Fated in New Orleans

7

The night air hung thick and heavy, cicadas buzzing in the distance as River and Miles approached Dax Leroux’s cabin. The porch light was off, but a faint glow pulsed through the blinds — a monitor still running.

River’s jaw flexed. “He’s awake or stupid,” he murmured.

Miles’s eyes flicked toward the door. “Either way, we’re findin’ out.”

The lock gave with one quiet turn. Inside, the cabin smelled of motor oil, smoke, and old coffee. Typical enforcer den — except for the mess spread across the desk. Papers. Maps. And a laptop still open, fan humming in the dark.

Miles’s voice dropped. “You see that?”

River nodded once and crossed the floor. The screen glowed faint blue, showing a grid of video feeds — not from the official security network.

Hidden cameras.

Every feed framed some part of the compound. The garages. The hall. And then—

Salem.

Captured in grainy grayscale from the control room earlier that night, seated at her workstation while River stood close beside her. In another clip, she was outside, talking to Rhea. Then another — Salem with Miles, leaning over the table as they reviewed data, both of them unaware of the camera’s eye.

Miles froze. “What the hell…”

River’s face went still. “He’s been watching her.”

The next tab was worse — a folder labeled Observations. It opened to a list of dates and short notes, all in Dax’s rough handwriting:

11/02 — Subject interacting frequently with Alpha River. Comfort level rising. Potential influence detected.

11/03 — Subject shows assertive behavior. Disrupting command flow. Twins distracted — weaker focus during drills.

11/05 — Miles protective response increasing. Possible emotional attachment.

At the bottom of the list was one line underlined twice:

Both Alphas compromised. Boudreaux is affecting control chain.

Miles swore quietly. “He was tracking how we looked at her.”

River’s pulse hitched, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The fury in his silence said enough.

Then Miles clicked into another window — an unsent message sitting open in Dax’s outbox. The subject line read simply:

Directive: Boudreaux. Emotional Interference.

The message was short, each word sharp as a blade:

Alpha twins compromised by external. Salem Boudreaux has influence beyond protocol. She’s changing priorities, shifting dynamics — control unstable.

Elimination required before she embeds further. Recommend containment, not death. Useful leverage if turned.

Gather evidence of attachment — see attached files.

Miles hesitated before opening the attachments. But curiosity and anger pushed him.

Photos filled the screen — all stills from Dax’s hidden feeds.

Salem asleep on the couch, a faint strand of hair falling across her face, River seated nearby, watching quietly.

Another — Miles handing her a coffee, the ghost of a smile between them.

And one more — the three of them in the control room, her between the brothers, tension visible but unspoken.

Miles stepped back, disgust and disbelief mixing in his tone. “He’s been documenting it. Like some kind of sick report.”

River’s jaw clenched, the air around him seeming to hum. “He was feeding this to someone.”

He clicked back to the message header — no recipient listed. Just a blank space where an address had been wiped.

“He was about to send it,” River said softly. “Then ran.”

Miles dragged a hand through his hair. “You think he planned to grab her? Leverage her against us?”

River’s expression didn’t move, but the storm in his eyes spoke volumes. “He called her leverage. That’s reason enough for me.”

They scanned the rest of the desk — scattered notes, a duffel half-packed, a holster missing a sidearm. The faint smell of gasoline lingered by the window.

“He’s gone,” River murmured.

Miles kicked the chair back with a curse. “Damn it!”

River’s gaze locked on the printed photos pinned to the corkboard above the desk — the same ones from the files, but printed, handled, studied. Beneath them was a note scribbled in thick marker:

Boudreaux = disruption. Remove before Phase Two.

He reached up and ripped the page down, folding it once before slipping it into his jacket pocket.

Miles turned to him, anger still raw. “We tell her?”

River nodded once. “We tell her everything.”

As they stepped out into the night, the sound of an engine echoed faintly from beyond the treeline — distant, fading fast.

Miles froze. “That’s his bike.”

River didn’t move, didn’t chase. His voice came low and cold. “Let him run. He’s just narrowed his own hunt.”

The two brothers stood for a moment beneath the thick Louisiana dark, the laptop glow fading between them. The evidence in River’s hands felt heavier than it should — not just betrayal, but obsession.

And a clear warning.

Someone out there wanted Salem gone.

And someone inside the pack had helped them start.