by Shandi Boyes
Incapable of giving up without a fight, I retaliate, “We weren’t soliciting you. We were playing you. Dwain stupidly thought you were interested in me, so we decided to test the theory. Big mistake, apparently!”
“The only mistake you made was petitioning a federal agent for sex—”
“We didn’t know you were an agent! Duh!” The immaturity of my last word should shock me. Unfortunately, it doesn’t. I’m notorious for being childish when the odds are stacked against me. Tonight is clearly no different.
Realizing my argument isn’t getting me anywhere fast—except to jail—I switch to a tactic I haven’t used in an extremely long time. I hit him with straight up honesty. “I work at Substanz as a cabaret dancer. Nothing more. I wouldn’t have sex with you even if you paid me.”
I snap my mouth shut, praying it will hoist me out of the massive sinkhole I'm digging. I said straight up honesty, so acting like he has a dog's ass for a face is the most dishonest thing I've pretended the past three years, and I've had some doozies.
“That was a lie. I’d have sex with you even without an exchange of money.” His growl quickens my words. “But in saying that, there was never any intention for us to exchange bodily fluids. I don't do attachments. With attachments come lies, and with lies come heartache. I've had more than my fair share. I don't want any more.”
The stranger sighs. Since I can’t see his eyes, I can’t decide if it is an annoyed sigh or a frustrated one. With his weapon still honed on my chest, I’ll assume it is the latter.
When the stranger’s silence becomes too great for me to bear, I plead, “Please, I am begging you. I can’t be arrested.” The prayer in my voice is unmissable. “This won’t ruin my weekend, month or year. It will destroy my entire life.”
For the first time tonight, I seem to get through to the stranger. His voice sounds genuinely dependable when he assures, "If tonight's exchange was merely a misunderstanding, you have no reason to fear stepping back onto this side of the fence. Much to the dismay of every woman in this town, cabaret dancing is not illegal. You won’t face charges if all you did tonight was earn an honest living.”
“That’s all I was doing. I swear to you,” I pledge.
The agent steps closer to the fence, unshadowing half of his face. It adds to the sweat slicking my skin. "Then tackle the issue head-on, Rae. You don't appear the type to back down without a fight. Prove to me what I saw the instant I spotted you is true. Show me your fighting spirit."
My reluctant step forward is sliced to half its natural stride when a curt voice snaps, “Don’t.”
It is the same voice that told me to keep my head down and feet moving to avoid arrest. I thought his dart across the dew-covered ground left me high and dry. I had no clue he’d return to rescue me for the second time tonight.
“Look at him, Regan. He won’t shoot you.” He keeps his voice low, ensuring the federal agent can’t hear him. He assumes my silence is because I’m contemplating his promise—not plotting a way to evade him.
“His gun is pointed at my chest,” I murmur, certain the gray-eyed stranger isn’t seeing things clearly since he is several paces behind me.
A rustle of air hits my neck, making me imagine the stranger briskly shaking his head. “Truly look at him, Regan. His gun is to the left of your chest. His finger isn’t on the trigger. He has no intention of taking you down.”
I take a step forward. I’m not giving in. I’m merely authenticating the stranger’s assumption.
He is correct. The agent’s gun is veered just left of me, and his trigger finger is straight and un-cocked.
My pulse thrums through my body as an incalculable number of questions bombard me. Am I the cause of the indecisiveness in his tone? Is his inability to direct his weapon at me the reason he seems more reluctant now than he did when Dwain approached him? Will he let me flee without protest?
My first two questions go unanswered. My last doesn't require a lengthy deliberation. He is an FBI agent, and I am a cabaret dancer who solicited him for sex. The only way we will ever get cozy is when he is circling cuffs around my wrists.
As if he heard my unspoken words, the unnamed man suggests I make a dash for it. I shake my head. “I can’t. You don’t know what we did to him. He’ll shoot me.”
When I remain frozen in place, the man steps out of the low-hanging tree sheltering him from the agent's view. The agent's attention snaps to him so fast, I'm certain his neck will feel the effects for weeks to come.
“Are you an idiot? What are you doing?!” My scold is barely audible over the agent’s repeated demands for the man to raise his arms above his head.
Although he does as requested, his eyes remain locked on mine. “Now we’ve only got two options. You either run with me or I die. The choice is yours, Regan.”
“If he has no intentions of shooting me, why would he shoot you?!” I stop badgering him with my you’re such an idiot voice when the crook of a finger steals my words. The agent’s trigger finger is no longer straight and flat. It is curled in a soul-stealing way.
Shit.
“On the count of three, I’m going to run. You either run with me or watch me be carted out of this field with a bullet hole in my back.”
“I can hear you, you know,” the agent growls, pissed we’re talking about him as if he isn’t here, much less the only player holding a gun.
The gray-eyed stranger smirks as he mockingly states, “I know.”
He charges for me so fast, the agent barely has a second to blink, much less yank back his trigger. His theory that the agent has no intention of gunning me down is proven without doubt when his dash behind my back coincides with the lowering of the agent’s gun.
“Need more proof?”
Not waiting for me to answer, the gray-eyed man steps out from behind my shoulder. The instant he is unblanketed from my body, the agent curls his finger around the trigger of his gun. When he steps back, placing me in the firing line, the agent’s finger goes as straight as a board.
The unnamed man’s husky laugh is barely audible over the hammering of my heart. With the unusual range of emotions hammering me, I can’t declare if it is a good flutter or a bad one. If I had to choose, I’d say it is a bit of both. I hate that we’re in this predicament, but this is the first time in a long time my heart has thumped this way. Luca was the instigator of any trouble we got into, so he was the one left answering for it. I’m not saying I’m totally innocent, but compared to Luca’s antics, I appeared to be a saint.
The stranger's minty breath fans my earlobe when he whispers, "On the count of three, I'm going to spin and run. If you come with me, we'll be scot-free. If you stay put, I'll be dead."
I don’t get the chance to protest before he counts down, “Three. . . Two. . .”
"Rae, don't," the agent warns when my feet shift an inch to the right. "I can protect you. I can keep you safe. You just need to trust me."
The honesty in his tone makes me believe his pledge of protection, but apart from my dad and brother, there has only been one other man who gained my utmost trust. He is buried under six feet of dirt. He took my secrets to his grave—just as I will his.
For that alone, I turn and sprint when the stranger screams, “One!”
With my brain on the verge of shutting down, I focus on one thing and one thing only: keeping my body aligned with the man two feet in front of me. The closer I stay to him, the less likely he’ll be bitten by a bullet.
I hear the agent chasing after us, shouting my name on repeat, but I also smell freedom. It is there, right over the railroad tracks. I just have to keep running like I did the night Luca guided his car toward a massive tree trunk.
Did you know if you sprint fast enough, the entire world blurs? That’s what I do to forget haunted memories. I run until the tears streaming down my face are replaced with sweat, and running home is the last thing on my mind. I run until my legs give out, and my toes bleed as heavily as my heart did that fata
l night three years ago.
I run and run. Then I run some more.
The stranger waves his arm in the air three times when we cross a railroad track. A dark blue sedan skids to a stop in front of us two seconds later. When the suit-clad man gestures for me to enter before him, I shove him into the backseat with a grunt. Can’t he sense the danger surrounding us? The agent is so close, his hot breaths are quivering on my neck. They’re the reason my heart is battering my ribs even more than my overworked lungs are struggling for air.
I dive into the car with barely a second to spare. The driver floors the gas pedal, leaving the agent standing on the road edge with his gun pointed our way, but his bullets intact.
I’d like to say my heart is in the same condition. Unfortunately, I can’t.
Chapter Three
My feet are planted shoulder-width apart, and my aim is perfect; I just need my head to get the memo that my target is a criminal. She chose evil over good, the villain over the hero. She chose him instead of me.
So do your fucking job, Alex! Shoot out the goddamn tire!
Pain rockets through my right cheek when I peer down the barrel of my gun to line up the back left tire. One bullet and my pursuit will be over. The sedan will flip, most likely injuring the assailants inside. That shouldn't be an issue. If they weren't fleeing a crime scene, they wouldn't get hurt. But her, for some fucking reason, I can’t hurt her.
Have you ever wondered what would happen to an angel if she visited hell? Would her feathers wilt under the heat? Or would she be protected by a bubble of goodness too strong for the most profound sins to penetrate? Those were the questions that popped into my head when I spotted Rae on the stage for the first time weeks ago. She was smiling like every other dancer, but her smile wasn't to entice money. It was genuine and unique, a smile that revealed she'd survive the depths of hell without a single feather being singed.
She’s the reason I stalled our sting the past month. I was sent into Substanz undercover to determine if they were the operative responsible for the shipment of illegal firearms and drugs from Africa the past year. The only illegal thing I spotted was an excessive amount of cleavage. . . until I was approached on my way out.
I should have walked away. I should have pretended Dwain’s offer wasn’t as insinuated, that he was simply asking if I enjoyed the show enough to tip generously, but the motion-activated camera in the button of my shirt ensured I couldn’t ignore his proposal.
My superiors witnessed what I witnessed. They heard what I heard. I had no other option but to act on the oath I swore. Substanz may not be running drugs and guns, but they are overseeing another illegal operation: prostitution.
Things have certainly changed since I left the academy. My first assignment was a sex trafficking ring run by a Russian association on the West Coast. None of the women looked like Rae. The life in their eyes had vanished within a week of being "recruited," and their skin was blemished with bruises and scars.
Only one girl’s eyes held the same esteem as Rae’s: it was Katie, a pretty redhead with milky white skin and big doe eyes. I fought my superiors for months to let me break cover to save her from the lifestyle that was slowly killing her, but they always offered the same argument: “One woman’s life will never be more valuable than many lives.”
I understood what they meant, but the plea in Katie's eyes couldn't be felt through surveillance images. Their impact in person could take down the strongest man. I nearly succumbed numerous times. The only reason I didn't was because I am not a man. I am an agent. My job comes before anyone—even the dancer who stole the air from my lungs with a can-can kick and bright smile.
Exhaling sharply, I return my focus to the task at hand. With the dark sedan’s dangerous speed gaining them an impressive advantage, it will be a long range shot for me to take them down, but my marksmanship skills are the best the academy has seen. I’m confident I’ve got this.
As my finger creeps back on the trigger, a blur of blonde captures my attention. I adjust my vision, sharpening it so profoundly, the rare speckles of black mottled through Rae’s green irises can be seen from a distance. She is staring straight at me, begging me not to shoot.
I remind myself that she is a target, a criminal, a person who sells her body for profit, but no matter how loudly the facts are screamed at me, nothing forces me to squeeze the trigger. Even with my wallet being five hundred dollars lighter, I believed her when she said she only works at Substanz as a dancer. The way she holds herself backs up her claims, let alone the honesty in her eyes. I don’t know the premise behind her ruse tonight, but I trust my gut. It has never let me down. That singlehandedly has me lowering my gun.
Regrettably, I’m not the only agent in pursuit.
“Don’t fire!” I scream, waving my hand in the air to alert the agent dressed head to toe in riot gear to stand down. “They’re civilians.”
Agent Dane relaxes his stealthy stance before raising his face visor. I knew who he was before he revealed himself. If the tattoo on his hand didn’t give it away, I can smell his taco-laced breath from here. I swear, from the day we met as freshmen in college, I’ve seen him consume a minimum of three tacos a day.
Dane and I were recruited to the agency straight after graduation. His laidback attitude has hindered him climbing the ranks as rapidly as me. Not that he minds. He believes everyone can achieve greatness no matter how slow their pace is.
I'm taking the reckless, steep track. He's choosing the safer, more boring option. Although I doubt he'd have an issue taking my place if the Bureau discovered I let two suspects flee without using my exemplary weaponry skills.
After housing his weapon, Dane lifts his icy blue eyes to mine. Our eyes, cut facial features, and identical height often have us mistaken for brothers. It is only Dane’s inky black hair keeping the rumors at bay. I do have a brother in the agency, just not anywhere you’d suspect.
“If they’re civilians, why are you injured?” Dane drops his eyes to my right ear.
I run my hand across the area he’s glaring at. Air hisses between my teeth when I discover a thin but deep gash running from my right temple to just below my earlobe.
“It’s barely a scratch. When I heard rustling in the bushes, I dove through the fence to check it out,” I murmur like it’s not a big deal. “Must have cut myself. Doesn’t hurt.”
For a man trained to lie, I’m shit at it. An average man would hear my deceit a mile out, let alone one who knows me better than family.
“Let the medics take a look at it. We don’t want anything happening to your pretty little face. Barbie will get upset if she discovers her main squeeze isn’t made out of plastic.” The deep hum of his voice is hindered by laughter.
My eyes roll skywards before I give him a curt nod. Nothing he is saying is new to me. He was the one who started the Ken doll rumors at the academy. Sometimes I wish I were made out of plastic, then I wouldn’t face moments like today. You can’t feel conflict if your insides are hollow.
I trained for years to ensure I see nothing but the truth when I look at someone. Criminals are criminals regardless of their gender, age, looks or social status. It shouldn’t matter if my heart had an elongated beat at my first glance into Rae’s eyes or that the music dulled to barely a buzz when she smiled. A criminal is a criminal. That is it. No further deliberation required.
After scrubbing my hand down my face in frustration, I trudge back toward the flashing lights on the horizon. It’s time to face my actions like a man instead of the coward I portrayed tonight.
My brisk pace slows when Dane calls my name. When I spin around to face him, he gives me a smirk. It is more of an I’m your brother even without the blood smirk than one of a rival. He’s not peeved about my advancement in the academy. He’s proud.
He throws a chunky field laptop into my chest before jabbering, “If you’re leading with the civilian story, you better wipe her from the data first.” He drops his eyes to my chest, his brie
f scan halting at the exact button housing my hidden camera. “Wipe my roguishly handsome face while you’re there, will ya? I don’t want my measly paycheck sliced even more. . .”
His lopsided grin lowers half an inch as the width of his pupils double. He stumbles forward, his face whitening with each jagged step he takes. I stare at him, stunned into silence. He’s acting as if he’s been. . . Oh fuck.
“We’ve got shots fired on Mulberry Hill,” I roar into my radio before grabbing Dane by the scruff of his shirt to drag him behind a thick tree on the edge of the roadside. Because he is in the process of dropping, we exit the clearing extremely fast. "An officer has been hit. I repeat, officer down; send medics!"
Blood splatters Dane’s chin when I push my hands on the massive stain oozing out of his vest. He must have been shot with a high caliber weapon as the bullet shredded his bulletproof vest. It’s left a hole the size of a penny in the upper left quadrant of his stomach.
“Come in heavy. Looks like a sniper.” My demands are remarkably strong for how hard my heart is hammering. “Bullet is a through and through. Wound is puckering.”
My crew replies but Dane’s garbled moan drowns them out. His battle cry is warranted. I am tugging his vest off so I can inspect his wound more diligently. Although I hate hurting him, if I don’t act quickly, he’ll suffer more than a tinge of pain. He’ll feel nothing.
The situation worsens when I remove Dane’s vest and shirt. He is bleeding profusely, meaning either an artery has been nicked or the bullet entered and exited his liver. Neither scenario is good.
“We need to get you to the medics. They’ll never make it here on time.”
Dane grips my hand, impeding my calculation of the steps from our location to base. Since his throat is filling with blood, his welling eyes have to speak on his behalf. He doesn’t want me risking my life to save his.