His Only Assignment (Dangerous Devotion #4)

Chapter 1 Betty

The lock on the bar's back door stuck like it always did, and I had to jiggle the key twice before it finally gave. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the damn thing.

Get it together, Betty.

But my body wasn't listening. It hadn't been listening since this morning, when that black SUV had slammed into my bumper on the highway and sent my car careening toward the median.

I could still feel the jolt of impact rattling through my bones.

I could still hear the screech of metal, the blare of horns, my own voice screaming as I'd white-knuckled the steering wheel and somehow kept from spinning into oncoming traffic.

The cops said it was probably road rage. Just some asshole having a bad day, they'd said, their eyes bored, their pens barely moving across their notepads.

I knew better.

And so did they.

I shoved the door open and stepped into the narrow alley behind the bar, my keys clutched between my fingers like some kind of pathetic weapon.

The dumpster reeked of stale beer and rotting fruit, and the summer heat made the smell thick enough to taste.

A stray cat skittered out from behind a pile of broken pallets, and I flinched so hard I nearly dropped my keys.

Jesus. A cat. I was jumping at cats now.

I scanned the alley anyway, my pulse hammering in my throat. The shadows seemed darker tonight, the silence heavier. But there was nothing. No one lurking in the corners. No black SUV idling at the mouth of the alley with its headlights off.

Just me and my paranoia.

I locked the door behind me and made my way toward my car, parked under the one working streetlight.

My baby, a beat-up Honda Civic with a fresh dent in the bumper and a new crack spidering across the windshield, looked like it had survived a war zone.

Which, honestly, wasn't far from the truth anymore.

This was the fifth incident. Five in three weeks, each one worse than the last.

First, the text message. You saw something you shouldn't have. Keep your mouth shut.

I'd deleted it immediately and told myself it was a prank. Some drunk idiot who'd gotten the wrong number. Nothing to worry about.

Then my bar's front windows were smashed in the middle of the night, the word SNITCH spray-painted across the door in dripping red letters. I'd scrubbed it off myself at four in the morning, refusing to let any of my employees see it, refusing to let anyone know how badly my hands were shaking.

The car that followed me home for three nights straight was next.

A dark sedan with tinted windows, always keeping exactly two car lengths behind me, never getting closer, never falling back.

I'd finally driven straight to the police station one night, my heart slamming against my ribs, and filed a report with an officer who looked at me like I was wasting his time.

Fat lot of good that did. I knew they wouldn't help me. Not after what I'd witnessed. Not when I was the one trying to put two of their own behind bars.

The break-in was when I'd finally started sleeping with a baseball bat next to my bed.

I'd come home to find my apartment destroyed.

Drawers dumped, cushions slashed, my clothes scattered across the floor like someone had taken their time going through every piece.

But nothing was stolen. That was the point. It wasn't about taking something.

It was a message. We can get to you whenever we want.

And now this. Someone had tried to run me off the road in broad daylight. Tried to make it look like an accident. Tried to kill me.

All because I'd been stupid enough to witness two cops shoot an unarmed man in this very alley four weeks ago.

Because I'd been brave enough, or maybe just dumb enough, to call 911 and report it.

Because I'd given a statement and refused to back down when they'd asked if I was sure, really sure, about what I'd seen.

I was sure.

And now I was paying for it.

I slid into the Civic and locked the doors immediately, my breath coming in shallow bursts. The engine coughed to life on the second try, and I pulled out of the alley, checking my mirrors every few seconds.

No headlights behind me. No dark sedan. No SUV.

But that didn't mean they weren't watching.

I made it home in fifteen minutes, taking a route I'd never used before, doubling back twice just to be safe.

My apartment building loomed ahead, a tired three-story walkup in a neighborhood that had seen better days.

I parked at the curb and sat there for a full minute, my hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to convince myself to get out of the car.

My phone buzzed in the cupholder, and I grabbed it so fast I nearly threw it across the car.

Layla's name flashed on the screen.

Layla: You alive?

I typed back quickly, my fingers clumsy on the screen.

Me: Barely. Closing was rough tonight.

Layla: You need to hire more staff. Or a guard dog. Or a boyfriend with a gun.

I almost laughed. Almost.

Me: I'll take the dog.

Layla: Seriously, Betts. You okay?

I stared at the screen for a long moment.

Layla was my best friend. The only person who knew the full extent of what was happening, who'd held my hand through the police interviews and the FBI meetings and the sleepless nights.

She'd offered to let me stay at her place a dozen times, but I'd refused.

I wasn't going to bring this danger to her doorstep.

Me: Yeah. Just tired.

It wasn't a lie, exactly. I was tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing exhausted. But I also wasn't okay. Not by a long shot.

I shoved the phone in my pocket and climbed out of the car, my keys clutched between my fingers again. The street was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made every shadow feel like a threat, every rustle of wind sound like footsteps.

God, I hated this. I hated who I was becoming. This jumpy, paranoid shell of the woman I used to be.

I'd grown up in this city. I'd worked my ass off to buy The Flame when I was twenty-five, pouring every penny I had into making it something special.

I'd dealt with drunks and assholes and handsy customers for years.

I'd broken up bar fights, kicked out dealers, and once talked a man out of putting his fist through a window.

I didn't scare easy.

But this? This was different. This was two dirty cops with badges and guns and the entire system on their side, and I was just one woman who'd seen something she wasn't supposed to see.

I made it to my apartment and let myself in, flipping the deadbolt and the chain behind me.

The place was still a mess from the break-in.

I hadn't had the energy or the heart to put everything back.

My father's old recliner sat in the corner, the leather worn smooth from decades of use, and just looking at it made my chest ache.

Dad would've known what to do. He always had.

When Mom walked out on us when I was twelve, just packed her bags one morning and drove away without looking back.

Dad had been the one to pick up the pieces.

He'd worked double shifts at the factory to keep a roof over our heads, had taught me how to throw a punch and change a tire and never, ever let anyone see me cry.

He'd been tough and gruff and not the kind of man who said "I love you" easily, but he'd shown it in a thousand other ways.

Late-night driving lessons in the empty factory parking lot.

Breakfast tacos on Sunday mornings. The way he'd nursed a single beer at The Flame on opening night, wearing his only suit.

The same one he'd worn to my high school graduation, and beaming at me like I'd hung the moon.

"That's my girl," he'd said, his eyes suspiciously bright. "Your mama left because she didn't have grit. But you? You got grit, Betty. Don't ever let anyone take that from you."

He'd died two years ago.

Heart attack, they said. Quick and painless, they said, like that was supposed to make it better. Like knowing he hadn't suffered was supposed to ease the hollow ache in my chest that had never really gone away.

I'd buried him on a rainy Tuesday in October, standing by his grave with an umbrella that kept trying to turn inside out and a heart that felt like it had been ripped out of my chest. Layla had been there, solid and steady at my side.

A few regulars from the bar. Some of the guys from Dad's old factory who'd driven in from out of town to pay their respects.

But the one person I'd wanted there. The one person I'd stupidly, desperately hoped might somehow find out and come. He hadn't shown.

Because Hudson Cole had left eight years before that. He had walked out of my life without a backward glance and disappeared into whatever black hole swallowed up men who chose the military over the woman who loved them.

I shoved the thought away like I always did. I was not going to think about Hudson. Not tonight. Not when I was already barely holding it together.

I dropped my keys on the counter, kicked off my shoes, and headed straight for the kitchen. Wine. I needed wine. Or whiskey. Maybe both.

I poured myself a generous glass of red and downed half of it in one go, leaning against the counter as the warmth spread through my chest. My hands were still shaking, but not as badly. My heart rate was coming down from cardiac arrest territory to merely terrified.

Just a few more weeks, I told myself for the hundredth time. The trial's coming up. Once Lang and Briggs are arrested, and once they're behind bars, this will all be over.

If I made it that long.

I finished the wine, rinsed the glass, and was halfway to my bedroom when I heard it.

A knock at the door.

I froze, my blood turning to ice.

It was past midnight. No one knocked on my door past midnight. Not Layla, who would've texted first. Not my neighbors, who barely acknowledged my existence. No one.