Undercover Lovers [Urban Affairs 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour ManLove) (7 page)

Slade stopped in his tracks.
Am I the target?
It wouldn’t be the first time the FBI took out one of their own. He’d seen it happen. The unlucky shifter had been a double agent—or so they said when Slade replaced him. The Were agent had been spying on a group of wolf-shifters who were operating a drug cartel in California, but in fact, he was a member of the target organization himself. A human friend on the LAPD told Slade the agent had been framed, that drugs had been planted in his home, and not by the cartel. A SWAT team had been called in to pick the agent up, and he’d been shot trying to get away.
Murder?
He’d never know for sure, but he didn’t plan on suffering the same fate. Now, he had Donovan in his crosshairs as well as Castle. Until Slade knew Donovan’s real motives, he’d be walking on eggshells around the man.

Slade navigated beer cans, hypodermics, and fast-food containers as he walked around the neighborhood. He looked for trouble, but he didn’t find it. Dogtown had a reputation for being a high-crime district, but the more Slade saw of the neighborhood, the less evidence he saw of violence. The area was depressed with a lot of abandoned and boarded-up buildings, but the wolves were slowly fixing them up. Sure, this ghetto didn’t compare to the upscale area of Los Angeles he lived in, but then few areas did. The human media always exaggerated reality to sell papers.

He stopped at a diner for coffee, bought toiletries at a corner store, and watched a group of kids play ball in the street. He even talked to a few people on the pretense of asking for directions. When he brought up the subject of crime or drugs, he heard a common refrain. People here wanted the same things humans wanted—safe streets. For the most part they policed themselves. The cops were slow to respond to calls. Either they were afraid to enter the wolf ghetto, or they didn’t give a shit about protecting its people. Either one didn’t bode well.

* * * *

Days in Dogtown passed slowly. Wednesday felt like it should be Friday. Before Slade left for the Kennel Club he listened to the surveillance tapes again. Not a damn thing on them. This kind of operation took time, and he swore he’d go stir-crazy by the end of it. Even Jaxon was MIA, so he had no eye candy to inspire him when he danced. There wasn’t one other man in the club who appealed to him on the same level.

For the past two nights Jaxon had been conspicuous in his absence. Maybe he was on vacation. Maybe he was trying to avoid Slade. Somehow he’d given him the slip. Slade couldn’t even tail him. Jaxon had taken his car, and driving didn’t leave a trackable scent. It annoyed the hell out of him.

Slade threw on old jeans and a sweatshirt for the walk to the club and managed to arrive just before he was due to go on. He looked for Jaxon, but once again the man was nowhere to be seen. According to Quinn, the club’s owner had ducked out early in the day and told him to hold down the fort. Where the fuck was he going? Probably to meet the others in his terrorist organization. While Slade was shaking his ass, Jaxon was plotting to overthrow the government.

Slade wished he could duck out as well. In spite of Jaxon’s alleged crimes, Slade still wanted him. He danced for Jaxon. Without him in the audience, Slade had no desire to strip. He heard the music start, and he made his way to the stage entrance, four steps leading up to a curtained doorway. Just in time too. The announcer’s tinny voice came over the mike.

“All right, boys, here’s the man you’ve all been waiting for. Give Slade a hand.”

This is it. Slade stepped out to wild applause and wolf whistles, his heart pounding in time to the music. The crowd appeared larger every night.
Hope Castle appreciates all the money I’m bringing in.
Slade ignored the cheering men, putting everyone out of his head except his boss, pretending he was dancing only for him. Moving slowly and sensuously, he walked to center stage and scanned the room, filled with disappointment when he didn’t spot Jaxon.

The crowd showed their own disappointment at Slade’s slow start, and he picked up the pace, moving along the front of the stage and playing with the buttons on his shirt. Strutting his stuff, he tried to keep out of reach of the men who were pressing forward in an attempt to yank him off the platform.

Slade removed his shirt, tossed it, and danced from one side of the stage to the other, still scanning the room. Finally he had to admit Jaxon wasn’t going to show, and he cut a few minutes from his performance. Dressing in record speed, he hightailed it out of the club before any of the men could speak to him. Slade went straight to his apartment, hoping to hear something on the tape that would tell him where Jaxon had gone. The recording device hadn’t caught a thing other than a game show on the TV. Next he checked the phone tap. Nada. Either Jaxon was super careful or he led a very dull life. Maybe Donovan had something. Slade pulled out the cell phone the cop had given him. He wasn’t answering his phone. Slade slammed it down on the dresser, and then picked up his own cell to check his messages. Only one. He listened to his superior officer’s voice with a rising sense of dread.

Richard Graham, the FBI officer responsible for DSA, was also responsible for putting him and Donovan together. Graham wanted to know why Slade hadn’t called in since he met with Mike Donovan. He expected a call immediately, and he ended by saying if Slade thought he couldn’t make the case, it might be time to implement P
lan B.

Plan B, backup plan, meant one thing—if you have nothing on your suspect, frame him. And if a wolf was accused of terrorism, he’d get the death penalty.

Forget civil rights. Forget the Constitution.

The Feds would go to any lengths to protect their reputation. If they said someone was guilty, then they were guilty. End of story.

Since Graham’s call last night, Slade’s stress level had reached epic proportions. He had extensive training in a number of areas such as surveillance, firearm training, explosives, hand-to-hand and knife combat, and military strategy and tactics. He could function as an FBI assassin easily. He’d killed men in combat situations without batting an eye, but they had posed a threat to national security.

He did not want to take down an innocent man. Graham’s directive was completely off base. For one thing, it was too soon. He hadn’t been here long enough to get his evidence. Why were the Feds in such a big hurry to get Castle? Slade could not believe Jaxon presented that big a threat, and he had no intention of getting him arrested until he knew his intended target was really a threat to national security. Maybe if he’d been doing his job, he’d know already.

Where was Jaxon going? He should have been tailing him around the clock. Graham had been right about one thing. Slade had been lax, letting his attraction for the other wolf override duty and good sense. If he had been able to report on Jaxon’s whereabouts, Graham wouldn’t be on his ass about Plan B. So, okay, he’d follow Castle today and report back to Graham with something solid, buying himself and Castle more time, maybe saving the man’s life in the bargain.

Slade walked by the club at 8:00 a.m. and saw Jaxon’s Toyota parked behind the building. The one car rental agency near Dogtown opened at nine, and Slade was waiting at the door. He leased a nondescript Subaru and parked it in a spot where it wouldn’t be noticed but he’d be able to see the Toyota if and when it pulled away. Slade settled down in the driver’s seat, determined to wait all day if need be.

At one in the afternoon, the Toyota pulled into the street and Slade followed a discreet distance behind. Castle headed toward Greenwich Village, and Slade dug out his cell phone to call Quinn. The bartender wasn’t thrilled to hear that the star performer felt sick and wouldn’t be dancing that night, but he wished him well and ended with, “I’ll see ya tomorrow.” Slade ended the call and concentrated on the Subaru.

Slade pulled into the same parking garage as Jaxon. From there, tailing him would not present a problem. As long as the other wolf traveled on foot, Slade would be able to track his scent.

The quirky neighborhood, known as an artistic center, captivated Slade. He’d missed this section on his earlier trips around the city. Walking along the crooked cobblestone streets, Slade checked out the brownstones, antique shops, and upscale boutiques as he followed Jaxon to a midsize apartment building. He ducked into a shop across the street and made note of an intercom by the entrance. Jaxon pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Slade’s heart sank. It was beginning to look like Castle might be meeting some bohemian types who were sympathetic to shifters.

There were few high rises, which probably accounted for fewer pedestrians out and about, but Slade couldn’t take the chance of someone confronting him while he tried to break in. He took a shortcut through an alley to the rear of the building and looked for a window. There were none at street level, but the backdoor looked promising.

Covert agents were a unique breed. Given a challenge, they would always do whatever it took to overcome an obstacle. Slade intended to gain entry while creating the least damage. He tried the door first. A man in his training class had once made a mess of forced entry only to discover the door had been unlocked the whole time. This door was locked.

The old technique of jimmying a door, spreading the door away from the jamb without damaging the lock, didn’t work on the stronger doors and more formidable locks that were made today. With his good working knowledge of various locks and a basic understanding of how they operated, Slade wasn’t concerned. Using a few simple tools, small enough to fit in his pocket, he forced the mortise lock open.

Slade slipped inside and found himself in a storage area with a door that led to a first floor foyer. No elevator. It actually made his job easier. Tracking Jaxon in a five-story walk-up would be a piece of cake. He scanned the mailboxes to see if any name rang a bell. Michael Donovan 404.
Motherfucker!

Slade took the steps two at a time. Sure enough, Jaxon’s scent led him straight to 404. Slade waited outside Mike’s apartment long enough to know this was a private party for two. No rebel insurgents, human or otherwise, showed up. He pressed his ear against the closed door and was certain he heard sounds of lovemaking. The scent of aroused wolf seeped around the jamb and excited his own need to mate. He wanted to howl. His wolf wanted to bust through the door.
Down, boy.
When had he gotten so proprietary about Jaxon Castle? He’d do better to concentrate on business and figure out what the hell his target was doing in his partner’s apartment. Cross that out. He knew what they were doing. But why? Were Jax and Mike partners? Or was Mike playing the same
get close to the target
game as Slade?
If he is, he damn well should have told me.
Much as he wanted to, Slade couldn’t go charging in there until he had all the facts. He didn’t like Mike’s methods, but he wouldn’t screw up whatever the hell his so-called partner was doing. At least he had Mike’s address now.

Slade walked back to the parking garage. Images of a dark-haired wolf fucking a sexy blond flooded his mind and stiffened his dick. Fuck. He had the night off and nowhere to go.

* * * *

Jaxon had come flying into Mike’s apartment like a bat out of hell. Mike barely had time to say hello before his lover slammed him against the living room wall and captured his mouth with a punishing kiss. Mike submitted to the forceful domination of his lips and returned the passion eagerly. His thoughts fragmented as Jaxon’s tongue trailed a path along the side of his cheek and down his neck while his hands fumbled with the buttons of Mike’s shirt. Jax smoothed a hand over his chest, and Mike’s muscles quivered under the shifter’s touch.

Jax spent long minutes teasing Mike’s nipples with fingers then tongue. Meanwhile his nimble fingers worked on Mike’s zipper, reaching inside his slacks to free his cock. Mike groaned, kicked off his shoes, and helped Jax yank his pants and boxers over his hips.

Then suddenly, Jax was on his knees and licking a path up the side of his hardening erection. Mike’s head fell back against the wall, drops of precum beaded at the tip of his cock. Jaxon’s tongue searched the slit then swirled around the head.

Jaxon’s tight grip on his hips kept Mike pinned to the wall and unable to thrust deeper into his lover’s mouth. Mike groaned out his frustration, but then Jax swallowed his length and he felt his prick hit the back of Jax’s throat. Hot lips slid back up his cock, teeth lightly scraping his sensitive flesh. Jax released Mike’s hips giving him free rein, and Mike started to fuck Jaxon’s mouth in earnest. When Jax pressed a finger to his ass and pushed inside, Mike slammed his head back against the wall and shouted through an embarrassingly quick orgasm, shuddering as Jax swallowed and licked away any traces of his climax.

Mike slid down the wall to join his lover on the floor, who kissed him senseless. When Jax finally let him go, he took a moment to catch his breath. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“What a way to go, huh?” Jax grinned at him. “Wanna shower, eat?”

“Eat then shower.”

Jax stood and reached out a hand to pull Mike to his feet.

Hours later, they lay in bed, Jax sprawled on his stomach, Mike lost in thought. Jax seemed a little more relaxed now, not edgy and wired like he had been for the last week. Jax wouldn’t talk about it, but Mike had a few ideas about what was on his mind. Today had been all about the physical, and it seemed to relieve some of Jax’s tension, but it left Mike more anxious than ever. Every time he closed his eyes while Jax was sucking his cock, he imagined him doing the same thing to Slade. The thought of watching the two wolves only heightened his own arousal. The image of Slade’s naked body between him and Jax took root in his mind and made Mike harder than he’d ever been in his life. If only he and Jax could talk about it. But that would mean coming clean about everything. He would have to confess that he’d been spying on his lover. Jax would accept a threesome, but he’d never accept a human spy in his bed. Mike felt like they had lost something important between them—communication.