chest, aiming for the heart.
With an almighty bellow, I dove at Vicente. My punch landed at his temple, a hard enough blow to incapacitate him. Then I made one stupid mistake, checking on Walker, forgetting about the wily Cuban.
When I looked up, he was a dot on the dunes, nearing the street. Unharmed for the most part, and fully armed, he scrambled away.
“Fuck!” I burst into action, gunning after him at a hard run, Walker hot on my heels.
The night blurred, my vision swimming, but still we kept him in our sights. Barely. The on-foot pursuit ended in a wild goose chase when Vicente simply disappeared from one alley to the next.
Walker stopped, shoulders braced against a building. “Can’t go on.”
He was too hurt to keep going, and I wasn’t fresh off the shelf myself. “Fuck!” I punched the brick wall, adding a new bruise to my busted up knuckles. “Fuck,” I said more quietly.
This was why going in solo was preferable. Why keeping women, friends, family, kids and the whole lot out of the mix was better. It wasn’t about getting medals for combat—we weren’t those types of people. It was about doing something so everyone slept safer at night even if they didn’t know why.
If Walker hadn’t been here, I’d be dead.
If he hadn’t been here, I’d still be in hot pursuit of Vicente.
“Let’s get gone.” We limped-ran to his safe house, both of us keeping the other up.
We weren’t heroes. We’d never be invited to the White House. We did the dirty work so other people looked good.
In the safe house, which was no more than a flea-bitten, cockroach-ridden motel room in the gutters of Tampa, Walker did not look so good. I filled the ice bucket, bought a fifth of whiskey, and found my suture kit.
His blood dripped into the yellow-stained basin in our room.
“Saved your life again.” He took a long pull from the bottle.
“Should stop trying to get killed.” I slapped his side when he squirmed. “Keep still, ya cunt.”
I stitched his gashes with neat little loops and tied off ends. We both had so many scars—under our skin, on our flesh, in our souls.
“Death wish. You got it,” he said.
I didn’t, though. The opposite, in fact.
I needed to feel alive all the time.
“We made it through tonight.” Visibly pale, Walker gingerly checked my stitches with a nod of appreciation.
“To die another day.” I pressed a square of gauze on him and taped it to his skin. “Probably tomorrow.”
“Plan B?” he asked.
“As long as you’re steady enough to have my six.”
Tomorrow. Dawn. Possible death. Plan B. Take the rat-faced racketeering fucks down once and for all.
“Thank you, brother.” Walker looked back at me through the mirror.
Vicente had lived for one more night.
So had Walker and I.
The rest hadn’t.
I wasn’t a good guy, a bad guy, or even traceable.
THE GHOST.
I was the man they sent in when all else failed—rules of engagement, laws of Congress, notions vetoed by Homeland Security—all that red tape meant nothing. I was the back door. Deep black cover. No out. And the only way in was to lose myself to the darkest side of my soul.
I laid my life on the line, and if I happened to get killed in the line of duty, I’d be no more than a body six feet underground beneath an unmarked gravesite. No one would claim me as their own.
I didn’t want to die like that.
Chapter Six
JB. JESSICA BARNES. SHE was honest to goodness perfection. Sweet and sassafras. Naughty and wholesome all rolled into one. She had me by the ballsack without even trying. Despite swearing her off, I wanted her.
I needed her.
I managed to stay away from her for all of two more days. Yeah, I had the willpower of a smack addict when it came to the woman. With a groan of frustration, I flipped open my laptop, did a little investigating, and came up trumps almost immediately.
After a long hot shower while I tried to talk myself down from my current course of action, I
With an almighty bellow, I dove at Vicente. My punch landed at his temple, a hard enough blow to incapacitate him. Then I made one stupid mistake, checking on Walker, forgetting about the wily Cuban.
When I looked up, he was a dot on the dunes, nearing the street. Unharmed for the most part, and fully armed, he scrambled away.
“Fuck!” I burst into action, gunning after him at a hard run, Walker hot on my heels.
The night blurred, my vision swimming, but still we kept him in our sights. Barely. The on-foot pursuit ended in a wild goose chase when Vicente simply disappeared from one alley to the next.
Walker stopped, shoulders braced against a building. “Can’t go on.”
He was too hurt to keep going, and I wasn’t fresh off the shelf myself. “Fuck!” I punched the brick wall, adding a new bruise to my busted up knuckles. “Fuck,” I said more quietly.
This was why going in solo was preferable. Why keeping women, friends, family, kids and the whole lot out of the mix was better. It wasn’t about getting medals for combat—we weren’t those types of people. It was about doing something so everyone slept safer at night even if they didn’t know why.
If Walker hadn’t been here, I’d be dead.
If he hadn’t been here, I’d still be in hot pursuit of Vicente.
“Let’s get gone.” We limped-ran to his safe house, both of us keeping the other up.
We weren’t heroes. We’d never be invited to the White House. We did the dirty work so other people looked good.
In the safe house, which was no more than a flea-bitten, cockroach-ridden motel room in the gutters of Tampa, Walker did not look so good. I filled the ice bucket, bought a fifth of whiskey, and found my suture kit.
His blood dripped into the yellow-stained basin in our room.
“Saved your life again.” He took a long pull from the bottle.
“Should stop trying to get killed.” I slapped his side when he squirmed. “Keep still, ya cunt.”
I stitched his gashes with neat little loops and tied off ends. We both had so many scars—under our skin, on our flesh, in our souls.
“Death wish. You got it,” he said.
I didn’t, though. The opposite, in fact.
I needed to feel alive all the time.
“We made it through tonight.” Visibly pale, Walker gingerly checked my stitches with a nod of appreciation.
“To die another day.” I pressed a square of gauze on him and taped it to his skin. “Probably tomorrow.”
“Plan B?” he asked.
“As long as you’re steady enough to have my six.”
Tomorrow. Dawn. Possible death. Plan B. Take the rat-faced racketeering fucks down once and for all.
“Thank you, brother.” Walker looked back at me through the mirror.
Vicente had lived for one more night.
So had Walker and I.
The rest hadn’t.
I wasn’t a good guy, a bad guy, or even traceable.
THE GHOST.
I was the man they sent in when all else failed—rules of engagement, laws of Congress, notions vetoed by Homeland Security—all that red tape meant nothing. I was the back door. Deep black cover. No out. And the only way in was to lose myself to the darkest side of my soul.
I laid my life on the line, and if I happened to get killed in the line of duty, I’d be no more than a body six feet underground beneath an unmarked gravesite. No one would claim me as their own.
I didn’t want to die like that.
Chapter Six
JB. JESSICA BARNES. SHE was honest to goodness perfection. Sweet and sassafras. Naughty and wholesome all rolled into one. She had me by the ballsack without even trying. Despite swearing her off, I wanted her.
I needed her.
I managed to stay away from her for all of two more days. Yeah, I had the willpower of a smack addict when it came to the woman. With a groan of frustration, I flipped open my laptop, did a little investigating, and came up trumps almost immediately.
After a long hot shower while I tried to talk myself down from my current course of action, I
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