Chapter Three
DALLAS
My focus must be razor-sharp tonight.
Get through security, retrieve my rifle, and take position. Easy.
Except I'm huddled in the janitor closet, gun in the case slung over my shoulder, keeping my breath steady while some of the conference staff stand outside the door and bicker over who gets to serve champagne to the two A-list celebrities who just arrived for the congressman's gala.
My palms grow damp in my gloves. It's too warm in here, and the stench of lemon is overpowering.
For fuck's sake, I wish they'd just play rock-paper-scissors and move on.
It's been ten damn minutes.
Long enough for my window of invisibility to shrink.
Long enough for my thoughts to wander to places they shouldn't. To an ice cream shop, and a woman too sweet and too innocent for a man like me.
I shouldn't have kissed her. But Jesus, the way she looked at me, with those teasing smiles and the sparkle in her eyes making her so damn pretty. Her obvious disappointment when I was leaving... I don't know what came over me.
I had to have a taste of that forbidden sweetness. Just one.
Her body fit mine as if she were made for me. The feel of her curves, the press of her breasts... the way she gripped my jacket and held me close when I would have pulled away.
The kiss was unlike any I've ever had. It tugged at things I haven't felt in years. If ever.
In those few seconds, Gemma was pure temptation.
Another minute of her lips on mine and I might have chosen her over the job, the gala, and retirement. I would have spread her out on one of the little tables and...
I shut down my thoughts—again—and reach for the silence I've built a career on. I need it tonight more than ever. Memories of stolen kisses are for when I have space to breathe. Not stifling closets before a job.
The women finally move off, their champagne war resolved. It probably won't last half an hour, but that's not my problem. Hauling ass to the rafters unnoticed is.
The hallway is silent, so I crack the door and sweep the space.
Empty.
Now's my chance.
I make my way backstage, slip in behind two men moving sound equipment, and scale up to the rafters to the spot I chose in earlier recon.
Finally in position, my breathing evens out and my pulse settles. I assemble the rifle, slide the scope into place, and get my first good look at the event below. At least two hundred are here, mingling in their evening gowns and tuxedos while champagne flows and lies are swapped.
The congressman is among them, shaking hands and smiling as he works the crowd. No doubt trying to wring every dollar from their wallets for his Senate campaign.
He'll never live to spend them.
I clock the security detail at the exits and around the congressman, noting weapons and assessing threat levels. Townsend is either comfortable in his hometown or lax. There should be at least four more guards at an event of this size.
A dark smile teases my lips. If the man's going to make my last job easier, who am I to complain?
I follow him as he works his way to the stage and waves to the crowd. Someone steps forward to pin a mic to his jacket, while one of his security team flanks him, lips moving as he talks into an earpiece so conspicuous it may as well be neon green.
I relax further into my perch, steadying my breathing and blocking out ambient sound as I dial in the shot. Distance, air circulation, and movement all calculating in my head.
One last shot.
One last payday.
Townsend says something to the crowd and motions to his left.
My finger slides over the trigger. I hold my breath, ready.
Townsend’s in the crosshairs. Just as I start to squeeze, a woman joins him on stage.
A shapely leg followed by curves wrapped in green satin appear in my scope. Curves I've held.
My brain refuses to process what I'm seeing.
Then her bright smile fills my scope.
Gemma.
My breath stutters, and my finger jerks off the trigger.
What the fuck is she doing here?
She's radiant in the ballgown, with her hair pinned up exposing her creamy shoulders. The satin hugs her breasts and hips before falling in a long skirt with a deep slit. She looks like a goddess completely unaware that she's standing close to my target.
Too close.
The rifle feels heavy in my hands.
I don't take the shot.
Sound rushes back to me, almost deafening, but three words ring out in perfect clarity.
"My daughter, Gemma," Townsend says proudly.
Fuck! That's why I knew her name. From his dossier.
Gemma's lips tighten a fraction as she looks at her dad.
Through the scope I see him whisper, "Smile, sweetheart." Then to the crowd, "Everything I do, I do for my family."
The crowd claps wildly, like he’s just declared world peace.
Townsend raises his hand to quiet them, continuing his banal speech.
Suddenly, a shot rings out.
The congressman’s body jerks. Blood blooms across the tuxedo shirt, and he falls.
People scream as another shot follows, dropping the bodyguard.
Gemma grabs for her father and stumbles beneath his weight, falling to her knees beside him.
Another shot. This one hitting the podium where she'd just been standing.
Fuck no.
I swing my rifle toward the source of the shots, anger boiling in my gut.
This was my contract. My last hit, and it sure as hell didn't include his daughter. What trigger-happy asshole is—
A bullet slams into the railing an inch to my left just as another shot rings out.
I lurch right, diving low, and hear Gemma cry out.
Not just one shooter then.
Two.
As another bullet tears into metal inches from me, one thing becomes very clear: Townsend wasn't the only contract tonight.
Someone is trying to kill both Gemma and me.
I dump the rifle, grab my pistols from the bag, and run for her.
Bullets pepper the metal as I race across the catwalk. Below, the floor is in chaos. People are screaming and shoving to get out, scrambling to hide, or frozen in fear.
At the end of the catwalk, I leap onto the railing, then vault to some rigging, sliding down the thick rope to land on the stage just feet from my girl. My palms burn beneath my leather gloves from the friction, but I push down the discomfort and shove through two people running for the door.
Gemma is crouched over her father, blood on her hands as tears stream down her face.
"No. Not like this," she cries.
Another bullet slams into the wood a foot from her. She doesn't even flinch.
"Gemma, move!" I yank her down, covering her with my body as more shots follow. The second they stop, I leap to my feet and pull her up with me, hustling her toward the service hallway.
Wide eyes, glossy with shock, meet mine. "Dallas?"
"Gotta move, honey."
"But Dad—"
"There's nothing you can do for him right now."
She looks back at her father's prone form.
I pull her into the shadows and grip her upper arms until she faces me. We have maybe five seconds before the shooters find us. "It's not safe here, Gemma. They're trying to hurt you."
She swallows.
"Trust me to keep you safe." She shouldn't. One of those bullets has my name on it. But no one else will protect her like I can.
I hold out my hand. If she hesitates even a second, I'll throw her over my shoulder and run. No way I'm leaving this sweetness behind to die.
Gemma meets my eyes and places her blood-stained hand in mine.
I tug her out the door.
The hallway is deserted. Sirens sound in the distance, and the terrified cries of the people inside are muffled.
We run through the maze of halls to the opposite side of the conference center and out the back door into the alley, lit only by the dim yellow light above the door. Garbage lines the brick walls and spills out of the large bins, turning the air rancid.
I pull her into the shadows and run for the mouth of the alley. My truck is two streets over. Close, but too far away for the clusterfuck going down.
Gemma's hand tightens on mine, her heels clicking on the cobblestones. I have to get her out of the alley before she twists an ankle.
Suddenly a shadow separates from the wall and steps in front of us.
I slam to a halt, catching Gemma against my back.
The dim light illuminates a thin line of metal as the man raises his gun, pointing it directly at me.
He steps forward until I can make out his features. Thick, brawny frame, bushy brows on a large forehead and square face, long nose and thin lips that tip in a familiar smile. The security guard who let me into the building with a smile earlier. Except he's no mall cop.
"Roark sends his regards," he says, voice low and amused as he aims between my eyes.
I've stared death in the face enough to be old friends. It's not really a surprise it would show up on the night I mean to walk away. Didn’t expect my employer to be the one to send the reaper. "Why?"
"No one walks away from the company."
So, the rumors were true. Retirement is a ticket to the grave. I shouldn't have asked about the fate of the man who mentored me in this business. Somehow Roark heard and deduced my plan.
"I am."
He cocks the pistol.
Gemma gasps, her fist gripping the back of my jacket as she huddles close. "No," she whispers.
That one hushed word breaks through my internal barriers. I won't die today. Not when she needs me to keep her safe.
“Five hundred for Townsend. Five more each for the girl and you. A million and a half before midnight. Lucky for me you hesitated.” The man tips his head, trying to see around me and his smile widens. "She’s prettier than her dossier photo. Might take a little bonus from her before I collect."
My blood heats, searing my veins and thrumming in my ears. I grab the wrist of his gun hand, holding it wide and slam my elbow into his nose, the snap loud in the darkness.
He grunts.
"You don't look at her," I growl, twisting his wrist until it snaps, and the gun drops to the ground. "You don't even think about her." I punch him hard.
He spins to one side, the smile wiped from his face as he snarls and rounds on me.
I'm faster. Two more punches take him to his knees. "You won't tell him," I murmur into the darkness, "but I'm coming for Roark too."
I don’t reach for my gun. I lock my arm around his throat and finish him.
His body slumps to the side.
I turn back to Gemma, breath sawing in and out of my lungs, and meet her wide, frightened gaze.
There's no hiding what I am.
And I'm the only thing standing between her and the men who want her dead.