The plan had worked, but now he knew everything. Knew that revenge had shrouded her every move since she’d realized she had the power to set her world right.
Earlier, she’d disposed of the listening devices he’d planted in her house and car and cell phone. Still, it would be a neat trick for her to stop him from following her, because the man had supersonic tracking abilities and an uncanny sixth sense when it came to her.
Nine months earlier. Russia
.
Bullets rang overhead. Riley’s hiding place was behind a metal dumpster in the alley; the Russian gang she’d just stolen blueprints from would close in on her soon
.
Her only salvation was that she’d hidden them already. The man who’d hired her would pick them up later
.
Of course, that meant no one cared if she lived or died at this point. Or so she’d thought, until a pair of strong arms hauled her up from the ground through the window of an abandoned warehouse, moments before the Russian men descended on her now-defunct hiding place
.
She whirled around, to find Dylan was the one holding her. “What are you doing here?
”
“
Saving your ass.” He ground out the words, and he was the
angriest she’d ever seen him. Because she’d almost ruined his op … and he’d certainly ruined hers, but in a much different way. Because she couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering if they would continue along this path for years, hooking up when fate randomly brought them together … until one of them got killed
.
“
You trying to get yourself killed?” he demanded
.
“
Yes, Dylan, it was a suicide mission,” she shot back. “I didn’t ask for your backup.
”
“
You sure as hell need it.
”
In the dark, his body pressed to hers, she felt the familiar urge. Wanted to give in to it. Wanted to run her fingers through his thick hair, let him take her against the wall, or back to his hotel, and not emerge until they were both sated
.
Dammit. She pulled out of his grasp, remembering she had places to be. Needed to collect the money for the job she’d just completed, not hanging around with Dylan
.
The worst part was that she’d been grateful that he’d arrived. Had actually thought about calling him for help
.
She’d shoved away from him and hightailed it down the stairs and away from the abandoned building. Maybe she could still salvage this mission, could still grab the men, make the deal with the stolen maps, as planned
.
“
Riley.” He’d caught up to her, a hand wrapped around her biceps. An unrelenting grip, and she’d wanted to scream with frustration
.
“
Let me go.
”
“
You’ll do something stupid.
”
“
That’s none of your concern.” She bared her teeth and finally he released her. “Don’t you understand, Dylan—I am none of your concern anymore.
”
She’d walked away, determined not to make contact again. And she hadn’t, until he’d shown up in her storage locker
.
But now he knew about DMH. Her role in everything. The fact that she might actually be employed by DMH, an organization that was for most of what Dylan fought against these days. If he still wanted anything from her, he was definitely a crazy man for aligning himself with someone a major terrorist group wanted, dead or alive.
Neither option appealed to her, but they’d made the choice seem so simple—work for them or they would kill her. Maybe her life was meant to be lived this way, a punishment for seeking revenge, for trying to play God, judge and jury.
What will you do?
She didn’t know what fate she’d choose, not until she opened the door. From there, she’d go on instinct and not think about Dylan Scott and his many offers of help.
She didn’t need help. She needed to confront her demons. And if she chose DMH, there would be more to follow. Perhaps, after a while, she would stop feeling. Killing would make her a rote machine, her conscience erased.
The nervous thump of her heart told her that pipe dream was over.
So. Over. Which was why she’d needed no further instructions when the familiar voice called with a time to meet.
DMH would come for her if she didn’t show up. And, since Dylan was watching her house, Riley couldn’t afford that.
She wouldn’t involve him further. Bad enough she’d spilled her stupid guts like some kind of weak-willed woman. She thought she’d pushed that need out of her, stomped it down hard enough that it would never show its face again.
She didn’t want to need, and she held on to that control with a fierce and hard hand as her convertible veered off the highway and headed toward the address the man she knew only as Rocket had given her.
The private, underground garage nearly brought on an attack of claustrophobia, which was only made worse in the elevator. She longed for air and light and space, nearly stumbled in relief stepping off the elevator, into the long hallway that led to the steel door.
She’d only spoken with the man called Rocket by phone, all three times. The first was her reaching out with intel. The next two were from him, even though she’d made sure to block her number when she’d called.
She’d made them think she was giving them Gabriel Creighton on a platter for money. They’d made her realize the price of dealing with DMH was higher than she’d ever thought.
The key to the penthouse was along the top of the door on the heavy molding—she pulled it down after running her hand along the cool steel and took a calming breath before opening the door, letting herself in without the courtesy of a knock.
They were waiting for her anyway. Prepared, thanks to the myriad of cameras positioned from the parking garage right up to the door she’d just opened.
There was a man sitting on the couch. She took note of another man, behind her, big and beefy.
A thin trickle of sweat ran between her breasts, despite the frigid air-conditioning in the penthouse, as she shut the heavy door, the key still clutched tightly in her hand.
The seated man nodded in her direction and she immediately recognized Rocket’s voice. “Great to finally meet you, Riley. Your information was invaluable.”
She didn’t say anything, simply nodded and listened.
“He’s still alive, in case you were wondering. We’ve got plans for him.” Rocket put his hands together, fingertips touching as well as thumbs, forming a diamond shape. “We’ve got plans for you too, Riley. Although my orders say differently, I think you can be of great use to our organization.”
“And just to be clear—if I refuse?” she asked, kept her voice firm and steady, her hands equally so. Her insides were jelly, undecided as to fight or flight.
He sighed, but when he spoke, his tone remained affable, his hands unchanged. “We kill you. The choice is yours.”
Riley realized that it always had been. For the first time, she might actually choose correctly.
S
he was surrounded by angry, armed men. Trapped in the tub, Sky was paralyzed as they came closer … closer.
“Come with us, Sky …”
She reached for her gun, but it wasn’t there. She was alone and they were coming for her. And she was fighting, her hands clenched into fists and making contact—
“Skylar, baby, you’re dreaming. Wake up—you’re safe.”
Skylar, baby
.
She
was
safe, pressed against Cam with his strong arms wrapped around her. She uncurled her fists against his chest and let her breathing get back to normal as he rubbed her shoulders.
She had no idea how long he’d been lying next to her, but her body was warmed by his and it was officially dark outside. “Sorry. It was so real. They were after me and I couldn’t get away. Do you have dreams like that?”
He pulled back from her a bit. She could make out his features in the dark as he stared at her, the dim ceiling light dappling his skin. “Yeah, sometimes. Hazard of the job. Not something you should have to deal with.”
His tone was decidedly casual, and that made her unreasonably angry. “That man’s face, when you killed him.” She pressed her palms over her eyes in an attempt to block out the image but instead succeeded in burning it deeper into her memory. “How does this not affect you?”
“Who says it doesn’t?” His words were quiet and somewhat gruff, as if she’d forced him to admit something shameful. “There’s blood on my hands, Sky, and there always will be.”
“This time, it’s because of me.”
“None of this is your fault, you have to know that.”
She did, but that didn’t make anything easier. “My father is always pretending to be someone else for his job … does he feel that way too? That there’s blood on his hands?”
Gabriel had blood on his hands, but whether or not he cared was something about which Cam refused to speculate. Cam had been unable to get his own father from his mind, thanks to the earlier conversation with Dylan about the OAs.
Cam had always wondered how his father had done it, pretended to be someone else. Had it been easier to really become an outlaw, or had Howie Moore simply found his true calling? He’d seemed to like being a rough-riding, hard-talking biker, a man people with half a brain were afraid of.
The ones with less brains than that never fared too well under his father’s fast moves. Howie had been known to kill indiscriminately, although that could never be proven. They called him Dark Angel—no one ever saw him, but whenever vengeance was necessary, Howie was at the center of it. “My dad was a dangerous man. Trained ATF agent and a biker. I know he scared the shit out of me. And he was always in character. I don’t know if he would have ever been able to separate himself from that last job.”
Growing up, Cam hadn’t brought friends home—or girlfriends. Howie was a serious body builder on top of everything else—big, thick, tattooed to the hilt. Smart. And angry.
The man was always angry. He couldn’t have had too much peace with himself. At least that’s what Cam would tell himself when Howie was knocking the shit out of him a few times a month.
Sky didn’t say anything to those admissions—and Cam felt himself sticking up for his father, inexplicably. “He was under a lot of pressure.”
She gave a low, raw laugh. “That’s what we tell ourselves, right? Stay out of their way, they’ve got an important job.” She turned to him. “I get it—but why have children, then? Those jobs are much better suited to independent, unattached men and women.”
“I guess they fell in love, couldn’t help themselves.” He’d said it almost flippantly, nearly said,
Probably couldn’t keep out of each other’s pants
, but went with the slightly more romanticized version.
She made a soft noise, and for a second, he thought she was crying. She might’ve been, because when she spoke again, her voice had an odd, hollow quality to it, couched in a steely resolve. “My mother was killed when I was sixteen. My father told me that it was someone looking for revenge on her—I don’t know much more than that. I was supposed to be home—would’ve been too if I hadn’t snuck out back to visit at the neighbor’s house. When I came home hours later, everything had changed. I was taken away, my last name was changed and I was guarded for about six months until they determined no one knew I existed. My parents set it up that way. My mom was an agent too.”
I know who you really are
. This was what she hadn’t wanted to tell him before. She might not have been threatened before, but her family had certainly been a target. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know.”
“Dad never talks about it with me, so I can’t imagine him mentioning it to someone else. I was always coached, taught to tell people that my parents were executives, that they traveled for work. But my parents never talked about me, didn’t carry pictures of me. Didn’t claim me on their taxes. I always had a different last name. When I was growing up, for the longest time, I had this strange sense that I didn’t exist.”
Her words explained the haunted look that shrouded her face at odd moments.
“There wasn’t a funeral. It was, like, one day she went to work and never came home, and I wasn’t supposed to acknowledge it. I went on with life, being raised by a string of housekeepers who disapproved that my father worked so much,” she continued. “I shouldn’t be telling you all this—I never tell anyone.”
“Everything you tell me helps me protect you more effectively,” he lied, and she gave him a wan smile.
“I hated feeling so scared and helpless. It was such an awful time and I really thought I was past it … and I don’t know if I can get through this.”
“You can—you will. You held it together today.” He paused. “Did you tell me about your mom because of what I told you earlier?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I was going to tell you no matter what. I’ve kept it inside for so long … it’s tiring.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I already told you that I hated my father sometimes. His job. I wondered, how can he do something so dangerous, how can he put me at risk like that? After my mother … didn’t he care enough to quit?”
He didn’t say anything—what was there to say?
And then she reached out, touched his cheek, spoke to him … implored him. “How do you do it, Cam? You have a dangerous job too. What’s that like? How do you get yourself back?”
He had no idea how to answer her.
I know who you really are, Sky—but you have no fucking clue who I am. Or why I’m here
.
Would it ever come down to telling her? Dylan was right—he could call the CIA, let them know where to get Sky. But that wouldn’t solve the problem of Sky eventually telling the CIA—and, by extension, Gabriel—that Cam had been with her.
If Gabriel was even alive. “I already told you, Sky—I have blood on my hands.”
I
t was so quiet. The TV wasn’t working. The lights kept dimming, even though the worst of the storm was over.
And still, Sky knew both of them were used to this, for such different reasons. Cam, with the military training—watching, waiting in semi-darkness for the danger.