Page 3 of Beautiful Killer

The guy sneered. “You hunted him down like a dog and dragged him in. So I’ve been doing the same to you. Watching you, following you.” He held the gun with two hands now. “How about I blow your motherfucking brains out?”

This wasn’t how I imagined it would happen, but I was ready. More than ready. I wasn’t scared of what came next, I was . . . relieved. I lifted my head and stared him in the eyes, and waited.

“You got nothing to say?” he snarled.

I kept my arms out at my sides. “Do what you have to do.”

The guy blinked. “I’m not fucking with you, I mean it.” He started shaking. “I’m going to kill you!” he screamed.

Jesus, I was tired. So fucking tired.

“I mean it,” he said again.

“Then do it,” I roared back, then closed my eyes, locking out his shocked stare. My men never saw it coming, I deserved nothing more.

The sound of a gun cocking echoed around us and I braced . . .

“Drop the gun, now.”

Van.

The sound of running came next, a shot, shouting.

I opened my eyes. Neco was in pursuit and, pumped with adrenaline, my stalker sprinted toward the edge of the building. Neco was quicker, though, and tackled the guy to the ground before he could leap. I turned back to Van. He was standing in front of me, expression troubled. “What the fuck was that?”

I shrugged and climbed to my feet. “Unhappy customer.”

Jude, an ex-cop and the agency’s persuasion specialist, among other things, appeared and joined Van. I walked past both of them and headed for the roof top door.

“Zeke, hold up . . .” Van called after me.

I ignored him. There was nothing to say. And sure as fuck nothing I wanted to talk about. They had everything in hand, so I took the elevator to the ground floor and kept on walking.

* * *

I stared down at my third glass of Jameson and worked at forgetting the look on Van’s face. Shit. The guy’s uneasy expression was branded on my brain. He’d been waiting for me to flip the fuck out since I started working for him, had several times mentioned counseling. Jesus. I didn’t need him on my case about this, well intentioned or not. I downed the rest of my drink and motioned to the barman for another. The place wasn’t overly busy, and no one was looking my way. If anyone did, it was never for long.

Most people were unsettled by me, avoided making eye contact. Not something I worked at, but I was okay with it. I didn’t like to talk. When people talked, they gave away too much of themselves. They got close, formed connections. I didn’t want that, not from anyone. The only people who knew anything about what happened in Afghanistan were Van and my father, and neither of them knew the full story. Van and I enlisted together, were deployed the first time together. He’d been my closest friend before we were shipped out.

I didn’t know what we were anymore.

My hand lifted to the center of my chest and I rubbed at the ache. There was something inside me tonight, a feeling I couldn’t identify, didn’t know what to do with. A dark emptiness behind my ribs and a twisted voice in my head urging me to walk out of this bar and headfirst into a situation that would make that feeling go away, that would end it all . . .

I was done fighting it.

I was about to stand, when the door opened. My eyes slid to the woman that walked in. Blond hair, wavy. Lots of it. Subtle makeup. My gaze lifted back to her hair. Shit, it looked soft. She slipped off her jacket and revealed a curvy figure, lush. Denim hugged her round hips, and the blue top she was wearing was doing the same with her breasts and small waist. She had silver bracelets on both wrists and an intricate necklace. It looked like knotted leather, some glass and silver beads as well. Unusual. Her boots were brown leather and had spiked heels. She was alone and as she moved toward the bar, more than a few sets of eyes followed her, including mine.

The most important skill for a sniper is observation, picking out any irregularity, any possible threat. Sitting still and looking for anything out of the ordinary.

This woman . . . she was far from ordinary.

I needed a pair of shades just to look at her, she was so bright. Like a light shone from within. Fucking walking, talking sunshine, and I wasn’t the only one that noticed as she moved to the bar and ordered a glass of wine. I found myself straining to hear her voice. I bet she smelled good, too. She handed over the money for her drink. Her hands were small, delicate, and she had a wide gold ring on her thumb. Not silver like the rest of her jewelry, and it was obviously a man’s ring. She was twisting is as she stood there. A nervous habit, or maybe she was drawing strength from it? Because she looked a little nervous. The piece held sentiment. Someone she cared about. My gaze slid back to her face in time to watch her draw in a deep breath and glance around the bar. Yeah, definitely nervous. Tucking her hair behind one ear, she glanced at the door, then she turned back and . . . her eyes slid to me . . .

The oxygen punched from my lungs. Her eyes were wide and the brightest blue . . . shit, no, they were almost violet.

They darted away for several seconds, then she glanced back. I stared, unable to do anything else. She quickly looked away again and took a step . . .

Her hip collided with the stool, knocking it over. She flushed red and quickly righted it then tried to walk away again, but instead slammed into one of the waitresses, knocking a tray of empties to the floor. Sunshine dumped her bag and coat on the bar and got on the floor, helping pick everything up, apologizing and flushing darker. She laughed at something the waitress said, and her entire face lit up. My gut tightened and I shifted on my seat. As she handed over one of the glasses, I noticed a fading bruise on her elbow, then what looked like a burn on the side of her thumb, a scar on her ring finger. That, plus what I’d just witnessed—the woman was obviously prone to accidents.