Style strolled into the suite, heading straight for the minibar. He uncapped a whiskey bottle with a flourish and poured a generous measure. “Anyone want a drink? This one’s on me,” he said, holding the bottle up.
Trevor didn’t even glance at the whiskey. “Style, what’s your take on all this?”
Style took a slow sip, eyeing the chaos around the room. “I just got back and saw this place was a complete mess. Ali told me about a werewolf breaking in again… and now you’re talking about keeping those two lovebirds safe. Sounds like you’re in deeper than you thought.”
He swirled the whiskey in his glass and raised an eyebrow. “Here’s the deal, Trevor, Spion. The case is done for you. Whoever’s behind this, it’s bigger than you can handle. Private detectives or not, you’re up against a gang. My suggestion? Call in the authorities. Close the damn case now.”
Trevor’s face hardened. “This isn’t a simple gang. It’s worse. We’re dealing with terrorists. They’re planning something big for the Cheval Blanc Soirée.”
Style’s brow shot up. He set the glass down, focusing fully on Trevor. “How do you know that? What did you find?”
Trevor stepped closer, urgency in his voice. “It’s why Hector was attacked in the first place. He overheard something at the Temple of Ares. A conspiracy. Then they tried to kill him, throw him in the river. They’re coming for him again, trying to silence him.”
Style’s gaze was sharp. “Did you hear anything more about this conspiracy? Any details?”
Hector shook his head. “No. No faces. Just a few words. They’re planning something big… something about the Soirée.”
Spion added, “We’ve got suspicions. People connected to JackToy, the Wounded Warrior Project, and the Temple of Ares. They’re all involved somehow.”
Style started pacing, his mind working quickly. “I don’t think they’ll come after you again, Hector. They wanted to kill you before you could report them to the authorities, but they botched it. Now, they’re on the radar. If they try again, it’ll only draw more attention, more police. They’ll go to ground and wait for the main event. You should be safe.”
Camila let out a shuddering breath, her hand clutching Hector’s arm. “Thank the Gods.”
Trevor wasn’t so convinced. His eyes were distant, frustrated. “So, that’s it? We just call the cops tomorrow and hope they get it right?”
“I’ve got a contact at the FIA. I’ll send a report to them.” Style took another sip of whiskey, then shrugged casually. “But seriously, you’re not taking the whiskey? It’s really good,” he added, trying to lighten the mood.
“Too tired. I need sleep,” Trevor muttered, slumping into a sofa.
“Alright,” Ryan said, rubbing his hands together as he moved toward the door. “As security captain, I’d advise everyone to head out. It’s getting freezing in here, and that broken window won’t be fixed until tomorrow.”
Feeling the vibe in the room was downright oppressive, Style grabbed the bottle and walked back to his suite. Once inside, he dropped the whiskey bottle onto the desk and pulled out a black, no-brand laptop from a locked drawer. He opened it, waiting for it to connect to a secure network.
The screen blinked to life, and he immediately typed out a critical message: Analyze CCTV near JackToy’s headquarters, the Wounded Warrior Project, and the Temple of Ares. Deploy a unit to monitor these locations.
He closed the laptop after hitting send, his left hand still aching from the last operation. He cursed under his breath. If his hand weren’t injured, he would’ve taken charge of this investigation personally. But as it was, he was on medical leave, so he had to delegate. He sighed, deciding he would visit the Division tomorrow to check in on things.
Meanwhile, in Trevor and Spion’s twin room, Trevor lay on his bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. He’d just finished a video call with Alisa, nothing major, just a brief bedtime chat between a couple. But his mind was elsewhere.
“Can’t sleep?” Spion’s voice broke through the silence as he emerged from the bathroom, clad in a bathrobe.
Trevor propped himself up on an elbow, his voice heavy. “Next Monday’s the Cheval Blanc Soirée. My dad and Monica, Bella, Lady News, Report Man, Camila… they’ll all be there. Do you think the FIA can stop these terrorists before the gala?”
Spion took off the robe and crawled into his bed, pulling the covers up. “Maybe,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “But we can’t even be sure a terrorist attack is guaranteed. They might just be planning it, talking big, but not following through.”
Trevor’s eyes narrowed. “I think we need to keep digging. If it’s real, we have to stop it before the Soirée goes down.”
Spion’s lips twitched, a smirk forming. “So, what’s your plan? Head to the Temple tomorrow?”
Trevor shook his head. “No. The Wounded Warrior Project. We need to take another look at Will. We are convinced he’s the imposter, and we need to prove it.”
“Sure, I’ll skip a class. I’m in.”
“Thanks, man.”
“But I’m bringing my boxing gloves,” Spion said, picking them up from the nightstand and flashing Trevor a smirk. “Could get dangerous.”
Trevor snorted, shaking his head. “I don’t think gloves will do much against werewolves and well-trained terrorists,” he replied, a mischievous chuckle escaping his lips, but there was an unmistakable edge of worry in his voice.
Spion gave a small nod. “I’ll borrow a gun from Ryan. Maybe some silver bullets too.”
Trevor looked at him in surprise. “You know how to shoot?”
“Yep,” Spion said, his voice flat, but his gaze fixed firmly on the ceiling, avoiding Trevor’s eyes.
Trevor let the silence settle between them, then sighed. “Great. It’s settled then.” He turned off the lights, but his mind raced with all the secrets Spion wasn’t telling him.