Page 3 of Agony

Control freak.

Right then, Fisher doubted the higher-ups’ decision to have assassins partner together. It was a loner job. A job that should be handled quietly, quickly, and alone.

He still remembered the phone call with his boss after the third day of being partnered with Justice.

What was the sense in having a partner if they didn’t work together, he’d complained? “It was early days,” their boss had told him.

So here he was almost two weeks later and he spent most of his time with his weapons holstered because Justice had to be the one to save the fucking day.

To say he was surprised when he’d been partnered with Justice would be an understatement. He was a former Navy SEAL. How the hell had he gotten partnered with an ex-Army Special Forces medic? It didn’t make sense except maybe for the fact they were both former military.

Fairly quickly, Fisher discovered that Justice had personally made the special request to partner with him. That, in fact, Justice had told Savage he would only partner with him and nobody else.

Exactly why? Well, Justice’s reasons remained a mystery.

What Fisher had discovered within the first twenty-four hours was that Justice was a control freak. The man wanted…no, needed to be in control.

Fisher hated that.

He hated others making decisions for him. He moved to his own beat, he walked his own path. He hated being fenced in.

But most of all, he hated being forced in any capacity.

And after twelve days of fighting with the man’s need for control, Fisher was just about done. He neither wanted nor needed a babysitter.

Justice gestured again and Fisher shook his head. He was going to win this argument.

He glared across the distance at Justice, giving the man a warning look he didn’t use often. The moment resignation crossed the man’s face, Fisher felt like crowing at the win.

The enjoyment didn’t last long.

A dark shadow lunged out and barreled into Justice—which probably wouldn’t have happened except Justice had been distracted by him.

Oops.

The two men went down, crashing into a stack of supplies, sending metal tools, nails, and fuck knows what clanging to the concrete floor.

Fisher aimed his silencer, but couldn’t get off a clear shot. He shoved his gun away and reached behind his shoulders to pull out both short swords he wore tucked into his custom holster.

The two men were locked in a battle of sheer muscle and while his money was on Justice, he wasn’t taking any chances.

He charged across the distance. Swiping one blade, he caught the mark on his calf. The razor edge of his sword opened the guy’s skin to the bone.

The perp yelled and stumbled. Justice wrapped a powerful arm around the fucker’s neck and squeezed.

Fisher gestured and when Justice lowered his arm a fraction, he swung with his second blade and sliced open the perp’s neck—cutting the jugular.

When the blood sprayed, Fisher danced lightly away.

“You almost cut my arm.” A frown creased Justice’s forehead beneath that fall of blond hair.

“No, I didn’t.” His aim was so precise that he might have given Justice’s arm hair a trim, but he certainly hadn’t cut him and he never would.

Now, shoot the man? That might be doable.

Justice released his grip and the man toppled to the ground with a gurgle. Studying his arm, Justice ran a hand over where the blade would have touched. Finding nothing, Justice snorted with a cocky brush of his hands together. The man shot him that damned smirk again—like he’d been the one to take down the mark.

“You shot the wrong guy,” Fisher pointed out, walking over to check the face of the throat-cut guy against the photo of their mark on his cell phone.

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