Page 66 of Oathbreaker

I return to the open email and push send.

FIFTEEN

HUNTER

Taking the metro is something I’ve done less than a handful of times. The last time I took it was to dodge whatever tail Morris Winthrope or my father placed on me. I met Leo at a diner right off the orange line.

After I left the diner, instead of taking the train back to where I left my car in Alexandria, I took the green line, heading to Winter’s apartment.

That was the night Winter and I made love for the first time. That was the night I crushed her heart.

I close my eyes to sit in the memory. The beautiful parts, her choosing to be with me and choosing to open herself to me, will always be the most humbling, moving experience in my life. At the same time, the look of total and utter devastation on her face will haunt me until my dying breath.

I’d betrayed her trust. The truth of that turns my stomach every time I think of it.

I have a Washington Nationals cap pulled low on my forehead, and my thick black bomber jacket keeps the bitter February chill from seeping into my bones.

It’s Valentine’s Day. I’m supposed to be in a different country right now, doing a different thing, with Winter in my arms.

Instead, Winter and I haven’t talked in days. I’ve locked myself in my office in the evenings and worked with the security team on the other side of the property during the day.

I’ve kept the wall up because....

I need to fix all of this, and yet I’m losing control.

I’m ignoring the fact that Winter hasn’t sought me out, either. We pass each other in the halls sometimes around the estate, but in general, she’s kept her distance too.

So that leads me to being here, on the train platform at 12:30 a.m., waiting for a man to make his appearance.

I don’t have to wait long. When the train pulls into the station, I sit with one leg stretched in front of me and my hands in my pockets. I’m the picture of the nonchalant traveler waiting for their next train.

He leaves the coach with a small crush of people leaving the bars and heading into the city.

His greasy blonde hair, which is several weeks overdue for a cut, curls over his ear, and his threadbare tan jacket flops open with every step. From the looks of the ratty fabric, I suspect the zipper is broken. The zipper wouldn’t reach over his round stomach anyway, but still.

He doesn’t notice when I follow three steps behind him.

Oblivious. So oblivious.

He’s so uncaring of leaving a trail—like the trail he left when he went gambling in Atlantic City, blowing nearly a hundred grand at the blackjack table.

Maybe that’s why he’s still taking the metro rather than riding in one of the cars he’s been Googling for the last six weeks.

One would think that a person responsible for managing a few dozen convicted felons' parole terms would be a little tougher, but what do I know?

He turns down a dark side street, and I keep my feet light as I follow, my hands in my pockets. In this part of town, his being a white man with blonde hair makes him an easy target, especially in this particular neighborhood.

He thinks he’s invincible.

I count the steps to the front door of his shared townhome.

Three.

Two.

One.

I cover his mouth with a black cloth and drag his tense and flailing body into the catwalk between two abandoned houses. Luckily, this neighborhood is one where someone getting mugged or jumped isn’t an unusual occurrence. Everyone minds their business, which is perfect for what I need to do.

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