There might have been some trace of them if the other smells in the room hadn’t been so pungent. Still, she asked, “Can anyone scent other shifters?”
The others shook their heads or muttered a negative … aside from Alex.
“There’s the faintest trace of jaguar,” said the wolverine. “But it’s extremely faint.”
“Jaguar,” echoed Tate. “So Gideon sent his minions here.” Tate might have felt some pity for the bastard if he hadn’t been, well, a bastard.
Having done a search of the entire room, Farrell said, “He either had nothing incriminating in his possession, or it was taken from him.”
They all stilled as the burner phone in Havana’s hand began to ring.
Each and every cell in Tate’s body went on high alert, and his inner cat tensed. He crossed to her and said, “Let me answer it. If it’s someone hoping to speak with Sinclair, they might buy that I’m him. Everyone be very quiet.” He took the phone and answered using the speakerphone option, “Yeah?”
“Who might I be talking to?” a cultured male voice asked. One Tate didn’t recognize. He glanced at the others, noting that none of them appeared to recognize the voice.
“You’re the one that called me,” Tate pointed out.
“Yes, but I’m quite aware that my dear friend Sinclair is unable to answer. You must be one of the shifters who were seeking him. Excellent. I left a phone at the motel room hoping I could have a little talk with the people who are trying to push their way into my business. I was quite sure you’d come for Sinclair.”
Tate’s lips thinned as he quickly deduced, “You called in the tip. You led us to him.”
“It seemed the easiest way to communicate with you that didn’t involve a face-to-face meeting.”
Galled that he’d been so easily manipulated, Tate bit back a curse and gestured for Luke and Farrell to canvas the area. For the caller to know that people had entered the room, either he or one of his minions was nearby.
“Who are you?” Tate asked his caller while Luke and Farrell headed into the bathroom where they’d no doubt use the rear window as an exit.
“A lot of my friends call me Abe,” the unfamiliar voice replied.
“Abe,” Tate repeated. “I didn’t know that was a pet name for Gideon.” Silence greeted the comment. Yeah, this fucker was Gideon York. And if he or his minions were nearby, it was possible that they had a gun trained on the building. Tate signaled Vinnie, Alex, and the females to move into the bathroom.
“Hmm, just what did Rupert tell you?”
Tate waited for the others to quietly enter the small, dingy bathroom before he joined them and replied, “Enough to know who you are, York.”
“Gideon York is dead.”
“You don’t sound dead.”
Another long silence. “I don’t, do I?” Apparently, he was done with the pretense. “I feel it is important that we are all able to come to an understanding. I’ve come to learn a few things since Rupert and Sinclair failed me. It would seem that Miss Ramos is under the protection of Tate Devereaux, Alpha of the Olympus Pride.”
Tate’s grip on the phone involuntarily tightened. He met her gaze—a gaze that had held a hint of sadness ever since she exited her complex earlier, which he didn’t understand but fully intended to question her about later. “She is,” Tate replied.
“Would I be right in assuming that you are Tate?” asked Gideon.
“You would.”
“Excellent. I’ve never met a pallas cat, but I’ve heard plenty about your kind. I’ve also heard plenty about you—all good things, by the way. You might be feared, but you’re also highly respected.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes, it is. I’d like to offer my apologies to you. If I had known Miss Ramos was under your protection, I would not have sent people to acquire her.”
Tate ground his teeth. “No, you’d have sent them to acquire another loner for you to auction off like they’re fucking collector’s items instead of living beings.”
“It is merely business.”
“It’s fucking sick.”
“There are plenty of people who would disagree with you. People will buy shifters for any number of reasons—to keep in their private zoos, to hunt and kill, to use for their personal pleasure, to run various experiments on.”
Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, Tate poked his head out to keep an eye trained on the front door. “And none of that bothers you?”
“As I said, it is merely business. What my clients wish to do with whatever assets they purchase doesn’t concern me.”
“Assets?” Tate felt his nostrils flare. “They’re people, not assets. I suppose you prey on loners because they’re mostly unprotected. Well, it was pretty careless of you to have assumed your latest target was unprotected. You knew Havana’s address, but you didn’t think to check who owned her building. You made a mistake there, and you made the kind of enemies you absolutely do not fucking want.” Pallas cats always made bad enemies, especially if you messed with someone who had value to them. And Havana, well, she meant something to both Tate and his cat.