Hannah's Halo: ANGUS REID MYSTERIES, #4

Preface

Hannah Jackson had no idea that the darkness she sought to expose would soon turn against her. Ambition had led her to this moment, blinding her to the danger that lurked just beneath the surface, waiting to ensnare her. In the shadows of her own aspirations, she was about to discover that some truths are far more perilous than the secrets they uncover.

As Hannah plunged into the dark heart of Weyport with a relentless ambition pushing her to unveil every buried secret, a chilling sense of danger loomed ever closer. She navigated through shadowy alleyways and whispered rumors, driven by an insatiable hunger for the truth. Each revelation felt like a victory, but with every step forward, an invisible noose tightened around her. Unbeknownst to her, the chaos she sought to expose was silently closing in, ensnaring her in its deadly grip.

Envy and selfish ambition weren't just the focus of her investigation; they were the sinister forces stalking her every step, poised to devour her whole. The deeper she dug, the more she realized that these dark desires weren't confined to the stories she pursued—they were embedded within the very fabric of Weyport, and perhaps, within herself. As Hannah's quest for truth spiraled into a fight for survival, she had to confront not only the shadows of the town, but also the darkness within her own soul.

The lines between hunter and hunted blurred, and Hannah found herself caught in a deadly game where the stakes were nothing less than her own life.

Welcome to Weyport, where every secret comes at a price, and every revelation might be your last.

Chapter One

She stared at the pair of aces in her hand, then glanced up at the two men beside her at the poker table. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, her insides trembling as she scrutinized their faces. They were the final two players, whittled down from the usual eight she contended against every week. The prize: a seat at the elite players’ table in the high-stakes Dragon Room at The Grande—and a chance to get close to her target.

A faint smile threatened to spread across her face, but she maintained a straight face. This was the first time she had made it to the final round since she began her investigation nearly a year ago. It was the closest she’d come to getting inside the belly of the beast.

And the stakes were higher than ever.

In the dim, smoke-filled room hidden behind the Turkish barbershop on the far side of town, she glanced at her opponents’ stone faces before her eyes dropped back to the cards in her hands. Anxiety gnawed at her insides. If she lost this hand, she was out of the tournament. Three more months of tireless effort would be in vain. Another opportunity wasted, and she’d have to start all over again. She was running out of time and patience. So was her editor. If she let this opportunity slip through her fingers, she’d be back at square one. She couldn't afford another dead end. Not again. Not tonight. She needed to make tonight count. With every game she played, the risk of her true identity being discovered grew. It was a risk she had long accepted, willing to face any danger if it meant breaking the biggest news story of her career.

A small voice in the back of her mind whispered a warning. The stakes were high, too high, and she was way out of her depth. If she had any sense, she’d fold and get out of there. Trust her instincts. Let go of her dreams and the career for which she was so desperately fighting.

Yet she couldn’t. She was too close. She’d come too far and had given up too much to run scared now.

Another voice echoed in her head. A more persistent one. Her father’s.

You don’t have what it takes, Princess. Marry rich and leave it to us men to do the real jobs.

Frustration threatened to spill onto her face at the flashing memory of their recent conversation. She was used to her father’s chauvinistic remarks. He’d made his opinion of women abundantly clear since the day her mother left them. She was only ten at the time, far too young to understand his hatred toward all women. Not anymore. Now his ridicule fueled her, pushed her to work harder so she could finally get out of Weyport. Though her father’s anger toward her mother projected onto her and should have ruined her life, it only made her more determined than ever to prove him wrong. She was destined for greatness, regardless of her being a woman or the result of a failed multiracial marriage. Another detail he constantly brought up, as if the color of her skin was somehow a deficit to her ability to succeed.

She pushed the negative emotions aside, straightened her back, and found her nerve again. This wasn’t the time to get distracted, least of all by her father’s condescending opinions. If she were to finally make it to the big leagues in New York, she had to keep her head in the game. These guys were professionals. They’d smell a charlatan from a mile away. If she showed the slightest hesitation or dropped her guard, her cover would be blown, taking nearly twelve months of work down the drain with it.

Her scalp itched under the wavy brown wig she wore to hide her identity. She absentmindedly scratched at the spot with a long, red fingernail—another accessory along with the false eyelashes and six-inch heels she wore to look the part. It was what was necessary to get behind the curtain.

Warmth flushed into her chest. She was so close to success she could almost taste it. The mix of fear and excitement churned within her, a volatile cocktail of emotions that kept her on edge, but also sharpened her focus. She couldn’t afford to mess this up—not when so much was on the line.

She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the room pressing down on her. The smoke hung thick in the air, mixing with the scent of sweat and cheap cologne, creating an oppressive atmosphere that made it hard to breathe. Every eye in the room was on her, waiting for her next move. She could feel the pressure building, threatening to crush her.

Hannah glanced at the clock on the wall. Time seemed to slow down, each tick on the second hand echoing in her ears like a drumbeat. She had to make a decision, and she had to make it now. The voices in her head battled for dominance — her father’s taunts mixing with her own doubts and fears. She pushed them all aside, deciding to focus instead on her opponents’ unspoken strategies.

Across from her, a regular out-of-towner’s eyes narrowed as he studied her face. A chubby, slimy, cigar-smoking, middle-aged man who always came dressed in a shiny silver suit, wearing far too many chunky rings like he was channeling Liberace. She had no interest in finding out who he really was or where he came from—he wasn’t the subject of her investigation. But he was annoying. A thorn in her side who had managed to knock her out of nearly every game since she started. She wanted to roll her eyes at the greaseball and snap a witty remark, but she forced her attention back to her mission and the cards in her hand. She had lost her concentration, played straight into his tactics, and allowed her mind to drift from the game. That could cost her everything.

Desperate to refocus and maintain her cover, she placed her cards face down on the forest green velveteen-covered table. One hand absently toyed with the poker chips in front of her while the other reached for her drink, a facade of calm amidst the tension.

Getting too hot in the kitchen for you, sweetheart? the greaseball taunted as she put her glass of gin back in its place.

Steady now, Hannah.

Her voice was controlled when she spoke.

I could ask you the same question, Mr. Roxworthy. Your leg hasn’t stopped twitching since we started this hand.

She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, putting him in his place. Then she pinched one corner of her cards to peek at her hand before dropping them back in place. Inside, her nerves were shot. On the outside, there was no trace of it. Somehow, she had managed to keep her head together and hide the knots twisting her stomach into an even tighter ball. A small feat she inwardly celebrated. For once, she had played him at his own game.

Mr. Roxworthy’s face turned a deep red when the player next to him snickered with amusement, but he ignored it. He knew better.

Jack Travis, her other opponent, smiled at Hannah, then lifted his crystal glass in her direction. His encouraging gesture sent butterflies into her stomach—not the good kind. The kind that hinted at the evil lurking behind his sheepish grin.

There was nothing nice about Jack Travis. His friendly smile was as fake as the counterfeit Rolex on his wrist and the knock-off Armani suit he thought had everyone fooled.

But like his cheap cologne that clung to the air in the small private gambling room, so did his dark presence. A presence that warned he wasn’t to be challenged.

Chapter Two

In the shadows behind Jack, his entourage stood like silent waiters, the slight bulges under their black windbreakers revealing that they were armed. Sin protectors she liked to call them. Men who pledged allegiance to their employer’s evil crimes. Wrongdoings she was determined to expose to the world as soon as she pieced it all together. Jack Travis would be revealed when she took down the man he was working for. For now, she needed to keep cool, keep her eye on the big shark, and win this round.

Hannah’s eyes met Jack’s, and she forced her red-stained lips into a smile. The butterflies in her stomach quickly morphed into a pulsating tension in her lower back. She straightened her posture. She was playing a dangerous game, but if she were to get the evidence she needed to blow their entire operation out of the water, this was the only way. She needed to gain Jack’s trust, get up close, personal even if that was what it took. He was her only way in—and her only way out of Weyport.

Jack smiled back at her. The slimy intentions behind his eyes pushed revolt into the back of her throat. She forced it down with a swig of her drink, the burn of the alcohol helping to steady her nerves.

Play or fold. I ain’t got all night, sweetheart, Roxworthy challenged, his leg now dead still beneath the table.

Don’t bite, Hannah. Remember why you’re here.

Mr. Roxworthy’s already pronounced bottom jaw pushed out even more as his bushy eyebrows lifted, prompting her to hurry up. The smoke from his cigar curled upward, creating a haze that added to the oppressive atmosphere.

Hannah placed her glass back atop the mahogany table’s overhang, aware that two of Jack’s men were speaking in quiet murmurs at the back of the room. She was about to add a few more poker chips to the already high pile in the middle of the table when one of Jack’s men leaned in over his shoulder and whispered something in his ear.

Dropping her gaze to pretend-study her cards, Hannah tried to eavesdrop. When she couldn’t hear what he was saying, she looked up and tried to read his lips. Roxworthy puffed a thick cloud of cigar smoke in her direction, taunting her to try to throw her off her game. Her gaze locked with his, the spiteful glimmer in his eyes mocking her to react.

A moment later, Jack slammed his cards down hard on the table, causing his nearby drink to splatter droplets of golden liquid all over the table. Roxworthy startled, nearly swallowing his cigar in the process.

Abruptly standing, Jack bumped the table, causing his small tower of poker chips to tumble into a messy pile.

Whatever his sidekick had just told him instantly transformed his face into an expression fueled by pure evil. The way he looked at her warned that she might be at the heart of his fury.

Roxworthy must have seen it too, his face revealing panic that was made worse when Jack noisily shoved his chair to the ground with the back of his knees.

Hey, watch it! Roxworthy finally had the nerve to snap when Jack’s elbow knocked into him, spilling half his beverage all over his rounded midsection.

But Jack showed little concern. His eyes were lit with rage as they locked onto Hannah’s face, sending shivers down her spine.

Jack turned to leave without saying a word.

Speak up, Hannah! Stop him! The little voice in her head prompted.

Anything the matter, Mr. Travis? she blurted out without thinking, annoyed with herself for not coming up with something more original.

Not that it would have mattered. That much was evident when Jack responded by glancing back at her, his eyes even darker. So chilling was his stare that Hannah could feel the blood in her veins freeze under the hate and anger radiating from his gaze. Her breath caught in the back of her throat, and she fought hard to keep the fear contained. To her relief, Jack spun back around and instead moved toward the exit.

Hey, you can’t just up and leave, Travis! This isn’t a high school game under the bleachers, you know, Roxworthy barked as he watched one of Jack’s men gather his boss’ winnings, his cold eyes warning Roxworthy to back off.

But Roxworthy was like a pit bull and didn’t let go. He jumped up, pointing a pudgy index finger in Jack’s direction.

Travis! You might be calling the shots around here, but that doesn’t make this right!

Before Roxworthy could say another word, the henchman next to him pushed him back down into his seat then turned and followed after his boss.

It’s late. I have to get going anyway, Hannah quickly announced as she pushed herself away from the table. It was the excuse she needed to follow Jack. Her gut told her that something big must have gone down for him to forfeit the game. And that meant opportunity. She couldn’t let it slip. No way.

A bunch of cowards, you are, Roxworthy spat. There are going to be penalties for this, you hear me? I’ll make sure of it! he yelled before finishing what was left in his glass. As Hannah turned to grab her coat from the back of her chair, Roxworthy leaned across the table to sneak a look at the cards she had left face down. But the dealer’s hand stopped him before he could turn them over.

There’s always next week, Mr. Roxworthy, Hannah yelled over her shoulder as she hurried after Jack.

Losers! he yelled after them.

Once outside the room, Hannah quickened her pace down the dim corridor that led to the exit and the alleyway behind the Turkish barbershop. She burst through the exit door and into the quiet, dark street, pausing briefly