Strong Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #1)(76)

In the dim light, I can see his face as he stares up at me. His eyes are those of a killer. I wonder if that’s what mine look like to others. If that’s what they’ve always looked like. If that’s what they always will look like.

He says nothing. As I expected. I won’t get information from him. He’s trained to take his secrets to the grave. It’s what sets men like us apart from a legion of other hired guns. This is the code we live by.

I lean in and press my elbow into the deformed ball of his shoulder as I reach between us to feel his pockets. I don’t really expect to find anything, but I’d be remiss not to at least check.

I’m surprised when I find the hard, rectangular bulge of a phone in his front pocket. At least he’s smart enough to keep it there where no one can easily lift it from him. Rear pockets are easy to pick. Front ones are not.

I wiggle my fingers in to retrieve it, pulling it out and flipping it open. It’s innocuous looking enough. Like an old flip phone. But I’m not deceived. It’s a high-tech satellite phone with encryption and a built-in voice synthesizer. This guy must be freelance, which tells me that whoever is after us must know that the government web is compromised. They know we’re onto them and they’ve moved to private contractors, men who cut ties with legit assignments and work only for the highest bidder. No conscience. No affiliation. No loyalty. Just greed, blood lust and lethal skills.

The screen is locked, of course, so I reach for the guy’s hand. I press each finger to the screen until it unlocks and a series of letters and numbers flash in neat rows from left to right.

“I’m a little disappointed. You’re sloppy. I wouldn’t be caught dead on the kill with my phone in my pocket. Of course, I wouldn’t get caught,” I tell him as I wait for the phone to initialize, grinding my elbow into his shoulder again.

When it does, with the bluish glow of the screen to illuminate his face, I ask him about the first name I see in his contacts. There is no reaction. No twitch, no rise in pulse, no pupillary reaction. Not to the first name, the second name or the third.

With my fist, I thump him in the wound on his right thigh as I tap the screen over a secure text file. It appears to be just letters and numbers again, but I quickly use one of the ciphers that we used in Saudi to decode it. It’s a simple directive. To kill Elizabeth Harker, aka Muse Harper. Below it there is a single word: “Napalm.”

“What’s ‘Napalm’? Is that the operation or your contact?”

I get no answer, but I see the slight dilation of his pupils, telling me that whatever or whoever Napalm is, it’s sensitive. Protected. Important.

Something occurs to me as I watch this man. “Why aren’t you fighting me?” Despite his wounds, a man like this—men like us—wouldn’t stop fighting. We’d push through the pain. We’d use it like fuel. Only he’s not.

One side of his mouth quirks up. “Is there any reason to? I know who you are. You’re a soulless bastard, like me. And this is all we’ve got. We wake up every day ready to die. Nothing else to live for, so just get it over with.”

I know I’ll get nothing more from him, just like I know that he’ll never stop coming after Muse as long as there’s a price on her head. Or on mine. It’s with mixed feelings that I lift his head and push the tip of my blade into the indention at the base of his skull. I thought I would enjoy this more, and part of me does. Part of me wants to punish him for what he intended to do to Muse. But part of me sees too much of myself in him—a man with nothing but death and loneliness to keep him company for the rest of his life.

I know as I carry his limp body away that I’d rather die tonight than spend the rest of my life like this man. Alone. Without Muse.





THIRTY-NINE


Muse

I stand with one foot outside, listening for several minutes before the cold manages to penetrate my strange stupor and remind me of my nakedness. Reluctantly, I step back inside and close the door. I start to turn away, but I can’t. I can’t bring myself to leave this spot, leave the door. I’m too afraid that Jasper won’t come back through it.

A couple of times I think I hear a grunt or a scuffle, but it’s hard to make out much from in here. My ear is pressed to the wooden panel when it swings open, knocking me in the side of the head. I barely feel it. I’m experiencing too many jumbled emotions for it to register.

Jasper steps through, his bulk filling the entryway. His amber eyes find mine immediately and they latch on as he closes the door behind him. He turns the lock on the knob and then flips the deadbolt. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t take his eyes off me either.

He’s still for a few seconds before he slowly approaches me and stops within an inch. He smells like the night—cold and dark. But his scent, his face, his very presence warms me like nothing else can.

With purposeful, measured movements, he bends and sweeps me up into his arms. Gazes still locked, I wrap my hands around his neck as he turns to mount the stairs. He carries me through the bedroom and back into the bathroom, where he sets me on my feet. I watch as he pulls the plug from the tub and turns to exit the room.

I stand and wait, listening to the muffled sounds of material shifting from the other room. When he returns, the last of the water is circling the drain.

Jasper turns on the faucet and resets the plug, reaching into the corner for the bubble bath. He pours a capful under the stream of hot water and then recaps and replaces it.