Page 71 of Saint

Frowning, he sat up straighter. The message on his personal phone—a number no one else but his team should have—caught his attention.

He texted back:Who is this?

Three little bubbles appeared. Disappeared.

“C’mon,” he whispered. Brax hated games, and whoever this person was, he or she was playing a dangerous one. Just as he was about to set the phone down, it buzzed again. He stabbed the screen and opened the message:222 Elm Street.

That was it. Just a nearby address. Brax considered his options: take a teammate with him and go check it out. Or, ignore the message.

His gaze wandered over to his drunken crew. Zane was attempting to speak Russian, clearly blitzed, River hanging around his neck and correcting him. She was fluent. No-go there. Inda and Lucas were feeding each other wedding cake. Well, mostly smashing it in each other’s faces then licking it off one another. He couldn’t bother the groom, who seemed to have disappeared with his new bride anyway. Same for Ryland and Harper, who were always the first to head back to their apartment. Gray seemed like the obvious choice until Brax saw him on his hands and knees, acting like a horse, and Aubrey sitting on his back yelling, “Giddyup!”

Brax shook his head. Everyone was in fucking love and three sheets to the wind.

“I’d be better off bringing you,” he murmured to Neo.

Pushing up out of the chair, he swallowed back the rest of his whiskey and set the glass down. Then he went to grab his Glock. Most likely the lead was bullshit, nothing more than a hoax. But Brax was thorough—in every aspect of his life—so he decided to check it out. Besides, he needed some fresh air to clear his head.

???

After setting up the trap, Quinn took a moment to go over the details, making sure she didn’t miss anything. She was thorough like that. She’d hidden blocks of explosives in each corner of the parking garage. And laser tripwires, barely visible to the naked eye, extended strategically throughout the space. If anyone crossed one, whichever side was nearest would blow sky high. Now all she had to do was hide and wait for her marks to enter the garage. If she was lucky, she could take out more than one of Ex Nihilo at once.

Two birds, one stone.

Eventually, she’d eliminate them all. It’s what she’d been hired to do and The Agency had just deposited half her fee in an unmarked account in the Cayman Islands. Quinn’s services weren’t cheap, but you got what you paid for.

And she was the Cardinal, the best fucking assassin in the world. Well, definitely in the top three, anyway.

Considering her background, it was to be expected. The CIA had taught her everything she needed to know—how to hunt, how to kill and how to take down her enemies. Most importantly, how to do it all with zero regret.

Then they’d fucked her over. Branded her a traitor. And, well, after that, everything changed.

Pulling her balaclava up to cover everything but her eyes, she crouched down and glanced out at the street from her perch in the northwest corner of the garage. Maybe they’d come, maybe they wouldn’t, but she was willing to bet they couldn’t resist a chance at a lead. From what The Agency had told her, and from her own personal research, she knew this would be a tough group to take out.

Ryland “Rip” Mills and Grayson “Demon” Ellis were former Navy SEALs. Same with Zane “Banshee” Hawkins, even though he’d moved to the intel side of things and was an excellent hacker. Inda “Bruja” Diaz, their lone female operator, was former Army and a Krav Maga expert. Apparently quite persuasive, too, since she’d convinced Lucas “Cipher” Sheridan to turn on The Agency and join ranks with Ex Nihilo. Then there was Nik “Saint” Valentine, a former Russian spy and alleged member of the Bratva.

And, of course, she couldn’t forget their fearless leader, Braxton “Pharaoh” Graves. The former Delta Force commander was intense, relentless, and always put the mission first and foremost.

She knew that better than anyone.

Gritting her teeth, she hissed out a breath and shifted her weight from one booted foot to the other. Maybe instead of killing their pain-in-the-ass leader, she should kidnap and torture him a little. It would be so much more satisfying than simply granting him a quick death. After all the hell he’d put her through, she figured she owed him a little pain.

Quinn liked having options, so maybe…

It depended on how magnanimous she was feeling.

A lone figure walking up the sidewalk caught her attention and she straightened up. She’d recognize that long-legged gait anywhere. Tall with a slim, athletic build and slicked-back brown hair, Braxton Graves stopped in front of the parking garage, hands on his hips, and studied it.

She hated when he slicked his hair back like that, preferring the soft curls he kept hidden more often than not.

For a shocked moment, she thought he saw her, but then he disappeared into the shadows, stealthily moving around the three-story structure, no doubt planning to sneak in through the back and sweep each floor like the good little operator he was. He’d always played by the rules and should’ve been a fucking Boy Scout.

Feeling the urge for a little cat and mousery, Quinn stood up, dusted her hands off on the back of her black leather pants and grinned. If it was just Braxton then why the hell not?

It had been a long time since she’d had some fun with him.

???

Braxton stepped through the parking garage’s back entrance, gun tucked close to his body as he surveyed the area for anyone suspicious. But it was eerily quiet. Several dim light bulbs illuminated the place and the first floor was packed with parked cars. Most likely tenants from nearby apartment buildings who paid monthly rent, he surmised. Parking in the city sucked and they probably paid a fortune.

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