Blood Assassin (The Sentinels #2)(97)

He scowled with impatience. “What are you waiting for?”

“Kaede is scouting the interior of the building to make sure there are no hidden surprises.”

A reasonable precaution, but Fane was in no mood to be reasonable.

“How long can it take?” he snapped.

“I prefer that he’s thorough, not fast.”

Fane sent the assassin an irritated glare. “I can be both.

“We’re trying to be discreet,” Bas muttered.

“I can be discreet.”

The bronze eyes widened at his simple claim. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

Fane met the mocking disbelief with a stoic expression. He often used his menacing appearance to intimidate others. He preferred to avoid actual confrontation whenever possible. But he was a trained Sentinel who could become virtually invisible when he needed to fly beneath the radar.

“I could get all the info we need without anyone knowing I was there.”

Bas’s lips twisted at his arrogant confidence, but before he could retort, there was a soft beep from Bas’s phone.

“That’s Kaede’s signal,” Bas muttered, returning the phone to his pocket and nodding toward the far side of the warehouse. “We’ll go through the north door.”

The assassin whirled around to head toward the back of the building they were standing beside. The crumbling mechanic’s garage would shield them from the guards out front.

Fane turned, grasping Serra by the shoulders. “Serra—”

“Don’t start,” she warned, going on tiptoe to place an all too brief kiss on his lips before she was hurrying to follow Bas.

For a minute Fane watched her retreat, his gaze locked on her slender body dressed in casual jeans and a black sweater. Her raven hair was pulled into a sensible braid and she wore a pair of flat running shoes.

He grimaced, a jagged pain ripping through him.

Serra wasn’t meant to be slinking through dark, filthy streets with a lethal toxin pumping through her bloodstream.

She was meant to be safely hidden behind the walls of Valhalla, dressed in leather pants and halter tops that made men forget to breathe when she sashayed past in three-inch heels. That was why he’d fought so hard to deny his attraction to her.

His world was never safe. Now he had to accept that no place was entirely without risk.

The only true way to keep her safe was to be at her side.

Always.

Pulling his handgun from the holster strapped over his chest, Fane swiftly caught up with Bas and Serra. Together they moved in silence, pausing as they reached the edge of the garage.

Bas glanced up, waiting for a hand signal from one of the Sentinels on top of the warehouse roof before he darted across the street and into the loading bay at the end of the building.

There was a tense second as they paused to listen for any sound of alarm. Only when Bas was certain they hadn’t been spotted did he unlock the side door and lead them into the vast open space that made up the first floor.

Fane slid ahead of the assassin, making a quick search of the shadowed room to ensure that nobody was hiding behind the cement columns that ran the length of the warehouse.

He returned to Serra’s side, giving Bas a short nod. The assassin pointed toward the back of the room before he was jogging forward. He ignored the massive open elevator that was the obvious means of transportation to the upper floors, instead heading toward the narrow metal staircase attached to the wall.

They traveled to the top floor, at last stepping onto the narrow catwalk that framed the upper level, allowing them to have a clear view of the action one floor below.

It looked like any other fight club, Fane decided. A large, chain metal cage set in the center of the dusty floor. A crowd of loud, testosterone-driven men screaming at the two fighters who were attempting to beat each other senseless. A handful of prostitutes leaning against a back wall to service the spectators, or perhaps offer comfort to the losers. And a few hired guns to keep the event running smoothly.

There was nothing to indicate this was set up by the kidnapper.

Halting in the deepest shadows, Fane felt Serra press close against his side.

“How can they stand it being so loud?” she muttered, her face pale with the strain of being surrounded by such a large crowd.

Fane grimaced, realizing that she was being assaulted by the violent thoughts and emotions that seethed among the crowd. He reached to grasp her hand, using his powers to blunt the worst of the psychic energy.

“Norms don’t have our hearing,” he reminded her.

“And they’re too drunk to notice their ears are bleeding,” Bas muttered, turning his head as Kaede appeared from the shadows. “Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary?” he demanded.

The younger warrior shook his head. “No.” He gestured toward a heavyset man with dark hair slicked back from his face seated at a makeshift table. “The man in the corner is dealing coke.” Kaede moved his finger toward the girls. “The far door leads to a storage room where the pros are plying their trade.”

Fane ignored the petty criminals, his focus trained on a steel door that was set in a shallow alcove.

No doubt at one time it’d been a private office.

“What about that door?” he asked.

Kaede shook his head. “It hasn’t opened and no one has gone near it.”