Page 25 of Overcast

The precipitated beer bottle in my hand urges me to chuck it at his forehead.

This is the second time in less than twenty-four hours that he’s insulted and pissed me off. As though I can’t do my job, keep my feelings out of it, and—

Fuck.

“I don’t know,” Mills sing songs. “She doesn’t look like someone who could hold Reagan’s head down. She’s...puny.”

“A perfect distraction for someone like you—” I hit Mills with a glare. “—to think she’s incapable. She fucking headbutted me.”

Mills leans back in his chair and brings his can to his lips. “Can you blame her?”

“Your approach isn’t working,” Bishop claims. “We found her getting off with a group of men only yards away. She might like dick...a lot.”

“You want him to fuck her to make her talk?” Mills looks between the two of us when Bishop keeps quiet. “I mean...that’d be different.”

Yeah—no.

“I’m not going to shove my dick in that whore’s snatch,” I drone, taking another drag of my blunt. “I prefer to finish when I fuck. Not look at the woman who almost killed Reagan.”

“You need information?” Bishop gives me a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. “Your dick is going to have to take one for the team. I appreciate screams like the rest of us, but we don’t have a lot of time. We can’t keep her here forever.”

“Yeah,” Mills chimes in. “My house isn’t for work.”

“You rent this shithole from an elderly lady to crash,” I drone, rolling the paper of my blunt between my fingertips. “Another day or two isn’t going to kill you.”

“But, it might wipe out your sister.” My gaze turns into steel as it lands back on Bishop.

He’s right—again.

The more time that lapses, the more at danger my sister could be. They could be planning another offensive attack right now while I’m arguing and threatening the blonde downstairs.

Reaching around, I pull my cell out of my pocket and shoot off a text.

Me: Hey, whatcha up to?

Reagan: Watching Netflix.

Reagan: Why?

Me: Just checking in.

Reagan: With ‘whatcha up to’? What’s wrong?

“You got a better idea?” Bishop asks while I read my sister’s last question over and over again.

What’s wrong?

Every-fucking-thing is wrong. She shouldn’t be a target.

Why is she on someone’s radar?

Maybe one of my missions getting payback on me for killing a loved one?

It’d be far-fetched but not impossible. B723 is only known by a handful of people in the White House, but maybe someone leaked it?

Pivoting on my feet, I make my way to the backdoor to grab some air. I need to think clearly without Mills and Bishop staring at me expectedly and waiting for an answer.

I’m not fucking that bitch.

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