Dallas, Texas
Monday night
I’ve had a lot of firsts. First undercover op. First time laundering a million dollars for the FBI. First almost full-body cavity search courtesy of a cartel. But being shot by the girl I like? That’s one for the books.
And definitely not part of the plan.
Pawson was easy—he stole the food, as predicted, and got a crash course in digestive karma courtesy of a heavy dose of laxatives.
Getting Edmond to arrange a meeting with Ramirez so I could get the PhantomKey close enough to his laptop? Unexpected.
Ramirez pulling a gun? Expected.
But Cybil grabbing the gun... aiming it at me? Pulling the trigger?
That was never part of the script.
According to the paramedic, the bullet grazed just beneath the deltoid—bloody, painful, but not life-threatening. Which is great for my survival but terrible for the sympathy angle I’m trying to work.
I let out a groan—loud enough to be heard over the blur of police radios and shouted commands. The paramedic gives me a side-eye as she winds another strip of gauze around my upper arm.
Cybil’s head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing in that way that usually precedes either concern or an insult. “Is he going to be okay?”
The paramedic nods. “Bullet missed the bone and artery. Whoever fired it knew exactly where to aim to make a statement without causing permanent damage.”
I lift my brows to Cybil.
She presses her lips together, but her eyes flash with something that looks suspiciously like pride. “Don’t be dramatic. I had to wrestle a psychopath and his lawyer.”
“I got shot.”
“You gotclipped.”
“I’m emotionally wounded.”
She leans closer, voice low and dry. “You want a lollipop or a Purple Heart?”
What I want is to kiss her. What I say is, “I want you to admit you were worried.”
Cybil crouches beside me, expression softening just enough to give me hope—or mess with my head. Her lips twitch and she crosses her arms and speaks to the paramedic. “I aimed for his ego, but apparently it’s bulletproof.”
The paramedic snorts.
“It’s like you don’t even feel bad,” I murmur.
Around us is chaos. The FBI’s mobile units are parked alongside police vehicles. Beyond the gates, the media is already setting up to report the news of Lorenzo Ramirez’s and his attorney’s arrest. Ruby and Athena are geared up, earbuds blinking with comms chatter as agents sweep the scene for loose ends, and Katherine is standing in the middle of it all, issuing orders with the kind of calm that could silence a riot with a single arched brow.
But I only see her.
Cybil Langford.
“Do you two need a couples therapist or a tactical debrief?”
I glance over to see Ruby striding toward us, sleeves rolled and expression set to amused but slightly exasperated. Katherine and Athena trail behind her, both looking far too composed considering what just went down.
“Nice of y’all to show up,” I grumble, shifting on the metal bumper of the ambulance. The surface is hard and completely unsympathetic—kind of like the mood I’m cultivating right now.
Katherine ignores the jab. “You two okay?”
