Chapter 7
Raine
Tonight’s conditions are perfect for murder.
Minimal moonshine means minimal light. The canopy above traps out the sliver of light from the crescent moon, helping us melt into the dark.
Leaves crunch softly beneath my boots, the sound swallowed by the night.
Soren moves beside me, silently. Lukas’s cabin is ahead, wood and glass barely visible through the trees.
My braid is tight, my pistol strapped to my ankle, knives sheathed in easy reach.
Soren’s just as armed, his jacket hiding his firearms and blades.
I should be thinking about the mission. About the target waiting inside.
But all I can feel is Soren. His presence, as silent as it is, is deafeningly loud.
A man made for war.
A man built from it.
We stop thirty meters from the cabin and crouch low. There’s complete silence, absolute stillness. Not even the hum of insects. A sure sign there are predators in the midst.
Soren pulls his ski mask from his face, as do I. “Ready?”
My hushed reply is cut off by headlights, slicing through the trees.
Shit. They’re back early.
Before I can react, Soren grabs my waist and hauls me up and back against the rough bark of a pine.
His body locks me in place, solid and warm through the layers of leather.
The beams graze past us, and my breath catches.
His thumbs move once, a small, firm drag along my waistline, like he’s telling me to stay still.
I don’t like it (I think I love it?), but I don’t hate it either.
The engine cuts and doors slam.
I’ll unpack the thumb thing later.
Two broad silhouettes head towards the cabin, voices hushed, discussing something meaningless. Soren surveys Lukas’s jackass guys before our eyes meet, and in the space of a glance, the decision is made.
Shit is about to go down.
The realization surprises me. Not that one murder is about to become three. Collateral damage is a given in our line of profession, wrong place, wrong time, and all that jazz.
No, it’s not that.
It’s the fact that Soren and I can seemingly communicate with a single glance. It’s like we know—like know, know—what each other needs to do.
I slide my ski mask down over my face and reach for my gun.
Soren does the same, both of our movements calm and controlled.
Soren pushes ahead of me, and we move, crouching low, towards the cabin.
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve done this; my heart pounds and my senses sharpen.
The front door swings open, and Jackass One steps out, clomping down the short porch steps to the pathway.
Dumb fucking move. Three stairs, that’s all it takes to walk from safety into the kill zone. Cigarette in one hand, phone in the other, he’s unaware death creeps behind him. One second he’s scrolling, the next, a blade glides across his throat, slicing deep, severing sound, severing breath.
Soren.
Blood bubbles at the dead man’s lips before he drops to the pavement in a heap. His body slack as Soren drags him off the path and into the dark. Silent and methodical. Like he’s done this many times before.
“Grayson!” a shout from inside, followed by heavy footsteps. “Lighter!”
The door flies open, the handle slamming into the side of the porch wall. It takes him a second to process the blood at the bottom of the stairs.
“What the fu—”
Before he can shout a warning, I put a bullet between Jackass Two’s eyes. He drops dead on the front porch.
I know. It’s brutal. It’s cold-blooded. But remember, these motherfuckers are arms dealers. Trading guns to child soldiers in some instances. They’re stains on humanity. You play stupid games, you win stupid prizes. These two had it comin’.
With both jackasses taken care of, it’s the opening we need to slip inside.
Lukas sits on the couch, bong in hand, dazed and confused at the appearance of Soren and me in his living room.
I can’t imagine it’s a nice feeling. (Imagine being high as fuck and having two assassins appear out of nowhere?) Lukas reminds me of Jack Black’s character in I Still Know What You Did Last Summer.
Right before the killer, in a fisherman’s slicker, shoves gardening shears through his chest.
Lukas fumbles for something (a weapon, maybe?) under a cushion, but he’s too slow. Soren pistol-whips him hard enough to spin him sideways. Lukas slumps to the floor. I open my mouth to tell Soren to finish him when I see movement coming from the hallway from across the living room.
Shit.
A third jackass (one we didn’t know was inside, which I decide is definitely Soren’s fault), knife in hand, comes in fast for Soren’s back.
“Behind you!” I shout, raising my pistol, finger pressed against the trigger.
But Soren doesn’t duck. Instead, he takes a chance and lunges backwards, throwing his weight into Jackass Three, slamming both of them into a glass console.
I track them, trying to get a clear shot, but they don’t stop moving.
They’re locked in a tangle of alpha male bullshit until Soren overpowers him.
He positions himself behind Jackass Three and hooks his arm around his neck, crushing his windpipe.
The man jerks and gurgles, clawing at Soren’s arm.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Jackass Three goes limp.
Soren stands, dusting shards of glass off his clothes.
Lukas, the most important jackass of all, sees an opportunity and moves. He launches himself up over the back of the lounge, murder in his eyes and gun in his hand, aiming it squarely at Soren’s chest.
I don’t think before I shoot. I pump three rounds right through Lukas’s back.
He drops to his knees, then hits the ground face-first at Soren’s feet, dead.
I move quickly, rushing down the hallway to scope out the cabin to ensure there aren’t any more surprise jackasses. When I’m satisfied it’s just Soren and me remaining, I hurry back to the living room.
I rip my mask off, the air cool on my face.
Soren’s leaning against the living room wall, mask also removed. His furious gaze finds mine. Why does he look so angry?
“You shot me.” His voice is rough, his hand clamped to his ribs. Blood seeps between his gloved fingers as he slides down the wall.
Oh.
Oh.
Whoops.
One of the bullets must’ve grazed Lukas’s body and landed straight into Soren’s ribs.
“Not on purpose!”
“You’re a psycho!”
“I prefer the term ‘lifesaver,’ asshole,” I declare, defenses up. I holster my weapon with a shrug. “I saved your life in case you didn’t notice. Lukas was about to shoot you point-blank.”
Soren stares at me. If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under, and he’d be bleeding on my grave. His grip on his wound tightens.
“You’ll live,” I add. That’s about as much sympathy as I can offer. “It’s a clean shot. A rib tickle. I’m sure you’ve had worse.”
Nostrils flaring, he asks, “How the fuck would you know?”
“I read your file.” Lie. Big, huge, fat lie. But a gamble I’m willing to take. And a right one by the sound of his silence. I pull out my phone to text the Cleaner the coordinates, followed by a quick message to Agent O. Bitch boy needs medical attention.
Phase one complete. Soren copped a stray. Need med site.
I drop a pin to our location and await Agent O’s response.
ETA seven minutes.
Pocketing my phone, my eyes find Soren again. “Can you live for seven minutes?”
He growls something under his breath that sounds a lot like, fuck you or kill you, but I can’t be sure.
My eyes catch on the slow rise and fall of his chest. It’s ridiculous, but part of me wonders what it would take to make him come undone for reasons that have nothing to do with violence and everything to do with sex.
Squatting down, I haul his arm over my shoulder.
He lets me help him upright before pushing me away.
Pride is bleeding out faster than the bullet wound, clearly.
Soren stumbles out the front door of the cabin, nearly tripping over the body of Jackass Two.
Any inroads we might have made with each other are totally destroyed now.
We are right back to that hateful square one.