Wait for Morning (Sniper 1 Security #1)

by Nicole Edwards

  However, her self-preservation wasn’t all that keen on what would surely be a fiery aftermath.

  Shaking off the thought, Marissa grabbed her laptop and settled onto the bed, putting her back to the headboard.

  Had she been at home—or rather, a safe house—she would’ve read a book or curled up on the couch and watched a movie. Sometimes she would even head out to the local bookstore or movie theater to hang out, to have a little human interaction. But right now, it seemed her only option was to hide out from the man who made her body burn with just his eyes.

  She needed something much more distracting than a novel or a romantic comedy. Both of those would offer little reprieve from the fantasies of Trace that were vying for her immediate attention.

  Within minutes, she’d effectively stopped thinking about Trace as she reviewed some of the comments on her last blog post and proofread her upcoming post that was scheduled for the following day. It wasn’t until she was skimming her emails nearly half an hour later that she saw it.

  Crap.

  There in her inbox was an email from an unfamiliar email address. She didn’t have to open the email to see the preview of the article attached to it. It was the article Douglas had written, one she had helped him with and remembered all too well. The heading: Sex, money, drugs: A concoction for murder.

  Crap. Crap. Crap.

  As she stared in horror at the email, a rumble in her stomach reminded Marissa that she hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch. She was starving, she realized as she glanced over at the clock on the bedside table and noticed it was already nearing three in the afternoon.

  Rather than go in search of food, Marissa closed her laptop with a gentle click, then eased down onto her back and curled up with the extra pillow on the bed. She pulled the blankets over her because the fear had chilled her to the bone, exterminating every ounce of heat that had swamped her after the incident with Trace. Closing her eyes, she prayed for sleep, something to give her a brief reprieve from everything that was going on.

  Unfortunately, her subconscious had other ideas, drifting back to that horrific day nearly six months ago…

  The knock on the front door startled her, causing her to look up from her book.

  As though her surroundings might offer some answers to the questions that began running through her mind, Marissa glanced around the small, tastefully decorated living room of the third safe house she’d been shipped off to in the last eight and a half months. Surprisingly, she’d spent more time at this one than any of the others, and perhaps that was why she’d come to like it so much.

  The clock on the wall told her it was midafternoon, as did the sun peeking through the slats in the white, faux-wood blinds that were closed.

  Who could possibly be at the door? No one was supposed to know where she was, and surely if her father or brothers had sent an agent to check on her, they would’ve called well in advance as they usually did.

  Figuring that a newbie agent had been tasked with doing a visual inspection to ensure she was all right, Marissa pushed the blanket from her legs and forced herself up off the couch. Her next move would change her life forever.

  Yanking the door open, wanting to catch the agent off guard and teach him a lesson for not following protocol, Marissa found herself face-to-face with … evil in a suit, wielding a gun.

  “Hello, pretty girl,” the eerie-looking man greeted as his nearly black eyes glittered with malevolence. “I knew you’d be happy to see me.”

  Marissa had no idea who the man was, but she had a pretty good idea about what he wanted, and it damn sure wasn’t to sell her a magazine subscription.

  Her. He wanted her.

  Was it a good sign that he hadn’t shot her as soon as she’d opened the door?

  As a million ideas clamored through her brain, Marissa tried to determine what she should do now. Did she slam the door in his face? Risk getting her face shot off in the process? Or did she let him come in and risk God knows what?

  Well, no one ever accused Marissa of being stupid. The second wasn’t even an option, and although she might not work for her father’s security company, she damn sure had been taught how to defend herself.

  “Let’s take a little drive,” the man said, the muzzle of the gun aimed right at her forehead, his hand as steady and as sure as his eyes were filled with madness.

  Never let them get you to a secondary location.

  Okay, at least she could recall something from the hours of self-defense her father had insisted she take. Tilting her head slightly to the side, pretending to be studying him, Marissa gripped the door knob, and then in a flash, she slammed the door in the man’s face. Only he was faster than she was, and his foot stopped the wood from closing completely.

  The man tsked at her as though she were a stubborn child, and his voice remained eerily calm as he said, “That’s not how we’re going to play today, little Marissa.”

  With her feet telling her to run, her brain scrambled with thoughts of where she was supposed to go, she turned to flee but then somehow ended up on her knees, forced to her stomach by the weight of the man above her as he held her face to the floor. Her heart was pounding as if she’d run a marathon, and in actuality, she’d only made it a couple of steps away from the door before he had tackled her.

  The next thing she knew, he had yanked her up from the floor by her arm, sending blinding pain pulsing through her shoulder. The agony wrenched a scream from her chest.

  “Marissa! Wake up.”

  The voice wasn’t the one she was expecting. The man with the gun began to fade, although the enmity in his eyes was still clear.

  A powerful hand on her shoulder had Marissa jerking awake with a scream, coming face-to-face with Trace as he stood above her. When she went to wipe her face, hoping to clear the confusion from her brain, she realized her cheeks were damp.

  She’d been crying.

  Trace ran his hand over her hair, lightly brushing strands away from her face, and her breath caught in her throat as she stared up at him.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

  Unable to speak, Marissa merely nodded although it was only a partial truth. She wasn’t okay, not entirely. She wasn’t sure she ever would be again.

  But there was no danger, no crazy-eyed man looking to do her harm, which meant she was fine. About as fine as she was anytime she closed her eyes and relived the day she’d been kidnapped right out of what was supposed to be a safe haven where the evil couldn’t find her. That day had changed her forever. It had diminished some of her unwavering faith in the men who’d been charged with keeping her safe, eliminated her hope that the asshole would be found and she’d get to live her life as normal. Even if they had saved her within hours of the abduction—which they had—long before the man had gotten her to a secondary location, she couldn’t help but feel as though they’d let her down.

  According to what her father had told her, she’d been gone for three hours. To her it had seemed like a lifetime. The memories of most of that day had vacated her. She wasn’t sure whether that was because the man had drugged her or because her brain was trying to fend off the pain that she would certainly endure once she did remember what had happened during those brief few hours.

  “You’re safe here, Marissa,” Trace said, his tone soft, consoling.

  She didn’t believe him for a minute.

  Not that she didn’t think Trace would do his best to keep her safe, because he’d proven it when he’d rescued her the last time. It didn’t seem to matter who was charged with protecting her, she’d been found every time, and as far as she was concerned, she was just biding time before it happened again.

  The man who was after her, the same one who’d been wreaking havoc on her life for the last twelve months, he was clearly insistent that he win this game.

  And in all honesty, Marissa was tired of playing.

  Twenty-Three

  As instructed, Z met up with Ryan
at the Sniper 1 offices at seven o’clock on the dot. To Ryan’s relief, the other man didn’t seem to want to waste any time, so once Z parked the Escalade and climbed onto his bike, they didn’t linger long before heading out to the meeting that Ryan had set with the Adorites. Well, more specifically, the meeting he’d set with Maximillian Adorite, the second-in-charge of the Southern Boy Mafia, at the man’s house, although house was probably not the right word to describe the fifteen-thousand-square-foot monstrosity that’d been featured in more than one magazine over the years.

  Not that Ryan gave a shit about the house. He was finally looking forward to getting some answers, though he had no idea what to expect.

  Pulling into the wide cobblestone drive that circled in front of the enormous, white stone structure, Ryan stared at the wealth and privilege before him. Funny how even blood money could rocket you to the top of the wealthiest-people-in-America list. The Adorites were no exception, although Ryan knew they hid behind their various businesses, using them as a cover and a convenient way to launder their dirty money.

  For whatever reason, they’d never been caught, but Ryan figured that was because they had too many high-and-mighty people in their back pocket. Politicians, law enforcement… They were all willing to look the other way because it benefited them. The cost of doing business, some would say.

  The Adorites—usually referred to as the Southern Boy Mafia—were the type of people that Ryan’s family protected people from, so it was ironic to find himself standing on the front porch, waiting for someone to answer the door and allow him to come inside.

  “Mr. Trexler. Mr. Tavoularis.”

  Ryan settled his helmet on his hip as he scanned the white-haired gentleman who’d opened the massive front door, swinging it in and motioning them forward. Obviously they’d been expected. Then again, they’d pretty much announced their presence when they’d gone through the process of getting through the security at the main gates.

  “Mr. Adorite is waiting in the den.”

  Ryan followed White Hair through the grand entry, with Z not far behind him, past a set of staircases that circled up to the second floor, through what was likely considered the living room—although it probably hadn’t seen a single visitor in all the time Max had lived there—then around a corner to another room. White Hair, who, yes, was wearing white gloves, pushed open the doors in grand fashion—both French doors at once—and then stepped out of the way, once more signaling them to precede him.

  “RT. Good to see you.”

  Ryan followed the sound of the voice to the other side of the room in time to see Max getting to his feet, a glass of what appeared to be scotch in his right hand, his left hand tucked into the pocket of his expensive slacks. Ryan noticed Z’s silent question, the one that said he hadn’t missed the familiarity in the man’s tone when he’d addressed RT.

  Well, now Z was well aware that they knew each other.

  Not that Ryan knew Max well, but he had spoken to him before.

  “Max. This is Zachariah Tavoularis. Goes by Z. Z, meet Max Adorite.”

  Z responded to the polite gesture and shook Max’s hand, meeting the man’s amber gaze. Neither of them said anything, but it was clear to Ryan that the men were sizing one another up.

  As far as Ryan was concerned, Max was the typical-looking billionaire, if there was such a thing. Other than the fact that he was younger than most people would expect—twenty-nine if Ryan recalled correctly—he didn’t exude an ounce of immaturity or inexperience in this world he found himself in, and he certainly looked the part. Nice clothes covering a trim—although more muscular than was probably expected—physique, nice hair, nice gleaming fingernails from the buff and polish he likely received on a weekly basis. Yep. Nice.

  But there was something in Max’s eyes that made a man look past the prim and proper exterior to what lurked on the inside. The guy had style, even class, but Ryan could sense something darker, more menacing beneath. Even the man’s perfect smile didn’t mask that, but he figured Max knew that already.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen,” Max directed, urging them toward the black leather sofas with a nod. “What can I do for you?”

  Ryan didn’t get comfortable, but he did take a seat, figuring Max would feel more at ease if he did—as would the big bald guy standing sentry in the corner, his gun held casually in front of him. No sense in getting anyone in a panic just because he’d rather be standing.

  “As I mentioned on the phone,” Ryan began, “I’ve uncovered a couple of things regardin’ my sister, and I’d like to get your take on them.”

  Max smiled, a disarming grin that didn’t hint toward a lick of amusement. “Interesting way to put things. I always did like that about you. Subtle yet not.”

  “I try,” Ryan said discordantly.

  “Let me cut through the BS. I’ve always preferred straightforward,” Max stated firmly, his tone belying his relaxed position. “You’re here to talk because someone’s attempted to kill your sister.”

  It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of fact, one Ryan didn’t particularly care for. “Seems that way, yes,” he replied coolly, ensuring Max didn’t see the defensiveness that suddenly stirred inside him.

  “Yet she’s still alive?” Max asked.

  “She is,” Z growled. “And she’s gonna remain that way.”

  Max glanced over at Z, his eyes raking him over as though once again sizing him up. He then nodded, followed by, “Then that should tell you all you need to know.”

  Ryan lifted his eyebrows in question, waiting for Max to look his way once again.

  When he finally did, Max added, “If we wanted your sister dead … she’d be dead.”

  The hair on the back of Ryan’s neck stood on end. The mere mention of something happening to his sister didn’t ease the tension that’d built to a fever pitch ever since Trace had pulled her out of the safe house moments before the damn thing exploded. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t brought Trace along. He didn’t even want to think what Trace’s reaction would’ve been to that statement.

  Forcing himself to relax, Ryan kept his eyes locked with Max’s. “Understood,” he said, his voice a little lower, a little gruffer than before. “And what about Douglas Forthnet?”

  “The dead journalist?” Max grinned, a feral look that spoke of the man’s true nature.

  “That’d be the one,” Z confirmed.

  “Not me, either. If I killed every damn reporter who stuck his nose in my business, I wouldn’t have time to conduct said business.”

  True. The Southern Boy Mafia was a hot topic of conversation in the Dallas area. Always had been. It wasn’t unusual for them to be plastered on the front page or appear on the nightly news more than once a week. It was a wonder that they could get anything accomplished at all, now that Ryan thought about it.

  “Assumin’ you believe me and don’t intend to waste valuable time blowin’ smoke up my ass, what other leads do you have?” Max questioned, sipping his scotch, his gaze darting back and forth between Ryan and Z.

  “Very little,” Ryan admitted honestly. Probably a little too honestly, but he couldn’t take it back. It was one thing to talk to the Adorites, another to give them details that might encourage them to go after Marissa again. Ryan still wasn’t convinced the Adorites weren’t behind her attempted kidnappings and the attempt on her life. “Someone wants her, dead or alive, we know that much,” he continued. “The last attempt was less than a week ago. We had some run-ins with a couple of hired assassins but learned little from them.”

  “Why so honest?” Max asked, his dark eyebrows lifting to his hairline.

  “What else am I gonna say?” Ryan retorted. “Someone’s after my sister. And it doesn’t matter if I know who it is today or not. I will. And then…” He couldn’t even speak the words; the anger threatened to boil over.

  Max studied Ryan for a moment. “I can assure you, I’m not after your sister. What she knows won’t affect me.”

&nb
sp; “What she knows?” Z questioned, his voice menacing.

  Ryan didn’t like the sound of that. Max obviously knew a hell of a lot more than he was saying.

  Max spared Z a glance but turned his attention back to Ryan. “There’re certain business arrangements that some people prefer to keep under the table. Unlike them, I don’t have anything to hide. So, like I said, I’m not interested in her. But…” Max sipped his drink, then set the empty tumbler on the glossy oak coffee table. “Your sister’s digging where she shouldn’t. If she’s smart, she’ll leave well enough alone.”

  “Is that a threat?” Z growled.

  “From me? No,” Max answered simply. “But I’ll offer you a little tip. Sometimes we don’t see what’s right in front of our face. My suggestion is you narrow your suspicions, bring them a little closer to home. Maybe then, you’ll find what you’re lookin’ for.”

  That didn’t tell them a damn thing, but Ryan could tell by the way Max continued to stare at him that he had no intention of saying anything more—nothing outside of his mysterious riddle, that was.

  Of course, criminals still had a code of ethics, one that they didn’t cross unless they wanted to end up dead. Ryan got the feeling Max was telling him something, without saying anything at all.

  Unsure what else to pry Max with, Ryan figured it was time to go. As he got to his feet, Z and Max both stood.

  “Thanks,” Ryan said to Max, holding out his hand.

  “One more thing. If you’re truly interested in learning something, I’m throwin’ a party on Tuesday night. I’ll be happy to add your name to the guest list,” Max said as he shook Ryan’s hand.

  There was something in the man’s touch, something akin to a warning. Ryan had no idea what it was, but he knew that Max wasn’t requesting he come to the party. No, if he was right, the other man was telling him that he’d find just the answers he was looking for if he did show up.

  Ryan nodded. “Funny. My schedule’s wide open on Tuesday.”

  “I thought it might be,” Max said, his gaze still locked with Ryan’s.