Page 39 of Final Sins

“Of course.”

He ended the call with curt thanks, slamming the receiver down with a satisfying crack. Finally alone, he unleashed his fury. The crystal decanter sailed across the room, exploding against the far wall in a shower of glass and amber liquid. The acrid scent of spilled alcohol filled the air, mingling with his frustration.

Footsteps approached rapidly. His young assistant burst through the door, eyes wide with concern. “Sir? I heard?—”

“Get me a scotch,” he snapped, cutting him off. “Three fingers.”

“Sir.” The assistant scurried to the sideboard, carefully avoiding the glittering shards on the floor.

He turned back to the window, unseeing eyes fixed on the deepening shadows outside. His mind raced, conjuring and discarding plans with brutal efficiency. Failure was no longer an option. The sands of opportunity were running out, his chance to prove himself to Seven-Five’s upper echelons slipping away with each passing moment.

The squeak of the cork coming out of a fresh bottle eased his heartbeat.

Now or never.

Destroy, or be destroyed.

Chase, or trap.

Trap. Yes.

A triumphant sound rose in his throat. He could still have Reilly.

His assistant handed him the tumbler, amber liquid sloshing gently. “You’ve got a plan,” the younger man observed, curiosity glinting in his eyes.

He took a long sip, savoring the smoky notes on his tongue. He shouldn’t divulge his plans, but what did it matter? Either the kid would rise through the ranks, in which case this serves as a valuable learning experience, or he’d die.

Either way, no harm. No foul. He took another sip. “I have a way to lure Reilly and the Mendoza woman into the open.”

“How?”

“I’m going to get them to turn on each other.”

“But what if Mendoza kills Reilly? You want him alive.”

He waved his hand, dismissing the protest. “Mendoza’s not that talented. Reilly will put her down in a heartbeat.”

“Still, people get lucky,” his assistant persisted, worry etching lines around his mouth.

He shrugged, ice clinking in his glass. “Maybe.”

Another sip of scotch, another moment of contemplation. “Reilly’s not the only BlackOut specialist with intel on us. There are others. If he dies, he dies.”

As his assistant melted into the shadows, he turned back to the window, watching as the last rays of sunlight painted the trees burnished gold.

Either way, handling Reilly would impress his new bosses. An imperative, if he wanted to end up richer.

Instead of dead.

21

Alex leanedher forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching the shadowy outlines of cliffs and crashing waves blur past. The Pacific Coast Highway stretched before them, a ribbon of darkness punctuated by the occasional flare of headlights. The events of the day replayed in her mind, a grim montage of gunfire and blood.

Jason gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white in the dim glow of the dashboard. His jaw clenched, a telltale sign of the pain he was trying to hide. Alex’s gaze drifted to the bandage peeking out from under his tee.

“How many times have you been shot?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Jason’s eyebrows shot up, a moment of surprise breaking through his stoic facade.

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