Page 7 of Agent vs. Assassin

“But why? People suck. I’d offer you pie in condolence, but I like to fatten people up before I kill them, and so far, I don’t want to kill you.”

His brow shoots up. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome. See? I have manners. Tell everyone. Call them liars if they say differently.”

His lips quirk. I entertain him. He might be Enrique’s replacement.

Enrique joins us. “The gate is oddly open, which feels off to me.”

“The house has been quiet for the past hour,” Raz assures him and me.

“The gate is open for me,” I say. “I’m expected.”

Jay steps to our side now, and I motion to the lot of them. “Stay.”

I pull away from them and head for the gate, and freaking Enrique is by my side. I whip around to face him. “I don’t know what is up your ass, but I have a job to do. If you get in the way, I’ll arrest you or kill you.”

“Ghost is up my ass, Lilah. Kane is freaking out over his interest in you.”

“You need to check yourself, Enrique, or I’ll do it for you. And you clearly cannot be on duty with me. Consider yourself relieved.”

“This is not just about Ghost,” he says, planting his hands on his hips. “I’ve seen what Roberto’s capable of, Lilah.”

“You’re acting like a little bitch.”Which is not like him, I think. “Why?”

“Roberto is a monster.”

He has a history with this man, one that’s making him nervous, one that might pit him against Kane, and he doesn’tknow how to fix it. “Just stay. You can confess to me later, and we’ll deal with it.”

He breathes out. “I’m not sure we can.”

“Stay, Enrique.” I rotate away from him and walk toward the gate. First Ghost. Then whatever is making Enrique act a fool.

Chapter Five

Ghost makes a living from the shadows, which makes the fact that the lights are off in Mark Walker’s house expected, if not inconvenient. I can’t shoot what I can’t see, and I can’t carry a pie while trying to shoot what I can’t see.

My gut says Ghost doesn’t want to kill me and really wants this pie, but I also tell myself I’ll arrest my next perp instead of killing them, and it doesn’t happen. Ghost is a seasoned killer, and it would suck to die while holding a pie I didn’t even get to enjoy—at least let me have a full belly—but I go with my gut. I open the door, reaching inside and flipping on the light, using the back of my hand to prevent an overlay of fingerprints, though I’m doubtful Ghost will be stupid enough to leave his behind. It’s the other people who visited Walker I want to identify.

The room is illuminated in a warm glow, and I’m greeted by a foyer with a fancy chandelier overhead. Hamptons money loves fancy chandeliers, as if how a lightbulb is displayed validates their existence and everyone can now bow at their feet. Also typical, a stairwell lined with an oriental rug twists and turns in an upward path, with an open archway to my left and a shut door to my right. It’s the shut door that sets me on edge—the kind of place the boogie man hangs out and waits on you, but Ghost wouldn’t hide from me.

That would make him appear weak when I’ve already become some sort of weakness for him, even if he doesn’t knowit, though I suspect he does. Weak isn’t dumb. It’s human, something I suspect he’s feeling for the first time in a very long time.

I walk left, carefully flipping on another light to find myself in a sitting room with a shiny black grand piano in my direct line of sight, and it’s not exactly clean and tidy. A man I can only presume to be Mark Walker is lying across it on his back, his head hanging off to face me, a bullet between his eyes, blood dripping crimson on the cream-colored carpet.

I’m aware of Ghost sitting on the couch to my right, but I remain focused on Mark, on the perfectly placed bullet, on the degree of congeal to the blood that tells me he’s been here for hours. It’s a dangerous, bold move, and I wonder if it was all for this time with me.

And if so, why?

“Is that the pie?”

He needs my attention, can’t stand not having it, and even expects and craves it. I rotate on him and scowl, aware of his uncovered face, a handsome forty-something face with a chiseled jawline and high cheekbones fitting of a model, not a killer. Dahmer would be jealous. When I saw him before he wore a hoodie, shadows on his face, nighttime in his favor. I had him drawn and it was completely wrong which is curious. How was I this wrong?

There’s expectancy in his expression, a desire to strike fear in me when I realize this means he plans to kill me. Instead, I feel relief. In a world filled with games, we’re done playing them, at least after tonight. One of us will not leave this house alive.

I like it.

It works for me.

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