Page 58 of Final Sins

“Sorry about this,” he muttered, genuine regret coloring his tone. “I really hate fighting women.”

One swift, carefully measured strike of his forearm to the pressure point at the top of her neck, just below the ear, and the woman slumped into his arms, unconscious. Jason lowered her gently to the ground.

He’d just bought them about ten seconds. “Go!” he ordered Alex. “Go. Go. Go.”

“Alex, watch your six!” Paige warned.

Jason’s heart leapt into his throat. The ponytailed man had her plastered against his chest, arm wrenched behind her back. The operative was shoving her roughly through the panicked crowd.

Jason launched himself into the last of the retreating guests. But the sea of bodies between them slowed his progress.

Suddenly, like a mountain materializing from the mist, Tai appeared behind Ponytail. “Someone order a distraction?” he asked over comms before reaching for the other man.

His massive hand engulfed the back of the man’s neck, applying precise pressure. The operative’s eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the ground, releasing Alex.

Jason caught up with them half a second later. “Nice move,” he complimented Tai before focusing on Alex. “You okay?”

She nodded, rubbing her arm. “Nothing bruised but my ego. Let’s get out of here.”

They pushed through the chaos, making their way to the exit where Kate and Fenn waited, eyes alert for any further threats.

“Any sign of Winthrop?” Jason asked, already knowing the answer from the grim set of their faces.

Fenn shook his head. “Slipped away in the confusion. We lost him.”

The mission was a bust, their primary objective lost. But as he helped Alex into the vehicle, feeling the warmth of her hand in his, he rallied.

Seven-Five might have won this round, but the war was far from over.

30

The flickering bluelight from the television cast eerie shadows across the darkened bedroom. The man’s eyes, dry and gritty from lack of sleep, were fixed on the screen with an intensity that bordered on mania. His silk pajamas, normally pristine, were rumpled and damp with sweat.

“We’re bringing you live coverage from the scene of a bizarre attack at a society gala in San Francisco about four hours ago now,” the news anchor’s voice intoned, her perfect hair and makeup in no way affected by the chaos behind her.

The camera panned across the scene: smoke billowing from ornate windows, disheveled party-goers stumbling out of the mansion, their designer gowns and tuxedos in disarray. And there, in the midst of it all, was Charles Winthrop—one of his bosses, for all intents and purposes—looking utterly terrified.

With a shout he hurled the remote at the wall. It shattered into a spray of plastic and batteries. The destruction did nothing to quell his rage.

His divide and conquer tactic had failed spectacularly. If only he’d known Reilly and that infuriating woman were planning a move. He could have been the one to send in operatives and save Winthrop. The thought of how close he’dcome to proving himself indispensable to Seven-Five made his teeth ache.

He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. Reilly was out-thinking him. That couldn’t continue.

The images set his gut on fire, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the unfolding story. The news was spinning it as a terrorist attack. A brilliant maneuver from the Seven-Five leadership to use the unanticipated assault to their advantage.

Sowing seeds of fear and distrust in the populace. Masterful.

A bead of sweat trickled down his spine. He shivered despite the warmth of the room. Either he proved his worth. Soon. Or he died.

The sound of his ragged breathing filled the room, punctuated by the incessant drone of the television. Just as he was about to spiral further into panic, his phone buzzed with an incoming message. The screen’s harsh glow illuminated his sweat-slicked face as he read the terse summons from Seven-Five leadership.

Chicago. In five days.

He let out a strangled laugh, equal parts relief and terror. “Well, isn’t that just peachy?”

Five days to sweat. Five days for his imagination to conjure up increasingly horrific scenarios. Another move in their cruel, brilliant game. Time would soften him up, his own mind becoming his worst enemy.

He flipped back the covers and got up, pacing the length of the bedroom, bare feet sinking into plush carpet with each agitated step.

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