by J. Kenner
His gut twisted, not because she spoke the truth, but because of the memory that her words invoked. The pain of that day. The horror of seeing what he had believed they’d done to his wife.
Yes, she was right. He’d never doubted that she’d died in that car. Never rebelled and yelled that people couldn’t do that to one another. Of course they could. He’d seen it dozens of times, so often he’d become numb to it.
But he hadn’t been numb that day. He’d hurt right down to the bone. Honestly, he still did.
“Some people don’t have a soul,” she continued, almost as if she were reading his thoughts. “And every time I went against them, every time I took one out, it chipped away at my own soul too. But it was worth it, because it was important.”
She lifted her chin. “So there you go. And it doesn’t matter if you believe that or not. It’s still the truth.” She held his gaze, her eyes dark and firm. He nodded. It was a concession he hadn’t intended to give her, but she deserved to know that, at least in this regard, they were on the same page.
“Is that still what you believe?”
“Of course,” she said.
“Are you still working for the NSC?”
“No. I told you. I do clerical work now. It’s dull, but I had my fill of excitement years ago.”
“Right.”
He watched the confusion wash over her face. He let her wonder for a while then said, “Convenient, don’t you think?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you said I could call the NSC, but that’s not really possible. Organizations like the NSC or the Consortium tend to keep their former and current employee list secret, even from former sheriffs.”
She exhaled. “For fuck’s sake, Winston. What is it you think you know? What are you digging for?”
“Just the truth, darlin’. Just the truth.”
She lifted her hands and let them drop, then turned her attention to her dinner.
He let the silence linger, but she didn’t take the bait. Just dragged a french fry through ketchup, then ate it. Then another, and another.
And she didn’t say a thing.
He had to give her credit. There were very few people who could withstand the power of silence.
He waited another three minutes, then broke the silence himself. “Been to Seattle lately?”
He kept his eyes on her as he spoke, and he had to admit that she was good. Very good. She didn’t react at all. At least not so that a casual observer would see. But he knew her well, and he thought that maybe—just maybe—the corner of her eyes had crinkled in surprise.
He hoped so. He wanted her to know he was dangerous. And that she didn’t know him as well as she thought she had.
“Well?” he pressed.
“I was in Seattle not long ago. Why do you ask?”
“I think you know.”
She rolled her eyes. “No. I don’t. I had a meeting.” She shrugged, casual and easy. “Beyond that, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then let me be more specific. You killed a man in cold blood. And now you’ve come here, to Austin, to kill Tommy Bartlett.”
Chapter Eleven
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The curse slams through my head even as I frown, furrow my brow as if confused, and say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You called me a killer for hire earlier, and now you’re saying I came here to kill the guy I picked up on a dating app? I told you the truth—I used to be in intelligence. And, yeah, I’ve had to kill people in the line of duty. But that is not who I am.”
To my ears, I sound convincing. But I know perfectly well I haven’t convinced Winston of anything. The man knows too much.
“Do not play games with me,” he says. “I really don’t have the patience.”
“Look, I get that you’re angry and that you don’t trust me. Honestly, I don’t blame you. But I am not in the spy business anymore. I met Bartlett on a dating app. If you think it was some sort of pre-arranged meet, then somebody else is pulling my strings.”
He exhales, sounding so exhausted and frustrated that I almost want to reach across the table and pat him on the shoulder.
“I’m not going to play games,” he says. “It’s time to lay all my cards on the table.”
“Great,” I say. “Clarity would be nice, because right now, I don’t know what the hell is going on.” Another easy lie. After so many years, I barely have to think about it anymore. And with every day that goes by, I become less and less sure that’s a good thing.
“Tommy Bartlett’s an accountant. And he has some information on that laptop over there that could put Billy Hawthorne and his people behind bars for a very long time. Bartlett’s the only person who can access that incredibly encrypted machine. But he’s agreed to do that and testify in exchange for immunity.”
“Really?” I feign surprise. “Sounds like a good deal for him. I imagine Billy Hawthorne’s pretty pissed off.” In truth, I don’t have to imagine it at all. I was standing not three feet away when Billy hurled one of his chrome and leather chairs through a plate glass window with a stunning view of Lake Erie.
“Oh, he’s pissed off, all right,” Winston says. “Mad enough to hire someone to kill Bartlett and recover the laptop. No evidence, no testimony. And Hawthorne’s organization continues to limp along until another opportunity comes along for an agent to get a foot in the door.”
He studies my face again, frowning.
I know he’s playing me, and I should ignore it. But I say, “What?”
“Just wondering if this sounds familiar.”
“Not really.”
“No? Because the word on the street is that you’re the assassin Hawthorne hired.”
“Really? And exactly what street is that? Because I’m thinking you need a new map.”
To his credit, Winston chuckles. But when he turns serious, it’s deadly. I can see it in his eyes. “We’re done with play time,” he says. “Right now, you can keep denying and pretending ignorance or you can tell me the truth. Those are your only options. In fact, it’s even simpler than that. The bottom line is this—you’re going to tell me the truth or you’re not leaving this room alive.”
My pulse starts to race, and I force myself to breathe before answering. To take control. To reclaim this conversation. “You won’t kill me,” I tell him. “I know you too well. I know the kind of man you are. There’s no way you would do that.”
His smile is slow and confident and deeply scary. “Trust me, Linda, the man you used to know is long gone. The Winston sitting here with you? You don’t know him at all. Honestly, he’s pretty damn pissed.”
I force myself not to react. He could be bluffing. Years ago, I would have known for sure. Now, I don’t know shit.
So I do the only thing I can do—I shift the conversation. “I know a little bit, too,” I tell him. “For one thing, you’ve got a lot of information for a man supposedly out of the business. So what exactly are you doing these days, Winston, hmm? Because I have a feeling you’ve never been on a movie set in your life.”
“A couple of times, actually,” he says.
“Really?” My interest is genuine, and I don’t bother to modulate my tone.
He shrugs. “I live in LA now. And I have some friends who are connected.”
“How fun.”
We share a smile. Winston’s parents are classic movie fiends, and I love anything Hollywood. Hades had a four-plex cinema at the edge of town. Two new releases and two-dollar shows, and hitting the theater on Wednesdays and Fridays was the anchor of our routine. That, and what came after once we got home.
My body responds with the memory, and I glance down at our half-eaten meal so he won’t see my face. But to my surprise, his voice is tender when he says, “Yeah. I know. Me, too.”
I look up, and for a moment, we’ve traveled back in time. “I’m sorry,” I say, as if we’d just had a stupid fight about loading the dis
hwasher. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He nods, then swallows. Even in the dim light, I can see that his eyes are damp. “What did you do after?” he asks, and even though there’s no context whatsoever, I know what he’s asking.
“I left town. I couldn’t stay. If I—If I’d seen you, I wouldn’t have been able to leave.”
He nods slowly. “So you didn’t come to your funeral. Would’ve been interesting.”
“No. I wouldn’t have been able to bear it. Seeing you, but not talking to you.” I close my eyes and shake my head. “No.”
“The Consortium fell apart soon after. I know, because I took out most of the players personally.”
“I know. They told me.”
“Of course they did.” He holds on tight to the edge of the table, and I’m pretty sure he’s fighting the urge to throw his plate against the wall just for the cathartic pleasure of watching it shatter. “I was in a rage,” he says, his voice hardening under the emotion. “I used it as a lever for finishing them off.”
“Nothing like that is ever truly dead. Billy Hawthorne’s the one who moved in to pick up the pieces.”
“And now you work for him. What am I supposed to think about that?”
“I keep telling you that your information is wrong. I’m not Billy Hawthorne’s hired gun.”
He scoffs.
“I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Based on what you know—or what you knew—do you really think I’d work for the likes of him?” I’m coming dangerously close to breaking rules that I believe in. Shattering confidences and breaking vows.
Hell, I’m coming dangerously close to treason.
But I gave up everything so that this man could live. Maybe it’s selfish, but I think the universe owes me a pass.
“We both know people change,” he says. “It’s not always for the better.”
“I haven’t,” I promise him. “Not like that.”
His body sags, almost as if he’s exhausted. “I know what I’ve seen.”
“And what’s that?”
“Drone footage. A roof in Seattle. You. A man. And a single shot to the head.”
I can’t help it; I wince.
“And I know that the hit was authorized by Hawthorne. The same way he authorized the hit on Bartlett. Your boss is going to be pissed when he finds out you let his prey run free.”
“You really believe that?”
“I saw it. And we both know why Hawthorne wants Bartlett dead, and here you are, ready to carry out the orders.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
Shit. I draw a breath, because if I tell him the rest of it, I really will be falling down the rabbit hole. But I loved Winston Starr once, and I need him to know the truth. Vows, promises, and oaths be damned.
I’m dead, after all. And I’m pretty sure that the dead aren’t expected to keep their promises.
“So I guess I was right about you,” I say.
“About me?”
“You are in the game.”
A muscle in his cheek twitches. “Is that what we’re playing? I show you mine, you show me yours?”
I bat my eyes and flash a flirtatious smile. “Could be fun,” I say, and to my relief, he smiles. “They recruited you,” I say. “After you went renegade and did the heavy lifting for them, they recruited you into the NSC or something.”
He shakes his head. “No.” He draws a breath. “Full disclosure—I was always in.”
I lean back, processing those words. “And by in, you mean what?”
“The sheriff job was a cover. I was with the SOC. Sensitive—”
“—Operations Command,” I say, feeling queasy. “I know what it is, you goddamn hypocrite.”
His eyes go wide. “I never faked my death. If we’re keeping score, I still win.”
“Shit.” I push myself up because I want to pace, then remember that I’m strapped to the damn chair. I start to bend over so that I can undo the buckle, but his voice stops me cold.
“Sit back down.”
I glance back to find him aiming that damn Glock at me. “Seriously?”
“We are not five by five yet. Not by a long shot. I work for the SOC. My work is sanctioned. You’re taking assassination orders from Billy Hawthorne. Guess which one of us is walking the moral high ground.”
“You are in way over your head,” I tell him.
He sits up straight, his shoulders rolling back. “You’re the one who said I was in the game. And I agreed with you. Even told you what agency I’m associated with. Showing our cards, remember?”
“And now that I’ve seen your cards, I have to tell you that this isn’t Amateur Hour.” I lick my lips. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. Or worse.”
“I’m no amateur, sugar, and meeting you here was no coincidence. My assignment is to recover Bartlett’s laptop and stop his assassination. Looks like I managed that. And I’ll reacquire the accountant soon enough.”
“Assignment,” I repeat, so softly I’m not even sure he hears me. “Oh, fuck me. Of course. Winston, you have to listen to me. I know you think I’m bluffing, but if you ever loved me at all, you need to believe me, or you will end up well and truly fucked.”
His eyes narrow, and though I’m sure he thinks I’m only playing games, he says, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Seagrave’s dirty,” I tell him, my pulse pounding hard. “And the information on that laptop proves it.”
Chapter Twelve
Winston rocked back as if her words had been a slap. “Are you insane?”
“He’s the reason I’m here. In this hotel. Tracking down Bartlett.”
His head was spinning, and he wanted to kick himself. She’d drawn him in. Spun a nice tale of a girl trapped in a bad circumstance. A woman who’d fallen in love while working a deep cover op. And, dammit, he’d believed her.
But now this?
She was yanking his chain, and it was bullshit.
“Where’s your proof?”
“Proof? I just laid it at your feet. Actually, you laid it at mine.”
“What are you talking about?”
She tried to get up, remembered the belt around her leg, and sat back down in a huff. “You’re here to take me out. To get the laptop. To bring Bartlett safely in.”
“Yes.”
“To Seagrave. Your boss.”
“Well, he’s not actually my boss, but yes,” he said again, twirling his hand so that she’d get to the point.
Instead, she asked, “What do you mean he’s not your boss?”
He almost didn’t answer, but he was the one who said they were putting their cards on the table. “I’m not actually with the SOC anymore. I quit after you—well, after I thought you died. These days I work out of a private security agency based in Los Angeles.”
“What agency?”
“Stark Security.”
She nodded, looking genuinely impressed. “They’ve got a good rep.”
“Deservedly so. And I don’t think Anderson Seagrave is duping Damien Stark or Ryan Hunter any more than he’s duping me.”
“Don’t be naive,” she said, her tone suggesting that she was rolling her eyes even though her face remained entirely passive. “You can’t assess someone that way. You like the guy? So what? Traitors, serial killers, psychopaths. Some of the most notorious ones in history were very, very likable.”
He didn’t argue, because he couldn’t. She was right.
But he still couldn’t believe it was true.
“Come on, Winston,” she said gently. “Think about it. There are at least a dozen operational commanders at the SOC. You never told me which one you work with. And yet I knew. How? Because he’s the crux of my mission.”
The words slammed against him with the force of an elephant’s kick, knocking him back. “No,” he said, even as he remembered the terror in Bartlett’s eyes as Winston had said Seagrave’s name. As if he was looking at the Angel of Death.
<
br /> He shook his head, pushing the thoughts aside. “No way. That laptop shows the flow of money through Hawthorne to a government agent, you’re right about that being true. But not the SOC. Seagrave needs the laptop and Bartlett to prove who really is dirty.”
“I don’t know anything about payoffs,” she said. “But it sounds to me like he’s telling you the truth you need to hear. He’s just not telling you that he’s the dirty agent.”
“No. I know this man. I’ve worked with him for years. Hell, I worked with him when I was on the Hades mission. He came to our wedding.”
Her eyes went wide. “Our wedding? What are you talking about?”
“Uncle Andy.”
Her hand fluttered to her mouth. “In the wheelchair?”
He nodded. It had been risky having Seagrave there, but he’d wanted real friends. Emma and Seagrave had come, and so had his parents and brother, who’d believed he was the sheriff marrying a nice local girl.
And since Linda had no family, Uncle Andy had even given her away.
She reached across the table and took his hand, and for the first time since he’d seen her, he wanted to simply hold on, sharing his strength. He didn’t trust her, not yet. Not really.
But he couldn’t deny that he wanted to.
And that, he knew, made her all the more dangerous.
Slowly, he tugged his hand back, breaking their contact. He took a moment to gather himself, then lifted his face to hers. “Seagrave isn’t dirty. I know it.”
“No,” she said simply. “You don’t. You can’t.” She cocked her head. “Unless it’s you who’s dirty. Then I guess you’d actually know the truth.”
“Dammit, Linda—”
“Look, this is the entire basis of my mission. Bartlett hired me for the hit, sure. But I’m not going to go around assassinating his enemies.”
Winston crossed his arms over his chest. “Seattle.”
“That bastard was responsible for the bombing of two elementary schools in Europe that he staged to look like US military actions. It was a hit sanctioned at the highest level.”