TAG (9 page)

The round shoots straight through the neck of the target. “Not bad for a beginner,” I say. Is that a smirk tugging on my permanent scowl? It can’t be. What is he doing to me? What. Is. He. Doing. To. Me?

He shoots a few more rounds. Most of them are scattered around
the outside of the target, and a few make it in to the inside range.
Nevertheless, all of them are better shots than the first ones he let off.

After an hour of releasing all of the steam my body has pent up for the past two weeks, we turn in our pistols.

“Nice shot, honey,” the attendant behind the counter says. Now he’s giving me compliments?

“I know,” I respond, before walking out the door.

For leaving the shooting range only sixty seconds ago, my brain
is already bubbling. Thoughts prickle my mind and I feel out of
control. I feel like my mind has taken over and I’m not responsible for what
I’m about to do. Since I don’t have the ability to trust people, I sense eyes and ears in every hovering shadow, and my gut tells me Tango’s lying—likely lying about more than just not being able to
shoot a weapon. I shove my hand into Tango’s chest and push him against
the wall of the building. Caught off guard, he complies with my
force. “Whoa!” He puts his arms up by his head. “Chill. Will ya?”

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t know how to shoot. Tell me that was all an act.”

“Why does it matter if I can shoot or not?” His expression is firm. The skin around his cheeks doesn’t tighten, and he doesn’t
lower his hands. But he’s not afraid of me. On the contrary, he keeps giving in to me. I want to know why.

I pull out the knife I swiped from the sandwich shop earlier, knowing it would bring me some kind of comfort. I’ve kept it in the
sleeve of my fleece. I couldn’t travel with any weapons, and it was the first thing I
saw that could be used if needed. I raise it up to his neck. “Tell me
who you used to work for?”

His arm swings down and his hand clamps around my wrist, twisting it and pressing it against my back. I attempt to swing with
my other hand, but that one gets slapped against my other wrist. With one hand, he encapsulates both of mine, holding them against me in
a way that prevents me from moving. With no effort, his now free hand reaches around me and pulls the knife from my hand. He
pushes me
forward until we reach his truck, still keeping my hands locked
behind
me. He opens the door and lifts me up with his arm while easily
shoving me inside.

He closes the door and locks it, crating me in from the outside
world again. My eyes scan the door for the lock button, but I don’t see one. Fire is blazing through my nerves, and my rage is
overpowering what control I have left.

He opens his door so calm and casual and slides in while gently
closing his door. “What the fuck was that, Carolina?” His fingers
wrap
around the steering wheel, and the whites of his knuckles glow
through his reddened skin. “A knife? Seriously?”

“You’re a liar. Just like the rest of them.” The words flow freely. I went too far. I realize this, but my anger is not something to play with. If he actually read my file, he’d know that. He’d know how
screwed up I am. He’d know not to fuck with me. Yet, he did.

We pull into our parking lot and I flip the door handle three
times before I turn and give him a blazing look. “Let me out of this fucking tin can,” I growl. He reaches over me and flips the lock I apparently
didn’t see under the door handle. The locks pop up; I open the door and then kick it fully open. I jump out and storm toward the
entrance of the apartment. I’m somewhat surprised he let me go so easily, but I take the opportunity and run. Because that’s what I need to do right now.

I’m done.

I’m so fucking done.

TANGO

NOT SURE I EXPECTED
a knife—a serrated bread knife of all things, to be pulled on me today, but I’ve encountered worse. She must have snatched it from the sandwich shop. I’m gathering she’s a
bit more
troubled than I was originally led to believe. Maybe I didn’t need to go through the trouble of making her think I haven’t shot a pistol, but the man in me needed to feel her touch. And I did. Her hands are small, soft and don’t match her personality. She smells like a flowery shampoo, and all I wanted to do was lose my face in her silky waves.
I shouldn’t be feeling like this. This is my life and work, both meaning the same thing. I know better than this. But my problem is and always has been that I look for trouble, and I always love it—the feeling trouble gives me. And goddamn, this girl is nothing but trouble.

She’s embarrassed; I can see that. I feel like I know her type.
She’s
lost within her own mind and doesn’t know what’s good for her. And I’m guessing that’s because nothing has been good for her or
good to
her in the past. Something’s gotta give, or this is going to turn bad real quick. I’m guessing if I’m not the
thing
that gives, the
bad
is
going to be on my shoulders.

She’s moving quickly ahead of me, trying to create the distance she apparently needs from me. It doesn’t take much to trigger her, clearly.

CALI

I bust through the front door and then my bedroom door. I’m out of breath after running through the parking lot and up the stairs. I had
to wait for Tango to unlock the door since I’m essentially his
prisoner now. Although, I didn’t have to wait long since he was on my heels the entire time, making me feel like a child. Now I’m gathering my things and shoving them into my bags. I sling my bags over my
shoulders and head for the front door, ready to fight if needed.
Ready to fire him if needed.

As expected, I’m stopped at the front door where he stands—large, in my way, and taking up the entire doorway. “I can’t let you
leave,” he says simply.

“Get out of my way before I call my dad.” My jaw is tense and
my pulse is palpitating in my ears. He needs to move. I need to
escape. I need to be free.

“Carolina, you can’t call your dad.” He drops his arms from the threshold of the door, giving me the illusion he might let me by. “He won’t pick up his phone.” He moves forward, but I don’t step back. I won’t be intimidated by him. “When is the last time he picked up your call?”

Not once. In three years. We text when he sends me a working
phone number. Sometimes
h
e calls to check in, but not since he set
me up with this WWE-looking bodyguard.

I disregard his question.

“Let me by.” I step forward, leaving less than a foot between us.
Most people would laugh if they saw me trying to intimidate this
very tall and built man, compared to my five-foot-three self, but I know how to incapacitate him with one move.

But he doesn’t move. His head remains straight, but his eyes lower to my face. “You need to stay with me for your own safety,”
he says, staring into my eyes intently.

“I don’t need to do shit,” I argue. I drop my bags and take the remaining step before popping my leg out and curling it behind his
knee. I simultaneously twist my hand around the collar of his shirt and jerk him forward. His legs give out, and he falls to his knees. He lets out
a loud cough, a painful sounding one. And for a second I think I actually hurt him. Remorse sets in quickly, since I didn’t expect to
actually do
any damage. “Feel better?” he asks, looking up at me. He coughs
again and
nearly folds in half from the deep fight within his lungs. He clears his throat and looks up me. “If you were smart—” He clears his
throat
again. “You would have moved me from my position if you really wanted to get by me. But now, I’m still here, only lower to the
ground, and I doubt you can jump over my head.”

Bastard. He’s right. I’m losing my mind. I can’t even think of a response.

“Carolina, please stop.” He pulls in a deep struggling breath before looking up at me again. “Your dad is not in the CIA anymore. He stole something when he was on a mission in China three years
ago. He’s
been on the run ever since then. There are a number of people who
are after him, and you for that matter,” he adds, as if scripted.

My heart stops beating, and my mind starts racing.
Know everyone . . . trust no one.
Even Dad.

“How do I know you aren’t lying?” I sound powerless. I sound as if I’ve lost control.

I
have
lost control.

He stands up and steps away from the door, leaving it free and clear. But I don’t leave. “Carolina, come here away from the door.
We don’t need anyone hearing this shit.” He waves me into the kitchen, and my body obeys before my mind does.

I drop down into a bar stool and let my head fall onto my folded arms. “Where is he?” I mumble into my sleeve.

“You don’t know, do you?” his voice grows behind me as he
moves in closer.

I snap my head up and twist my body around on the stool to face him. “No, Tango. My mother is dead, my sister was fucking murdered, and I thought my dad was in the CIA. They’ve all left me in a world where everyone wants to screw me over or kill me.” I feel
hot tears
piercing the back of my eyes. I will not cry. I’m done crying. I
shouldn’t
have any tears left. I pull in short spurts of shallow breaths until I
regain my composure.

He slouches down in front of my stool. “Hey,” he says, looking up at me. “You were put in this situation. It isn’t your fault. But you do need to be protected. If you don’t want it to be me, I can call
someone
else. Just say the word, and I’ll be gone. I don’t want to make this harder on you.” He places his hand on my knee for comfort. Not hostility. Like a friend would do. I like his touch. It’s warm. It’s a
feeling I haven’t felt since Reaper touched me. “Honest.”

I swallow my pride, and it goes down like a rusty nail. I don’t want to deal with a new guard. I don’t want to be watched. But if I
don’t have a choice, I . . .

I promised myself I wouldn’t let this happen again. I promised the lifeless body of my little sister this wouldn’t happen again.

My breaths increase even more. I might hyperventilate, so I suck
in all of the air I can and hold it, hoping it will calm me down or
cause me to pass out. Tango’s fingers slip through my fingers, and he pulls
me off the stool and down to my knees. “Come here,” he says in a heavy voice. His arms wrap around my body, squeezing me tightly against him. “Friends. Okay?” He releases me and pushes me backward a bit so he can situate his face in front of mine. Being this
close to him—it does something to me. It gives me comfort. I don’t even remember the feeling. “I will keep you safe from everyone, including yourself.”
He takes my wrist and turns it over, scanning the area where a two-inch scar shows. Maybe he knew from my file, or maybe he noticed it over the past few days. It’s unmistakably a scar marking an
attempted end. If he did read that in my file, it’s obviously something he didn’t feel like repeating to me when I asked him to tell me what he knew.

“I like this tattoo,” he says, placing his finger over the ink and the scar, both intended to be one mark. Except, all he probably notices is the lapse in judgment—where my pulse stopped beating
the day I lost my sister: my best friend. The day I wanted to die with her.

His fingers remain on my wrist, and the warmth of his touch
makes me weak. I’m forcing myself not to twitch, not to let him know he’s gotten in my head.

“Where is my dad?” I ask, pulling myself away from him and up to my feet.

“Right now, he’s in Mexico. He’s hiding.”

I have become my father’s bait. That is why I am being chased. This must be why Krissy was killed?

“What crime did he commit?” I ask, knowing he probably won’t tell me.

“I’m not supposed to tell you,” he says with what I now can
confirm is compassion in his eyes.

I nod my head, trying to understand. But I don’t. I can’t. This is my life, and I’m in the dark.

Am I supposed to sit here and believe a complete stranger? Maybe he’s the one lying. Maybe he’s trying to reach my dad
through me. Maybe I completely fucked up again by letting him in this close.

 “How am I supposed to know I can trust you?” I ask, backing up until I hit the windowsill. “I mean, you come up to me in the
airport and tell me my dad hired you. Now you’re telling me my dad is a criminal and wanted. Who is he wanted by?”

“From the little amount of information he told me, some people from China are after him. The group he was with at the time have been after him for the last three years.”

“For what?” I repeat.

“Please, Carolina. Let me do my job correctly.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure you’ve already lied to me once. And I’m sure I don’t need to inform you of the saying,
once a liar, always a liar
. Right?”

“Fair enough,” he says, pulling a worn brown leather wallet out
of his back pocket. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to see. I’m not sure I know what bodyguards carry for IDs. Maybe I should after all
this time. But I don’t. He opens his wallet and pulls out his license. “This is the best I can do.”