Chapter 7
JAKE
Turner doesn't disappoint me. His hand moves, darting into his jacket and pulling out a knife.
Time slows, like it always does in combat.
I dodge his swiping arm as he tries to slash me, keeping enough pressure on his neck to move him along the fence back toward his truck.
Not because I'm worried about the security cameras—there aren’t any—but because I’m going to use his vehicle to make him disappear after.
His arm slashes through the air, the blade slicing toward me. I block it, feeling the rush of it pass close and smell the stale alcohol on his breath as he tries to breathe. I grab his wrist with my free hand as I squeeze his neck to distract him.
He makes a choking sound, and as he goes to grab my neck, I let go, twist under his arm, and arc it—and the knife—into his body.
He gasps, his eyes darting to the center of his chest as his hands grip the knife handle. "Fuck you."
I'm trained, and I know exactly where to strike to get the results I want. I know that he’s standing now, but that he only has a few minutes before he bleeds out. "You're the one who's fucked."
"Like hell I am." He pulls the knife out of his chest as he lurches backward, hitting the fence with a dull clang before sliding down to the ground.
Good—he’ll bleed out faster. Staying out of reach so I don’t get blood on me, I crouch in front of him so my eyes are the last thing he sees as he dies. "This is for Emma. For every time you threatened her. Every time you looked at her like she was yours to take."
His mouth twists, lascivious, mean, gray around the edges. The only color on him is the blood slowly pumping out of his wound. "That bitch is gonna sell. One way or another."
I can see the life draining from him. I don't feel satisfaction or glee—you have to be a sick motherfucker to feel happy killing someone—but I find a grim satisfaction in knowing that he'll never touch her, never threaten her, never so much as look at her ever again. Or any other woman, for that matter.
"Cole's gonna get you," he slurs, looking down his hand, blood-slicked and shaking.
"Your big brother isn't going to be able to do anything." There will be no link to me here tonight. My truck is at home—Luke dropped me off—and no one has seen me. I’m trained for this. No one will ever find his body or his truck. If anything comes up, Mason and Luke will cover for me.
Turner slumps, his head rolling to the side, that rotten sneer still etched on his face as his eyes close. I watch, witnessing his breath come more and more shallowly.
Until it stops.
I touch a finger to his neck, checking. Satisfied he's dead, I stand.
"Jake?"
I whirl around, moving toward the voice even before I register that it's female.
And familiar.
And close.
My breathing is controlled, and I’m alert—still in combat mode, still ready to neutralize a threat.
Then I see who it is.
Emma Hayes stands by her SUV, one hand on the hood, the other hanging at her side. She's staring at Turner's body, her breathing audibly fast, taking in everything at once.
Him.
The blood.
Me.
How long has she been standing there, watching? How the fuck didn't I hear her?
The tactical part of my brain kicks in immediately, cataloging the problem. Witness. Civilian. The woman I came back for. I don’t know how much she saw, but I’m standing over Turner’s dead body.
This is bad.
This is very fucking bad.