Page 38 of Final Sins

As they ran, the bitter taste of failure mixed with adrenaline. They’d come for intel and instead were fleeing a double homicide.

Not ideal.

She sucked air into her burning lungs as they paused to catch their breath behind a boarded-up store. “The third shooter was a woman.”

She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. It shouldn’t matter, but somehow the thought of another woman killing in cold blood …

Okay, it mattered.

“Good to know,” Jason responded, releasing the catch on his pistol to check the magazine.

She forced herself to focus on the important issues. “What if they knew we were coming? Either our communications with our teams are compromised, or?—”

Jason shoved the magazine back into the gun’s grip. “If we were compromised, we’d be dead already. Why let me take out those men before firing on us? That was Seven-Five cleaning house. That third operative must have fallen behind the other two for some reason. Once she came upon the scene, she realized she couldn’t take me down, so she did the next best thing: don’t leave possible captives. Seven-Five doesn’t tolerate failure, and they won’t leave us any more loose ends.”

Her knees wobbled. If he was right, and Seven-Five was this ruthless with their own operatives, what hope did she and Jason have?

They were in deeper trouble than ever before, caught between a shadowy organization and the full force of law enforcement. But as the gravity of their situation settled over her, she felt something else beneath the fear—a cold, hard knot of rage.

Her voice was barely above a whisper, but laced with steel. “We almost died back there. Those men—they were executed. By their own teammate.”

Jason nodded, his face grim. “Welcome to the big leagues, Mendoza. This is what we’re up against.”

“No. This is what they’re up against now. Us.” She looked up at him, her eyes hard. “They just started a war.”

20

The man gazedout the window of his opulent study. Yard upon yard of prime Kentucky Bluegrass shimmered in the late summer heat. The grounds made his mansion—every imported inch of it—worth everything he’d spent.

His fingers itched to grip a nine-iron.

Beyond the manicured lawn, oaks and birches swayed in the late afternoon breeze, their leaves a symphony of greens soon to burst into autumn’s fiery palette. He inhaled deeply, savoring the heavy air that wafted through the open window.

“I’ll schedule a weekend here during peak color,” he mused, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. “Assuming Seven-Five allows department heads such frivolities.”

The crystal decanter of scotch caught his eye, promising liquid warmth and momentary escape. As he reached for it, the shrill ring of the secure line shattered the silence. He snatched up the device, its weight oddly comforting in his hand.

“Dragonfly reporting in, sir.” The woman’s rich contralto sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.

He stared into the middle distance, pushing away thoughts of Dragonfly’s lethal grace. “Tell me you have Jason Reilly,” he ordered, anticipation building.

A pause stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension. “That’s a negative, sir. There were complications.”

He slammed a fist on the polished mahogany desk, rattling the scotch decanter. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he fought to control his rising frustration. “Walk me through it.”

Dragonfly’s voice crackled through the line, crisp and cool as autumn frost. “Reilly got the drop on Thetford and Caine. I had to terminate them both.”

Idiots.

His fingers tightened around the device, knuckles white with suppressed rage, but he forced his voice into a semblance of calm. “An excellent call. Good thing I sent you along at the last minute.”

“Yes.” A pause, pregnant with expectation. “Probably well worth my emergency fee.”

“No question.” He bit back a sardonic chuckle, knowing the true depth of his desperation remained his own dark secret.

Inhaling deeply, he continued, each word measured and controlled.

“You cleaned up the site, yes?”

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