Chapter 69: HANS: Chapter 70

Sitting against the headboard, I look at the notification on my phone.

What the fuck?

Then the screen changes, showing a call from an unknown number.

Extra what the fuck. That shouldn’t be possible.

My jaw tenses as I flip the yellow comforter off my legs and climb out of bed.

I have no idea what this call means, but I tired Payton out an hour ago and I’m not about to wake her.

Unknown mocks me on the screen until I step into the hallway and close the door behind me.

Then I accept the call.

But I don’t say anything. I’m not playing a fucking guessing game.

“Nero.” The voice that comes through the line is… familiar. “It’s Hans.”

There isn’t much that surprises me anymore, but it takes me a full heartbeat to accept what I just heard.

“You the reason my sensors just tripped at The Junkyard?” I stride down the hall, heading toward my office.

“Yeah.” I can hear that he’s in a vehicle. “I need you to look at something for me.”

“Is that right?” I deadpan. “Why not stick around? Have a chat with my men when they show up?”

“Funny, but I wasn’t sure what sort of reception I’d get. You guys didn’t exactly say you believed me.”

“I dunno, explosives are usually pretty convincing.” I’m still a little salty about him standing feet away from my fucking wife covered in grenades.

“I knew I wouldn’t have to use them. You three seem mostly civilized.”

I hate that I’m tempted to smile. “That why you think I’ll help you now? Because I’m mostly civilized.”

I take the stairs down to the main level two at a time.

“I think you’ll help me because The Alliance has proven they don’t allow human trafficking in their territory. And whoever is closing in on me is doing it because I keep fucking up their deals.”

We always thought Hans was behind the new trafficking ring, but with what we found out last December, we’ve done more digging. And it does appear as though he’s telling the truth.

At least one thing is certain: everywhere he goes, people die.

“What did you drop over my fence?” I ask.

“A body. I need it identified, and my usual guys are out of town.”

“Guys,” I snort.

Dom’s wife told us all about the army of women that Hans showed up with to blow away the hit team that was about to kill them.

Then I process what he said, and I stop on the threshold of my office.

Out of town.

“Do you fucking live here?” I don’t even bother to hide my shock.

We’ve heard Hans’s name all over the Midwest, but we’ve also heard it from guys we know in the South. And out West. And on the East Coast. It never even occurred to me that he might live right fucking here. In the Twin Cities.

Hans makes a humming sound. “Probably take me about thirty-five minutes to get to your place from mine. But that’s the thing, I can’t really stay there anymore. Because this guy was at my house.”

I look to the ceiling.

Thirty-five minutes.

Dom is gonna have a fucking field day with this.

“And what?” I ask. “You want us to just take care of your little problem? You make too many enemies out there slitting throats that you can’t kill them all on your own anymore?”

I can hear his sigh. And it’s annoying.

“I don’t need a rent-a-militia. I just need this guy ID’d quickly. Dom owes me a favor. Dom is Alliance. You are Alliance…” He trails off.

“So I owe you a favor?” I growl into the phone.

“That’s kinda how it works.”

I might be back to hating Hans.

“Look,” he starts with a placating tone that doesn’t do anything to lift my annoyance. “If I had the time to drive to Chicago and dump the body onto Dom’s private elevator, I’d do that. But I’m kind of in a hurry. And I thought maybe we could be friends.”

Not missing the way he casually mentioned that he knows how Dom’s penthouse is set up, I let out a loud groan and make it last for several seconds before I reply. “Fine, dick. But if you want me to call you tomorrow with information, you’ll need to send me your fucking number.”

I hang up before he has a chance to try and recite his number to me. This isn’t a fucking spy movie. If he does that, I won’t remember shit, and he’ll never get what he wants.

And neither will we.

I heave out a breath and dial another number.

“What?” Dom answers on the third ring.

“Get your ass to Minnesota.”