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He was going to break her heart and he knew it. Knew it, and had no idea how to stop it.
What was worse, he’d end up breaking his own heart if he wasn’t damned careful.
—
“What do you mean she got away?” The voice rasped across the line as hard, icy brown eyes looked down from the apartment window to the alley below.
“I mean she wasn’t quite as weak as you led me to believe,” he informed his employer. “She’s cautious, resourceful, and damned fast. We lost her in a back alley.”
Hell, she was a fucking Mackay—did this bastard think it was going to be easy? He’d done his research before he’d taken the job. Enough so that he’d initially declined, only to have to reconsider after additional intel had come through.
“One woman,” his employer mused, “against a well-aimed projectile, should not have been resourceful enough, nor fast enough, to outrun it.”
“Turn the girl sideways and there’s a hell of a margin for error. She’s a skinny little bitch,” he snorted, knowing better. The woman was sweet curves and slender muscle.
“Was her phone used?” The man asked as though he were speaking to a moron.
He let himself grin. He’d make the bastard pay for that one later. In spades.
“She made countless attempts; none went through.”
“Check the report for the program I gave you. Look for encrypted numbers. Timothy Cranston, the bastard her whore mother’s sleeping with, is retired Homeland Security. Make sure he didn’t get through. Start running the tag numbers you should have taken of any vehicle coming into or out of the alleys you were watching. You did that, right?”
His gaze flicked over the bare windows of the deserted building across from him. “Taken care of. Nothing blipped even close to Somerset, or the names you listed.”
Silence filled the line for long seconds.
“Send me the tag numbers and vehicle descriptions, as well as any surveillance you should have taken,” he was ordered. “However she managed to get away, there’s no doubt she’s headed home, possibly back to her mother’s inn and Cranston’s protection. Do you have someone there?”
“There, at the lumber store, the garage, the marina, and the restaurant,” he replied, naming off each business she worked at.
“Well, at least you did something right,” the other man snorted.
His eyes narrowed as he stared at the reflection of his second in command behind him, listening in on the call.
“I tried,” he drawled.
The answering snort was pure insult. “Try harder. Get to Somerset and find that bitch. When I arrive there, I want a pretty new toy to play with, and I won’t be happy if I don’t have it.”
The call disconnected.
“Yeah, I’m real concerned with his pretty new toy,” he growled as his second leaned back against the wall thoughtfully and waited.
“Are we ready to head to Somerset?” Pulling his weapon, he checked the clip, reinserted it, then began packing the meager supplies they’d stocked the tiny, deserted apartment with.
“The van’s packed and your Vette’s ready.”
His brows arched. “New engine doing good?”
“Excellent.” The answer was delivered with cool precision and a light shrug. “Grog says it vrooms.”
He grinned, zipped up the pack, and gave a brief nod. “Let’s go hear it vroom, then.”
“You’re not going to match that Viper.” The comment had a grimace pulling at his lips as he opened the door and stepped out of the apartment.
“How the hell do you know? The fucker won’t tell anyone what he did to the bitch. If Jed did as I asked and put everything in that motor I wanted, then we’ll have a fighting chance,” he argued.
A snort sounded behind him. No comment, no argument. But that sound of disbelief made his ass itch.
