The quiet hum of the vending machine fills the empty motel lobby, broken only by the soft clatter of a soda can rolling into the dispenser.
I reach down, pulling out the can of cola, then press the button again for another. A second can drops with a metallic thud.
Behind me, I can hear Caspian’s low voice as he talks on the phone a little distance away, his tone clipped and businesslike.
Probably speaking to one of his men. I glance at him briefly—his broad frame leaning against the wall, grey eyes sharp and focused.
Even in this run-down motel, dressed in jeans and a plain black T-shirt, he still looks like he belongs in a mansion.
I shake my head and move to the next vending machine. Chips. That’s what I need. My fingers hover over the selection buttons, but something catches my
