4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Finn’s head bent forward. To anyone looking his way, he imagined it appeared as if he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings—but it was entirely the opposite.
He studied the room through the fallen strands of his hair.
The expensive paintings on the wall, the stacks of cash that lay in piles on the gambling tables, the classy clothing and watches of the patrons—none of it meant anything to him. He was interested in far more practical matters.
In a matter of seconds, Finn had a complete lay of the land. The exit location on the far side of the room led to a private office and an external exit. An exit that he had blocked in advance.
Almost everyone close to him had no weapons to speak of, rendering them threatless. His targets were across the room, sprawled on couches and surrounded by women.
Collateral damage, the Handler had told him, is not an issue.
It made things easy for him.
Finn lifted his head, and his eyes met one of the women sprawled on the lap of one of his targets. Green eyes, he thought distantly as he stared at her. He felt momentarily lightheaded, like someone had tapped the inside of his head. What was happening?
He lowered his eyes, breaking the contact. To his relief, the uncomfortable sensation disappeared with it.
He had a mission to complete.
Releasing the trigger mechanisms, he flung the two grenades toward the nearest packed tables and strode forward with determination.
The panic in the room didn’t start until the grenades exploded a few seconds later, but by that time, he had already passed the tables. He felt the waves of pressure at his back but didn’t alter his steady advance. The fearful, screaming patrons weren’t the mission.
To their credit, his targets reacted faster than most. They reached for their weapons—a Desert Eagle, a Smith others merely danced as his bullets raked through them.
The rattle of gunfire ceased as he released the trigger. He walked closer, letting the rifle fall and hang by the strap. He drew the Beretta 92 pistol from its thigh holster. The mission parameters demanded that he be certain of his targets. He had the five faces memorized—no names.
The first target was already dead, a gaping hole in his chest as he lay sprawled on the ground. Finn put another round into his forehead.
Two targets cowered behind the couch. He could smell their blood, their fear, as he shot them through the couch. He listened to the sounds of their breaths rattling to a halt. Two more targets ticked off the list.
The closest target grabbed one of the dancers, using her as a human shield. “Stay back, or I’ll kill her,” the target warned. The man’s voice shook. Finn knew what fear sounded like.
It didn’t matter, anyway. Collateral damage was acceptable. Finn shot the target three times through the woman. They both collapsed, dead.
Finn advanced. A young man was next, huddled next to the couches.
“Please! No!” the young man begged, even as one of his hands drifted to the gun tucked beneath his waistband.
This guy wasn’t one of the targets, but Finn shot him just to be certain. It was always safer to do so. The Handler’s voice whispered to him, Beware the fawn that plays innocent. They can shoot you in the back as easily as the wolf can come at your throat.
One more target remained on his list. Finn had seen him on the couch, the woman with the green eyes on his lap. Screaming and yelling still echoed throughout the room, but their panic was irrelevant to the mission. He had long ago mastered the ability to focus his hearing.
He sensed more than heard the movement. Something furtive and easily missed if he hadn’t been concentrating. He put his foot against the table, shoving hard. The table made a scraping sound as it flew away under his enhanced strength.
Two figures lay beneath, lying face-up. The one at the bottom was his final target. The target’s breathing was thready, already halfway to dead, but not dead. That he would have to rectify.
The other was… her. The one with the green eyes. The one who had made him dizzy. She was covering the target in a protective way. Watching him steadily. There was blood on her left shoulder, but she didn’t appear to be in pain.
Her dark brown hair was pinned into a messy bun that was unraveling. The completely illogical urge to free her hair struck him. Finn took a step toward her, and she tensed—not in fear, but in readiness. His attention snapped over her. She carried no weapons, but the way she held herself told him she knew how to fight. He noticed other things, too. Things he normally didn’t consciously note as they weren’t part of a threat assessment. The open line of her shirt bearing her tanned skin, the curve of her breasts beneath the shirt, and the black lace material that hugged her bare legs.
Finn caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Relief filled him as the strange impulse fell away in favor of familiar routines. Gun, he thought, his hand snapping up far faster than the man running through the smoke toward him with a rifle raised to fire. The man was dead a second later as Finn fired twice, striking him through the chest. He felt a faint sting on his thigh. Surprise filtered through him as he sighted the wound. The bullet had only clipped him, but it felt sloppy.
He felt off balance, and he didn’t like the feeling at all.
Finn’s gaze came back to her. He lifted his gun. Collateral damage was acceptable. He should simply shoot through her to eliminate his final target.
She stared back at him. The longer she did, the more he felt uneasy. It was her. She was doing something to him.
Compelled by an irresistible urge, Finn reached down and slid his fingers into her hair, pulling tightly and forcing her to her feet, tilting her head back with the bend of his wrist. The sense of satisfaction as her hair spilled free felt joyful, and he was conscious of the soft feathering against his skin. Her throat was bared to him, and his eyes ticked down the tanned line of her skin, seeing her swallow. When his eyes moved back up to hers, he felt a jolt of familiarity.
It wasn’t fear that welled in her expression. He knew fear. This was something else. A feeling he couldn’t comprehend.
Finn’s fingers tightened. It must have been painful; he saw her grimace as a lock of her hair ripped free. Her eyes didn’t waver from his.
Fascinating.
As he held her there, he raised the gun in his other hand and fired twice at the last target on his list. He didn’t need to see the man to know he was dead; he heard the wheeze of the man’s last breath.
Finn holstered the gun. It left his other hand free… to coil around her throat.
He felt the pulse of her heartbeat beneath the palm of his hand. He had been changed. All his senses were exceptional, at the peak of human possibility. He heard her breath catch.
It still wasn’t fear, and he still didn’t know what it was.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
The hair on his neck rose as a shiver stirred through him. Her voice cascaded over him like liquid, bringing with it the unwelcome light-headed sensation.
Want warred with need.
Her voice compelled him to stay. But Finn needed to leave. The mission was complete. He needed to scrub the footage from the traffic cameras and return to the House for his post-mission debrief and assessment.
The need won.
It was easy to yield to the training. No effort was required.
He released the woman, and she stumbled unevenly on her heels, catching herself. The strands of her hair were still tangled in his hand, and he curled his fingers to hold them there. He caught her looking down at the last target, though not with any dismay or alarm. It was something more complex, another thing he couldn’t interpret.
She is a weakness, the Handler whispered. His fingers tightened, shoving the stolen lock of her hair into his pocket.
She was no longer his concern.
Following protocol, Finn exited the VIP room and returned to the main bar area. He stepped over the tattooed body at the entrance. It was quiet but not silent: he heard the labored, fearful breathing of patrons clustered in hidden locations around the room. He turned left and found the security room. A single kick of his boot shattered the door, leaving a wide gap through which he threw a new grenade.
As the pressure of the explosion washed over his back, he departed, feeling satisfied.
Mission complete.