Carl glared down at him and stomped away. He cleaned up in the bathroom and zipped his trousers back up. He rarely undressed to fuck anymore, too concerned with being caught with his pants down—literally.
The last time the Feds had descended, he’d been a heartbeat away from orgasming into a lover’s mouth. Only some fast thinking and preparedness had allowed him to escape without incident.
Now he remained a fugitive. A rich one, but nonetheless, he hated having to hide his face. And such a handsome one too. He stared at himself in the mirror, loving his light blond hair, the cut sculpted to showcase his Nordic bone structure and bright blue eyes. Though not as large as the historic Vikings would have been, Carl took pride in his thin frame, compact and tight. He had strength of mind. When he needed muscle, he paid for it.
His old right hand, Samson Ruelle, had been too willing to assume Carl’s place. Not content to be an assistant, he’d tried hard to take over in his boss’s stead. As if. Carl snorted. Owen’s men had eliminated Samson, and now the bastard lay dead. A well-deserved killing, from what Carl had learned. Samson had been forced to stab himself repeatedly in the groin before expiring. Lovely.
It had taken Carl time to believe, but he now understood how Owen had committed so many heinous crimes against his family. He clenched the sink tight, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror as he did so, promising retribution against the man responsible for all his bad luck.
Owen was psychic. As improbable—as impossible—as that had once seemed, Carl now knew it to be true. He had money, maybe not as much as Owen, but enough to gain entrance into certain sectors of the government. Owen’s silent partnership in that little place in Bend, the PowerUp! Gym, interested Carl. The place overflowed with ex-government agents.
Owen no doubt collaborated with them on missions as well. From what Carl’s source had told him, Owen occasionally still did work for Uncle Sam. That a man as rich as Croesus would lower himself to government work said something about the workings of his mind. No doubt the prick thought he labored for the greater good. Such a crock of shit.
Carl just wanted to restore his family’s flailing empire. Gun running wasn’t enough. Prostitution, slavery, and drugs helped build his legacy in this downward economy.
“Just doing my part to help with the economic crisis,” he said to the handsome man in the mirror before leaving the room, once again in command of himself. He glanced at the soiled young man sleeping on the bed, noticed the whip marks on his back, and nodded to himself. Continuing through Shannon Martin’s home and pleased that the old bag still considered him her honorary grandson, he found Fielder and Koffman in the kitchen, armed to the teeth.
When he entered, they stood in a hurry. He liked that. “Any word?”
Koffman, the larger of the two, with dark hair, mean eyes, and a scar that bisected his left cheek, nodded. “Yes, sir. Stallbridge is in his home in Bend, Oregon. He’s currently residing with his security, his assistant, a maid, and a cook. And he brought in a new man, Ian Ryder.”
Fielder added, “Word has it someone else arrived earlier today in town that we should keep an eye on. He doesn’t register in our databases. Caleb Dalton, sir. My take is he’s federal. No question.”
Carl frowned. “Dalton. I know that name.”
Fielder spoke again. Despite his average appearance, he had an uncanny intelligence and the wherewithal to use it. “I cross-checked the reference and came up with nothing. However, I believe his appearance relates to your past, sir.” Fielder pushed a file at Carl.
Carl looked down at the table and saw a picture of his brother, caught in black-and-white, an expression of unbelievable pain on his face as he clutched at his heart. “My past?” he asked quietly. He’d only given Fielder access to his personal documents because he knew they related to Owen. And Fielder and Koffman had been working for him for the past five years. No hiccups. Both men knew their place on the team and had no problem skirting the law whenever possible.
“I’ve gone through pictures and files and inputted data. This man’s description, his picture, matches one of the witnesses at the time of your brother’s death. Granted, he was younger then, but I’m pretty sure it’s a positive ID.”
Excited by the possibility of getting closer to nailing his nemesis, Carl looked at the picture underneath his brother’s—a photo of Caleb Dalton, Owen’s likely accomplice. Though he didn’t recall the man, someone had seen him and questioned him at the hotel where Carl’s brother had been killed. Fielder pushed another photograph toward Carl. A snapshot of the man’s face in the background of a surveillance camera photo nailed his suspicions. When compared to the current picture of Dalton, they fit.
“So. Owen’s called in the big guns, eh?”
“Seems so, sir,” Koffman added in a quiet voice. “Do we make plans to storm his place in Oregon? It wouldn’t be that difficult to take him down. He’s got two security guards, that bodyguard he calls an assistant, and two domestics—females—working for him. That’s it for manpower. Granted, his security system is state-of-the-art, but I’m sure we could work around that. A contained blast would be easy to manage.”
And way too impersonal. “No, we wait for a bit. I want eyes on him at all times, though.”
“Yes, sir. We thought you might, so I had Neever and Sands standing by. They’re in Bend and waiting on word from you.”
“Excellent.” Carl beamed. “Give them the go-ahead. But discretion is key. I’m sure Owen’s aware I’m waiting. Watching. But let’s let him sweat.” The more torturous the wait, the better. Carl wanted Owen to suffer. The thought gave him a thrill, and he decided to revisit his plaything in the bedroom once more. “I’m going to be indisposed for the afternoon, but tell Harry to get that business in Vancouver off the ground. We’re moving too slow.”
“Yes, sir.” Fielder nodded his head in a little bow. Koffman did the same.
Carl left them to find his slut sprawled on the bed, his ass still full of Carl’s leavings. Perfect. He locked the door, then turned back to the bed and unzipped his trousers.
“Hey, handsome,” his boy said in a thick voice. “How about another hit?” The slut turned over and waved his delectable ass in the air.
Carl snorted and reached into his pocket. He tossed a blue pill on the bed, then watched his boy swallow it dry. His boy then presented himself on his hands and knees, willingly strapping a collar and chain around his neck. Carl smiled and approached his new slave. If Carl fucked him hard enough, he might just reach his own high. Thoughts of making Owen pay dearly only added to his pleasure. And later, when his boy moaned in delighted pain, begging for more, Carl found his own perfection in the rush of violent desire.
Owen clasped hands with Caleb Dalton, a man he hadn’t seen in way too long. Just as he remembered, Caleb had a hard face and hard hands to match. Not attractive by any stretch, Caleb had that powerful aura that often alarmed those not used to being around such strength. And no two ways about it, Caleb was mesmerizing in his own way. Short hair that had turned silver when the guy reached his twenty-fourth birthday surrounded blunt features—a square jaw, crooked nose, and lean face. The man’s dark brown eyes glowed with humor as he shook Owen’s hand.
“Getting bigger, eh, Owen?” he said with a glance at Owen’s arms.
Caleb himself was no slouch. Once a trainer for the PWP, he had also been given the drugs that finessed and empowered his psychic abilities. Off the drugs since the program had closed, he apparently exercised like a demon.
“Either you’re eating steroids for breakfast, or you’ve been working out like a dog,” Owen drawled.