vernon’s body. One of them can also drive the Charger somewhere to help it look like the pair bailed.” Once Tate had made the call, he turned to his Head Enforcer. “Farrell, I want you to stay local in your avian form just in case Gideon or some of his men turn up here looking for Taggart and Clementine. If they do, follow them and then report their location back to me.”

Farrell nodded. “No problem.”

After dumping Taggart in the trunk of the SUV, the men piled into the vehicle. They all turned to look at the three loners sitting on the rear passenger row. The females stared right back at them, utterly composed and completely casual … like they’d been sitting there all along patiently waiting for the men to return.

Tate twisted his mouth. “All right.” He faced forward and nodded at Luke, who then switched on the ignition.

“Told you they were cheetahs,” said Havana.

Tate felt his lips thin. He didn’t respond. But he did shoot his brother a scowl for chuckling like a fucking loon.

“You can’t expect me to remain quiet and leave this to you and Alex,” said Havana as they all stood outside the room within which their captive was being held. No one worried that he’d try to escape—they’d injected him with a serum that temporarily suppressed shifting.

“I wouldn’t expect that of you, given that he fired the bullets that almost killed you,” Tate assured her. He’d want to have his say, in her position. “I’m just saying that Alex and I will be leading the interrogation. I’m aware that you have skills in this area, though I have no idea where those skills come from.” He intended to find out at some point. “Feel free to contribute. My father and Luke will do the same.”

Havana, Aspen, and Bailey shared an odd look he couldn’t quite decipher. Then Havana nodded and said, “Okay.”

Tate narrowed his eyes. Because he was beginning to learn that her “okays” could be translated into, “You do your thing; I’ll do mine.” He sighed. “Babe—”

“No, I get that it’s better for Taggart to have two people at most to focus on,” said Havana. “I’ll just contribute, like you said.”

Tate sensed that she meant it. But he got the feeling that her contributions wouldn’t be a mere question or two.

Luke materialized beside him. “Found this in the photo gallery on the guy’s cell phone,” he said, having earlier used Taggart’s thumbprint to unlock the device while the cheetah was unconscious. “There’s plenty more of them. They could prove useful.”

“They could indeed.” Tate took the cell. “Any exchange of text messages or emails between him and Gideon?”

“No,” replied Luke. “But Taggart received calls from someone who could quite possibly be Gideon—all were made through a spoofing site. You can tell because the number of the caller comes up as gray rather than the clickable blue. Anyway, the most recent call was made last night.”

So it could very well have been Gideon instructing Taggart to make a second attempt on Havana’s life. “Now that he’s conscious, let’s go get some answers.”

Tate entered the small box room first. The others slowly followed him inside. It was once Damian’s room, but the kid now stayed in Tate’s old bedroom. The walls had once been blue and covered in posters and decals. Now the walls were a plain white—no pictures, no posters, no mirrors, nothing. There was no furniture aside from two chairs, one of which Taggart was bound to, his eyes wide, the tendons in his neck bulging.

Whereas the room once smelled of Damian, dirty laundry, and teenage boy, it now reeked of cheetah and fear. The male’s heartbeat thudded so loud and hard, it was a wonder the organ didn’t burst out of his chest.

Tate’s cat let out a pleased growl, liking that their captive was afraid. He should be. The cat had felt fear when he thought he might lose Havana. Now it was this asshole’s turn.