He gently shifts his weight, forcing me to turn my head slightly while keeping me pinned securely to his chest.
“Look at the monitor, Zara,” Locke commands gently, his hand sliding up to nape of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair to hold me steady. “Look at the screen.”
I force my tear-blurred eyes toward the tablet. The four grids show the perimeter.
Grid one: the quiet, carpeted lobby downstairs, where two massive, Grinning Skulls MC prospects sit on leather chairs right by the front doors, heavy jackets zipped up, eyes sharp.
Grid two: the private elevator vestibule on the ground floor, locked in red standby light.
Grid three: the rain-slicked roof deck directly above us, a club enforcer pacing the perimeter in a heavy waterproof jacket.
Grid four: our hallway directly outsi
