“Can I ask you something without you biting my head off?” Max says after a pause of comfortable silence.
“That’s not a good way to start a conversation.” My tone definitely indicates that heads may be bitten off anyhow, but Max continues regardless.
“Why did you swap out with me the other night?”
He’s talking about the infiltration at the beach house. I wrack my brain for a valid excuse. “It was a simple job, no need for both of us to waste our time on it.”
“So it had nothing to do with the mercenary?” he asks innocently.
I turn to see my second blinking his eyes at me, a smug little smile slapped on his face. If he wasn’t so goddamn useful, I might have wrung his neck then and there.
“You’ve been talking to Dante.”
“Nope,” he says, putting emphasis on the “p”. “I’m just observant. I wasn’t sure if I was right until just now, though.”
“Asshole.”
“So is it like a thing then?” he presses. “I mean, I get it, she’s?—”
I cut him off. “She’s my wife.”
His mouth forms a perfect “O” shape, and he is suddenly looking very sheepish indeed.
“You may as well know,” I sigh out. “But we’re keeping things…discreet for now.”
“Roger that,” Max straightens and nods toward the factory doors. “Heads up.”
Eyes to the front, we both squint through the rain as a figure spills out. He’s hunched and muttering into his phone, and his hand is in his pocket—probably gripping his weapon.
Max shifts beside me, suddenly poised. “He’s packing,” he murmurs.
Silently, we both exit the car, the hammering rain covering the sound of our movements. The shadows swallow us as we close the distance, boots silent on the rain-slick concrete.
He approaches his car, and his back turns to us. We might be able to subdue him without complications.
Then it happens—his head snaps up, his hand flying from his pocket, the dull gleam of a gun catching the streetlight.
He doesn’t hesitate. Neither do I.
The first shot cracks through the night. I pivot, almost imagining that I can feel the rush of air as the bullet grazes past me. My own gun is already in my hand, and its weight is as natural as breathing.
I fire once.
Ivan dives behind his car, swearing violently and scrambling for cover. Max flanks left, his weapon barking twice, warning him that he’s outnumbered.
Max and I have him pinned. He’s boxed in like an animal.
“How about you come out here and have a little chat with us, Ivan.”
Ivan doesn’t reply. He knows he’s trapped. Max moves silently to the back of the car, waiting for my signal. I see the desperation in Ivan’s movements, hear it in the ragged breaths he thinks the rain conceals.
I fire again, the shot deliberate. It ricochets off the hood of the car, inches from his head.
“I don’t have all day,” I say, my voice cold, lethal. “Come out and face me, you bastard.”
Suddenly, Ivan bolts—his last, desperate gamble. He barrels toward the factory, his gun swinging wildly.
“Max,” I bark.
