Ghost (Chosen Few series #6)

Chapter 1

A cold calm weaved through Mila’s bones as she stood in the closet. The scent of heady cologne permeated the stuffy space. The one-piece black bodysuit was slick against her sweaty skin.

Come on, snore, you big oaf.

It’d been fifteen minutes since he entered the room and got under the covers. She didn’t check her watch. Instinct told her it was almost midnight.

The air split with a rough, masculine rattle. Thank god. She adjusted the balaclava. Her breath was hot and damp. Carefully, she slipped her fingers into the pocket at her hip and grasped the capped hypodermic needle.

Another snore followed, slow and laborious. Years ago, this is when she would’ve frozen. The knowledge that she was about to take the life of another human was what had done it. A person whose identity and transgressions had nothing to do with her but surely existed because she’d been hired.

But not now.

She was too good at what she did.

Quiet. Move. Strike.

Slipping her gloved fingers in the crack of the rolling closet door—one she’d already oiled and ensured glided soundlessly before her target got home—she inched it open. Then she moved her latex-covered body into the room.

The man’s snores continued.

Moonlight streamed through the parted curtains and a fan blew cool air around. Good thing her hair was knotted and covered. One hair from her head could land her in prison for life.

What kind of asshole slept with a fan on in December?

Her spine stiffened as she sidled around the perimeter of the bed. Unfortunately, the closet was positioned on the opposite side of where he slept, which meant wasting precious seconds.

As she grew closer, his breathing got louder. Her chest tightened—only short, shallow breaths until this part was done.

The man lay on his back. His form was large and muscular and stretched from the top to the foot of the bed.

One arm was flung over his head, the other rested on his bare abdomen.

Tanned, sinewy skin was visible in the moonlight, as was a shadowed jawline.

.. right above where she needed to strike.

She brought her thumb to the cap of the needle and pushed it off, popping the lid into her pocket, a motion she’d performed countless times. She stopped at the side of the bed and thrust the needle toward his neck.

A meaty hand snapped up, catching her wrist in a bone-breaking hold. Mila’s eyes widened. A scream stopped in her throat.

“What the fuck!” the man bellowed, as he lunged at her.

She punched his thick neck, near the jugular.

A menacing growl erupted from him as he snatched her other hand.

Panic infused her cells, but she refused to give way to the fear that would end her. Throwing her head forward, she slammed her skull against his.

He grunted and leapt from the bed, shoving her against the wall. Instinct overtook terror. She couldn’t get caught. There shouldn’t even be a struggle happening at all. She had to get him under control.

Circling her leg behind his knee, she pushed the wall of his chest. His leg buckled and he went down, taking her with him. They landed on their sides, slamming against the wooden floorboards.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he spat.

In half a second, he was on top of her. She surged up her hips, throwing him into the wall. The action made him break his hold on her wrist.

Yes!

She drove the needle toward his abdomen, ready to plunge the liquid into his flesh and stop his heart. His hand closed around her throat and the needle was pried from her fingers and thrown.

The plastic scattered over the wood.

Menace sparked in his cold eyes.

Fight tore through her senses. She jerked up her knee, connecting with his junk. He grunted and pinned her knee down with his.

Then, as if something had struck him, he froze.

***

Ghost didn’t move. Adrenaline and rage had dimmed his awareness. But now, he was keenly aware of how fine the bones of the wrist in his palm were.

Clearly fucking female. As was the rest of her slim, firm body. She kicked and squirmed like a rabid animal hungry to infect him.

His balls ached from where she’d gotten in a shot, but the fury pulsing behind his eyelids rivaled the pain in his testicles. He stared down at the bitch beneath him.

Her chest heaved. The suit she wore molded to her curves. His rage increased.

Many men had come for his life, but a woman?

He yanked off her mask, and she let out a cry. Her hair was pulled back tightly from ivory cheeks. Her free hand raked at his face but he dodged her nails and caught her arm. Holding both her wrists in one palm, he reached for the bedside light.

Almond-shaped cool-blue eyes stared at him with fire. “Let me go.”

His ire raised. He tightened his hold until her features softened into a wince. “Who the hell are you?” he snarled.

Her lip curled. “The last person you’re going to see before I slit your throat,” she spat.

His vision tunneled. Anger fizzled along his nerve endings. If he’d been holding a man, he’d have crushed his fucking windpipe minutes ago.

Answers. That’s what he needed from her. A name. Then he’d dispose of the scheming wench who’d just tried to inject him with god knew what.

He stretched for the needle that he’d thrown and held it in front of her face.

She blinked. Her blue eyes were sharp but oddly fearless.

“Care to tell me what’s in this?”

“Potassium chloride.” Her voice was as smooth as silk—and as unfazed as a scientist talking about chemistry.

“To stop my heart.”

She blinked.

The tunnel vision returned. He brought the tip of the needle to her throat and leaned in close. “Right here?” he whispered, near her face. “That’s where you put it, right?”

There was tremor in her legs, but otherwise she didn’t flinch.

He could end this right here and now. Shoot her up with the fucking drug that’d mirror a heart attack—an assassin’s choice—only then he wouldn’t find out who’d come for him. And when they discovered she hadn’t been successful, they’d send someone else.

Which meant he had to leave Seattle. Soon.

However, if he got a name and confirmed it was one of his enemies, he’d know who to go after. He straightened and dropped the needle to the ground. Her body relaxed marginally and he hauled her to her feet.

She cried out as he twisted her arms behind her back. He ignored her. Every male instinct made him want to loosen his grip or drop his hold altogether. He didn’t.

He noted the blue latex gloves on her slim hands. The booties over her feet. The tight bun in a hairnet. Irritation and, hell, appreciation struck him.

Whoever the woman was, she was tough. If he were someone who lacked the skills he possessed, she’d have won.

He dove his hand into his nightstand drawer and pulled out his SIG. He clicked off the bedside lamp.

“Move,” he growled, shoving her forward.

His mind worked at warp speed, already replaying his bugout plan. But first he needed her out of his room.

How the fuck did she get inside?

That burning question nearly blotted out his ability to think.

He moved her through his dark halls. He didn’t turn on a light for two reasons.

One, she could have backup waiting. If that was the case, they’d probably be moving in right fucking now since he’d turned on the lamp in the bedroom. Two, he wanted her scared.

Reaching the basement door, he gripped her elbow and then hauled her down next to him.

She resisted. Twisting and turning, she tried to root her feet to the steps but he propelled her downward.

Reaching the bottom, he pulled the string dangling from the ceiling.

A single bulb illuminated the musty space.

He shoved her toward the wall. “Strip.”

That made her cold stare falter. “Fuck you.”

“Take off your clothes or I’ll do it for you.” First things first. He needed to remove any weapons on her person or devices she could be using to communicate with someone on the outside.

She didn’t comply.

He advanced, ready to rip that second skin off her lithe form and shove it down her throat. She turned out of his reach and grabbed the zipper beneath her neck. He stopped short and waited.

She kept her gaze—a silent “Fuck you”—fastened on him as she peeled the material from her arms then shimmied it down her legs. After pushing off her soft-soled running shoes, she pulled the suit over her bare feet.

A black sports bra and fitted black athletic shorts covered her. As he’d guessed, she was slim and toned. She balled up the bodysuit and threw it at him. He caught it with one hand, tossed it toward the steps, then moved closer to her.

Anger shot from her eyes and her breath hissed through her nose. Without touching her, he brought his chest into her space until her back pressed against the wall. Her watchful orbs raked over his face. He reached forward and moved his fingers into the center of her bra.

She slapped at his hands, fear striking her eyes for the first time.

“Relax,” he said. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you begged.”

Satisfied she didn’t have a hidden mic on her, he seized her wrist and spun her around. After setting his gun on the tool bench against the wall, he grabbed a zip tie and then secured her hands together.

He crossed the room, picked up a plastic folding chair, and slammed it against the wall with more force than necessary. “Sit.”

Picking up his gun and pointing it toward the ground, he fixed her with his focus. “Who hired you?”

Long, dark lashes blinked slowly. Lazily. As if she was annoyed by his presence. His temper racked up a notch as her lips stayed sealed.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

She worked her mouth as if holding back words. He fought to keep his eyes off her slim abdomen and the tiny indent of her navel. Raising his gaze only brought his eyes to her chest, where full breasts hid beneath black material.

There were a few ways he could start an interrogation. Once upon a time, he’d done this for a living. He could waterboard her, remove her fingernails. Shit like that would get her talking. But the idea of torturing her made hesitation worm around his spine.

Take the easy way.

He didn’t want to give attention to the voice in his head not wanting to inflict pain on her. “Last chance,” he warned.

Her blue eyes zeroed in on him. So clear and damn pretty but also... detached. He recognized disassociation. Thing he didn’t get was why someone who looked like her—beautiful in a raw, challenging way—carried the trait so well.

She hiked up her chin. The light caught her high, slanted cheekbones and part of him wondered about her heritage. “I don’t know who hired me. There’s a middleman—my handler—who sends me jobs. For this very reason.”

He locked his jaw. She could be telling the truth. He’d also had a handler when he took lives in exchange for cash, but there’d been times when a job was a personal request. Either way, he’d find out the truth.

And this woman was the key.