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“Yeah, Angel, I’ll come home.” I kiss the tip of her nose. “Now, be my good wife and get in the vehicle.”
She surprises me by gripping the lapels of my jacket and pulling me to her as she lifts onto her toes, pressing her lips to mine.
I let my eyes close for one second as I soak in her essence before I pull back. “Good wife, indeed.”
Valentine bites down on her lip, then climbs into the back seat.
I wait until she’s buckled herself in, then I close the door.
The driver starts to walk past me, but I grab him by the collar, pulling him so we’re face-to-face. “If there is so much as a scratch on her, you’ll pay with your life.”
He nods. “Yes, Boss.”
I let him go. “When she’s secure, double the usual security team. We haven’t had a lead on these guys in weeks. If this is a setup, I want you ready.”
He nods again, then circles around to the driver’s door and climbs in.
* * *
The house isin a shitty part of a shitty suburb and looks just like the flophouse it is.
Neighbors in a place like this mind their own fucking business. Which is perfect, because we’re about to do some business.
No cars are in the driveway, but one of my men checked the detached garage, and the vehicle inside matches the one we’re looking for.
The yards are all surrounded by tall but rickety fencing, so it doesn’t take much for my guys to silently remove a few boards, letting us walk into the target backyard.
I left my jacket in the car—for dexterity—but there wasn’t time to change into tactical gear. So I’m walking through knee-high dead grass in my fucking suit.
But we don’t need tactical because there are twenty of us and only two of them.
Twenty is overkill, but half of them will stay outside as backup and cover. And the ten of us entering will break off, half through the front door and half through the back door.
Our second-best lockpick goes around to the front, and I step up to the back.
It’s been a while since I’ve gotten to use this particular skill, but no one does it better. And in a matter of seconds, I have the deadbolt sliding free.
Staying radio silent, the men surrounding the house signal to each other when both doors are unlocked.
And we enter as one.
Adrenaline and anger flare through my system. And I inhale it, filling my lungs with the power I feel as the first man through the door.
Our guns are drawn, silencers on—our goal is to keep this quiet.
The back door opens into the kitchen. It’s small. The lights are off, but a glow comes from the living room off to my right, and it’s enough to show me there’s no place for a man to hide in here.
The TV is on, playing a football game, and the noise is enough to cover the small sounds our shoes make on the linoleum floor. But the front door leads directly into the living room, so my five turn the other way, down the short hall, letting the front crew take care of the man in the living room.
Half a shout reaches us, but it’s muffled before it finishes. And with the game on, it just sounds like someone yelling at the TV, not someone getting grabbed by five men dressed in black.
There are two open doors—dark bedrooms beyond—and one closed door with light and steam coming through the gap between the floor and the bottom of the cheap door.
My mouth pulls into a grin.
He’s in the shower.
