Chapter 332 The Whistler
Logan
The air in the room was thick with tension as I strode in, my gaze fixated on the man I had trusted the most-James, my chief bodyguard and the one person who I put in charge of keeping an eye on Ella all those weeks ago when I found out about the men who harassed her in the park.
There were moments in life where words weren’t required to convey the depth of one’s anger, and this was one of those moments. My face, I knew, was an open book of seething fury.
“James.” My voice was colder than the north wind in winter. “I trusted you with one thing. ONE thing. To keep an eye on her. How could you let this happen?”
James, despite his tall frame and muscular build, appeared smaller under my gaze. “I’m sorry, Logan,” he muttered, genuine remorse evident in his tone. “They moved faster than we anticipated. I managed to trail them a bit though.”
I clenched my fists, taking a deep breath to prevent myself from completely losing it. Ella’s safety had become more than just a duty; it was personal. “And?” I pressed, my voice dripping with impatience,
“I got a license plate number,” he announced, pulling out a scrap of paper from his pocket and extending it toward me.
I snatched it from his hand, scanning the scribbled digits and letters. This was good, very good. Even a single piece of concrete information could be the key to unlocking this puzzle.
“This is valuable, James,” I conceded with a nod. “I hope you understand the gravity of the situation.”
“I do,” he said, eyes downcast. “And I’m ready to make amends.”
I turned away from him, addressing the group of men assembled around. “Gather up. We’ve got a lead. Let’s not waste time.”
After a quick search using my connections, the license plate was traced to an owner in the city -a certain Daniel Lawson, a name I hadn’t heard of. But names meant little in the city’s underbelly; aliases and pseudonyms were more common than true identities. Before I could leave, though, Mrs. Wentworth’s voice caught my attention.
“Logan. Here. Now.”
Like an obedient child, I swung around to see the old housekeeper striding toward me. She had been working for me for so long that she was like a mother to me. I never ignored her, especially not when she sounded so stern.
She approached me, looking me over as if inspecting a child who had come home after playing in the mud. “You’re going out again, aren’t you? With those men of yours?”
I nodded. “There’s something I need to take care of.”
She tsked, fussing over me like a mother hen. “You always have something to take care of, Logan. I worry about you.”
I chuckled, bending down to give her a light peck on her cheek. “I’ll be fine, Mrs. Wentworth. I always am.”
She took a step back, her gaze piercing. “That young lady-Ella-she’s quite the beauty, isn’t she?”
Caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic, I replied, “Yes, she is.” I was about to add more when she continued.
“She cares for you deeply, Logan. More than you realize, or perhaps more than you want to admit.”
I raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement creeping into my voice. “Mrs. Wentworth, I think you’ve been reading too many of those romance novels again.”
She huffed, her expression stern. “I may be old, Logan, but I’m not blind. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. The longing, the worry, the love. It’s there, clear as day.”
I laughed, feeling a bit awkward. “Ella doesn’t like me in that way. We’re business partners, nothing more.”
Before I knew what was happening, Mrs. Wentworth’s hand shot up, giving me a sharp smack upside the head.
“Ouch!” I exclaimed, rubbing the spot. “What was that for?”
She glared at me. “For being dense. I was a young girl once, and I remember how it felt to be in love. When Ella looks at you, I see that same emotion in her eyes. Maybe she hasn’t admitted it to you or even herself, but it’s there.”
I stood there, a bit shell-shocked, trying to process her words. Could she be right? My mind was swirling with memories of Ella and our interactions. Had I really missed something so evident? I thought that Ella hated my guts because of what I was. When I had kissed her earlier, she had pushed me away and looked at me as though she had been burned.
Seeing my bewildered expression, Mrs. Wentworth’s demeanor softened. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Logan. Not just for your sake, but for Ella’s too.”
The weight of her words settled in my chest. “I promise,” I murmured, my voice low.
Deep within, my wolf stirred, a sense of satisfaction humming through our bond. The idea that Ella could harbor deeper feelings for me ignited a spark of hope and elation.
Mrs. Wentworth patted my cheek gently.
“That’s a good lad. Now, off you go and do what you need to do. And remember, sometimes the answers we seek are right in front of us.”
Surrounded by my team, we navigated the city’s twisted alleys and streets, finally arriving at a worn-out, gray building, its facade appearing as shady as the information that led us to it.
The door was unlocked, which was odd in itself. It creaked loudly as we entered, every sound echoing ominously in the dimly lit space.
“Stay sharp,” I whispered to the men, holding up a hand to signal them to spread out.
The room looked as though its occupant had vanished in haste. Chairs were overturned, papers scattered everywhere, and a cold gust of wind blew from an open window, fluttering the curtains.
“This place is empty,” muttered Alex, one of my trusted men. Cursing under my breath, I began searching the room, desperate for a clue. Anything to point us in the right direction.
“Sir,” called out Michael, another member of my crew, from the far end of the room. He held out a small, white piece of fabric. A handkerchief. I walked over, taking it from him. There was something embroidered on it: the initials ‘D.L.’
“D.L.? Who could that be?” Michael mused, glancing around. “Surely not the same Daniel Lawson we’re looking for?”
It seemed too obvious, too simple. “It could be a ploy to lead us astray,” I said, my mind racing. “Or it could be legitimate. Right now, everything is a piece of the puzzle.”
As the men continued to comb through the premises, a soft, eerie whistling sound reached my ears. It seemed to come from the shadows, drifting closer, playing the tune of an old nursery rhyme: ‘Ring around the rosies’.
My men froze.
Instinctively, I reached for my gun, its cold metal reassuring against my skin.
“Who’s there?” I barked, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. The whistling grew louder, echoing through the abandoned building, sending shivers down my spine.
The room was awash in silence except for the unnerving tune, each note clearer than the last. It felt like a game-a deadly game of cat and mouse, with the roles yet undetermined.
Gripping my weapon tighter, I braced myself for what lay ahead, the melody an eerie reminder of how swiftly the hunter could become the hunted.
