Way Kingston craves the peaceful solitude of the open road. Just him and the roar of a motorcycle. The kind of alone time that's hard to find in his tight-knit family. Too tight for his liking. Way's a grown-ass, former Marine. He doesn't need their collective noses in his business. Back in Steele Ridge, Way's building a new career as a gunsmith. Clients pay big bucks for his expertise, ingenuity...and discretion. Especially when national security is at stake. So when a smoking hot stranger with the swagger of a government agent walks into his workshop, Way knows her questions are fully loaded.
Roni Fenwick grew up in the foster system. With no family to watch her back, she can't afford to lose the few friends she has. Which is why it kills her to lie to Maggie Kingston. But the sheriff's not-so-little brother designed a game-changing bullet for the CIA. A bullet that's hit the streets. Now, the agency believes Way double-crossed them and has sent Roni to prove it. Except Way is tougher to crack than she anticipated. And much easier to fall for. His kisses drive her to distraction--something she can't risk with a killer at large.
As the investigation turns personal, Roni begins to trust in Way's innocence. But if he's not behind the top-secret leak, who is? Finding the truth could end her career...or both their lives.
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I’m in hell.
It’s not so much the fact that I’m about to blow a man away. I can live with that. He’s a piece of shit. The world is better off without him.
The raging inferno inside me comes from knowing that, once I dispose of him, there will be more. Plenty more. And not just the twelve on my list.
But I can’t get too far ahead of myself. I have to stay present and focus on the now. That’s what the live-your-best-life fanatics say.
A car door slams, snapping my attention back to the street. The only break in darkness emanates from the stingy streetlamps dotted between parkway trees and the occasional blast of headlights coming down the block.
I’ve tucked myself behind two bushes, hell if I know what they are, but they’re squat and round, and sit on the edge of this asshole’s property. The neighboring home’s garage on my right gives me cover from that angle. All in all, an excellent spot from which to kill a man.
And there he is. I’ve watched him for two weeks now. Following him around, getting his routine—or lack thereof—down. This is my process. Observe, learn, act.
I’ll give this one credit; he’s no dummy. He varies his pattern, leaving and returning home at different times each day. One thing is for sure. He has no job. Scum like him don’t need jobs. They rely on criminal activity to pay bills. By the looks of his home, a neat two-story, business must be decent. Most of his kind live in rundown shacks in crappy neighborhoods where kids kill each other purely on instinct.
My only regret is his two children. Well, I assume they’re his. I saw the mother leaving with them two days ago, baby carrier in one hand and the toddler’s tiny hand in the other. She, at least, has a job. A nail salon five miles away.
I followed her, too.
From what I can tell, she handles most of the family duties. Daycare, groceries, play dates. All her. Which I have to believe will be a good thing, since I’m about to make her children fatherless.
I hope those kids are sleeping. I don’t want them freaked out by the resulting chaos.
The overcast sky obscures even a hint of moonlight. It has to be close to midnight.
Almost time.
I inhale, drawing the cool February air into my lungs. I should be in my bed right now, fireplace roaring. Instead, I’m watching Roy Jackson move down the sidewalk, his steps quick but not rushed.
He knows.
As a high-ranking gang member, any day could be his last. He never dawdles. No lingering or staying outside too long, particularly in the darkness.
Could be dangerous.
He knows.
I inhale again and moist winter air settles me. Focuses the mind. A car hooks a left onto the quiet street—dammit—and I duck back behind the bush. Based on his stride, I have about a five-second window. If this car doesn’t get a move on, my shot is blown.
The driver hits the gas and speeds down the block, clearly exceeding the twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit. Where’s a cop when you need one?
No cops tonight. Not for speeders and not for Roy Jackson.
The soft slap of rubber—his sneakers—against the wet pavement reaches me. He’s close.
I peek out again and there he is. Twenty yards away.
I lift my weapon, line my shot to center mass, and hold my breath for half a second before slowly releasing it. My finger slides over the trigger, but there’s a slight resistance. Is it me or the gun? Maybe both.
He’s close.
Fifteen yards out. I’m ready.
I squeeze the trigger. Ping. Again. Ping, ping. A silencer muffles the shots enough that no one will be jerked from their bed or the late-night talk shows. Roy Jackson drops, his body bucking, then crumpling to the pavement. In the darkness, I can’t see his face. That’s a damned shame.
I shove the weapon into my gym bag and check my surroundings for nosey neighbors. Nothing.
Quickly, I hop out from behind the bush and walk—don’t run—down the street, my steps, like Roy Jackson’s, not rushed. Just another pedestrian out for a midnight stroll.
Another one off the list, is all I can think.
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