by LENA DIAZ,
Chance like what? Bailey, what are you planning?
I’m going to bring down the Ghost.
Not by yourself, you aren’t! Too dangerous. Get out of there.
She shook her head as she typed her reply. Last I checked, you weren’t my boss.
A truly impressive string of curse words popped up on her screen. Maybe the cliché about sailors having a commanding knowledge of salty language was true. After all, Hawke had been a Navy SEAL once, ex-military like a lot of her peers. And then he’d answered his country’s call by becoming an Enforcer, only to become hunted like an animal by the very people who’d once recruited him.
Do you have a gun? he asked.
Nope.
Tell me where you are, Bailey.
Why? It’s not like you can help me any more than I can help you. You’re nearly two hours away with your own enemies to worry about.
There might be others in Boulder who can help. I can give them your GPS coordinates.
She stiffened. If you’re talking about those traitor Enforcers who turned against the rest of us and are now calling themselves Equalizers, they’re the last people I’d trust.
Devlin Buchanan and the others aren’t traitors. They figured out everything was going south way before the rest of us did and got out. They can help you, if you’ll let me contact them. If I remember right, they already tried to recruit you once. They know who you are. They’ll be happy to help.
Hot anger had her typing so fast her fingers cramped. No telling what would have happened to me if I’d accepted their offer at the time. From where I stand, the whole reason EXIT imploded is because Devlin put everything into motion. If it weren’t for the Equalizers, we’d both be lying on a beach somewhere right now spending our big fat paychecks.
Instead of the sexy teasing she’d expected in reply, she got a rushed message.
Gotta go. Be safe.
Text me when you make it out of there.
She waited, hoping for one last message. But a full minute passed and her screen remained blank. Her fingers tightened around the phone. If anyone could get out of a tough situation, Hawke could. He would contact her later, when he was in the clear. She had to believe that. Because she’d already lost everyone else she’d ever cared about. She couldn’t stomach the thought of losing Hawke, too.
Swallowing against the tightness in her throat, she put her phone away. Then she pulled the neon-green emergency release handle and climbed out of the trunk of the Ghost’s car.
Chapter Four
Saturday, 2:25 a.m.
Bailey swept her wet bangs out of her eyes and ducked beside the black Cadillac Coupe in the driveway of the Ghost’s single-story ranch house. Rain was falling steadily, soaking her through and through. But it kept any late-night curious neighbors away, which meant she didn’t have to worry so much that someone might call the cops if they saw her skulking around.
Then again, maybe stealth wasn’t necessary. The man who’d seemed so formidable back in the woods now seemed the complete opposite—careless and oblivious to everything around him.
After she’d heard him get out of the car, she’d carefully climbed out of the trunk. His back was turned to her and he was bobbing and weaving like a drunk. The smell of whiskey reached her even through the pouring rain. And when she peeked through the Caddy’s window, the full bottle of whiskey that she’d seen in the console earlier was only half-full now. He must have been drinking the whole way home.
She was lucky that he hadn’t wrecked the car and killed them both, or worse, some innocent passerby. She had zero respect for someone who’d risk other people’s lives that way.
The man was so inebriated that a barking Rottweiler could have snuck up on him. It was taking all of his concentration to remain upright while he tried to fit his key in the side door’s lock.
Even from twenty feet away she could hear the slur of his voice as he grumbled about the stubborn door. When the Ghost finally stumbled inside, Bailey shook her head in disgust. This was the man they’d labeled the Ghost because he appeared from out of nowhere, was elusive, a shadow? This was the man so many Enforcers had feared, worrying that he and one of his teams of gunmen would come after them next and make them disappear just like so many of their peers?
Pathetic.
In spite of his impressive build and brawn, he didn’t have the discipline required of a true leader. He wasn’t even worthy of her scorn, much less her fear. And somehow that made everything worse. That a man so inept could bring down so many Enforcers was insulting, embarrassing.
After waiting a full minute to make sure her nemesis didn’t come back outside, she jogged from the car to the same side door he’d just gone through. Locked. No surprise there. Even a bumbling fool couldn’t be that lax. But she didn’t see any of the usual trappings of an alarm—no warning signs in the yard, no wires or metal plates in the nearest window casing to indicate the old house had been retrofitted with a modern security system. Maybe he assumed he didn’t need one in an upper-middle-class neighborhood like this. And he’d never considered that one of the people he’d hunted would hitch a ride in his car and hunt him instead.
He was about to pay for both of those mistakes.
Since there were floodlights on this side of the house, making her feel dangerously exposed, she discarded the idea of picking the lock. Plus, going in cold was foolish. She needed to check the perimeter, get as much information as she could about her target before attempting entry.
Keeping her head down just in case there was a camera hidden somewhere, she walked the entire perimeter. A line of shrubs along the front of the house gave her excellent concealment, allowing her to peek in windows, straining to see as much as possible through the tiny cracks in the blinds. If there was a security system, it was well hidden. And she hadn’t spotted any cameras, although she continued to keep her head down just in case. Not that it really mattered. The Ghost’s men had been after her for weeks. They obviously knew what she looked like. But old habits died hard. And she’d been an Enforcer for a long time.
After making her way to the back of the house, she decided she’d enter through a dry-rotted set of French double doors that opened onto a six-by-six concrete patio. There wasn’t even a porch light on back here to dissuade a potential burglar.
Or one determined, badass Enforcer.
Although she hadn’t seen the Ghost when she’d peeked through the blinds in the various windows, she figured that he must be in the front room since it was the only one with a light on. He was probably sitting in some corner she couldn’t see, nursing another bottle of whiskey.
A few minutes later, courtesy of the mushy wooden frame and the pry bar she took from the trunk, she was inside. After propping closed one of the ruined French doors behind her, she stepped into the center of the room.
The dim light from the archway at the back left corner of the room helped her catalog the contents—a couch to her left, two chairs to the right, a wall of bookshelves with knickknacks and paperweights on the wall opposite of where she stood, and little else. It didn’t even look lived-in. It was probably just the place where the FBI—or whoever the Ghost’s real employer was—had set him up while his men murdered Enforcers. She hefted the pry bar in her hand. Time to go hunting.
“I guarantee you won’t find a flat tire in here to change.”
Bailey whirled to her left at the sound of the deep, masculine voice.
“Hold it.” A powerful flashlight clicked on from behind the couch, shining directly at her face.
She should have checked behind that couch, first thing. Now who was making the mistakes?
She held her empty hand up, shielding her eyes. “Turn the light away. I can’t see anything.”
“That’s the point,” he said dryly. The light didn’t waver. “While I’d rather not put a hole in you, I will if I have to. Keep that in mind while you carefully and slowly toss that pry bar to the other side of the room.”
She rel
uctantly pitched her only weapon away. It clattered across the hardwood floor and skittered into the corner.
“Lock your hands behind your neck and move toward the archway,” he ordered.
“Do a girl a favor and put the gun down first, okay?”
“Sorry, fresh out of favors. Move.”
She trudged forward, wondering why he wasn’t slurring his words. And even though she could hear his uneven gait as his shoes echoed on the floor behind her, he wasn’t staggering. That odd gait was most likely because of his wounded leg.
Which meant he’d never been drunk to begin with.
“You tricked me,” she accused, as she half turned, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the light. “You knew I was in the trunk.”
“It seemed a likely possibility.”
Grudging admiration shot through her. He wasn’t the fool she’d thought him to be. Everything had been too easy, which should have been her first warning. But she’d fallen victim to her own prejudices, assuming he was a lush because, seriously, who carried a full-size bottle of whiskey in their car, especially when on a mission?
Since she didn’t smell any alcohol now, he must have poured it out next to the car as part of his plan to fool her. If she was going to make it out of this alive, she couldn’t afford to underestimate him again. She’d have to rely on the only weapon she had left—her wits.
“Well played. What’s next?” She half turned. “I’m Bailey Stark, but you know that already. What should I call you?”
“I don’t particularly care. Turn around. Go into the front room.”
She really missed her gun.
If she could find out his real name, it could be a gold mine if she managed to escape. A name would be that little thread she could pull to unravel the rest of the government’s secrets. She could follow him to his boss, and to the next boss, until she knew everyone pulling the strings against the Enforcers at every level of government. After all, she and the other remaining Enforcers couldn’t effectively fight their enemies without knowing who they were.
“Unless you can outrun my trigger finger, I suggest you get moving,” he said.
“You’re a lousy host,” she grumbled as she started forward again.
“You’re a lousy guest. You destroyed the casing around my antique doors.”
“Antique? They’re a dry-rotted termite smorgasbord. I did you a favor by pointing out a major flaw in your security.”
“Well, in that case, I suppose I should thank you.” The mocking sound of his voice had her nails biting into her palms. A moment later he said, “You can stop now.”
She was in the middle of the front room. A brown leather couch took up the spot under the street-facing windows. Beside it was a generously-sized blue chair, and next to that was a large oak desk, its scarred surface littered with papers.
Again, there wasn’t much else to give it a lived-in appearance, just wall-to-wall bookshelves, covered mostly with stacks of paper. Reports maybe? Information about the teams searching for her and the others? She wouldn’t mind a closer look.
“Turn around.”
As she turned, her hands still locked behind her neck, she surveyed everything. The only exits were the front windows and the opening they’d just come through. That didn’t seem right. The front door should have been nearby. But she didn’t see it. She glanced around the room again, to the left and right of the windows.
“It’s fake,” he offered, drawing her attention. “The front door. That is what you were looking for, isn’t it? I had it sealed off when I moved in.”
Since the lights were on in this room, he’d set the flashlight down somewhere and she could see him perfectly. Including the gun in his hand. The Walther PPK didn’t waver, but it wasn’t pointed directly at her either. Instead, it was aimed slightly to her left, and his pointer finger was on the frame, not the trigger. It appeared that he wasn’t planning on shooting her, not yet anyway. As long as she didn’t provoke him, she just might figure a way out of this that didn’t include her leaving in a body bag.
“Why would you bother to seal the front door and leave a half-rotten door in the back?”
She was stalling for time, but was genuinely curious to hear his answer. She glanced at the bookshelves for some sort of weapon. But there weren’t any large, heavy books, and no paperweights here. Maybe that was why he’d forced her into the front room. It was safer for him than the back room with knickknacks that she could have used as missiles.
There weren’t any paintings or decorations on the walls. But there was a small photograph taped on the wall near the archway. It was a picture of him with his arm around a blonde who was cover-model beautiful. Both of them were smiling into the camera. And the picture was taken before whatever had caused those deep scars on the Ghost’s face.
The smooth, chiseled cheekbones and square jaw in the photo combined with a carefree smile contrasted sharply with the man in front of her. But it was the look of utter joy in his sparkling eyes in the photograph that provided the most startling contrast. The change in him seemed almost . . . tragic.
What happened to you?
“There’s a solid steel pocket door I can slide closed behind the French doors,” he said, answering the question she’d spoken earlier about security. “When I go to bed, I secure the pocket door. But since I was expecting company, I left it open.”
His voice had an edge to it that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. It was the same tone he’d used when they were in the woods. She studied him more carefully, noting the tiny lines of strain around his mouth and eyes, the whiteness of his knuckles that were tightly clenching the gun.
He was in pain. Had the walk from the other room caused his injury to hurt again?
“How did you know I’d hidden in the trunk?” she asked.
She noticed that his stance was slightly crooked, as if he were favoring his left hip. She may have just found her way out. Again. But she needed to get closer to take advantage. Would he be ready for her this time? Would he make the same mistake twice?
He shrugged. “It’s where I’d have hidden, if our roles were reversed.”
She slowly lowered her hands. When he didn’t tell her to put them back up, she shoved them into the pockets of her shorts, using the action to distract him from the fact that she’d taken a small step forward.
The fingers of her right hand bumped against her phone. She’d forgotten it was there. She suddenly wished that she’d smashed it before coming into the house. If she was captured and the Ghost got Hawke’s number, he might be able to use it to draw him into a trap. Assuming that Hawke had escaped the net closing around him tonight.
“If you knew I was in the trunk, why didn’t you open it? Why drive me to your house?”
She twisted around, glancing at the windows as if she’d heard something, again using her movements to cover that she’d moved closer.
“I didn’t want to risk you shooting me in the face if you’d managed to get a gun before getting into my car,” he answered amiably, as if they were just a couple of friends having a chat. He waved the pistol toward the couch. “Make yourself comfortable while we wait for my team.”
She stiffened. “Your team?”
“The one from your house earlier. I heard a thump in the trunk on the way here and figured my theory was correct, that you were hiding inside. So I told the team to meet me here, just in case. Turns out I was right. Don’t worry. You won’t have to wait long. They’ll be here soon.”
She studied the play of light across the scars on his cheeks, which lent him a sinister cast. Or maybe it was the sudden urgency of her situation that made him seem that way. Escaping him, alone and unarmed, would be hard enough. Against an entire team, without any secret panels to slip through, would be nearly impossible. She had to get out of here. Now.
And she knew exactly how she was going to do it.
Chapter Five
Saturday, 2:45 a.m.
Bailey inched closer t
o the Ghost, instead of toward the couch where he’d told her to go. Hoping to distract him from that fact, she gestured with her hands toward the room at large.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
He frowned. “I’m the one asking the questions. But I will tell you this. The Enforcer program is over. You and your colleagues have to be debriefed, sent to a retraining facility to be reintegrated into society in a new capacity. Just as importantly, the government has to believe you aren’t dangerous, in order for the Enforcers to be allowed to go free without the constraints of EXIT Inc. or a similar structure. What my teams are doing, what I’m doing, is giving EXIT’s former agents a second chance. We’re saving lives, Enforcers’ lives.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Earlier tonight, you mentioned burying your friends. But no one that we’ve captured has been killed. Someone has been spreading rumors, lies.”
“Lies?” She laughed harshly. “Tell that to Sebastian and Amber. Oh, wait. You can’t. Because they’re both dead.”
“I don’t know who told you that but—”
“No one told me.” She risked moving a step closer, then another. “I went to their funerals.”
His gaze locked on hers with an intensity that was unnerving. “What are you talking about?”
If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was truly shocked, that he hadn’t known her friends had been killed. But he’d fooled her once already tonight, and she wasn’t underestimating him again.
“Bailey, talk to me. I need to understand what you—”
She launched herself at him, focusing all of her body weight and muscle into slamming the heels of her tennis shoes against his left thigh. A guttural moan tore from his throat as his leg crumpled beneath him. He fell to the floor, his face a white mask of pain. Guilt swept through her as he clutched his leg, in obvious agony.