Page 8 of Agent vs. Assassin

I dive right in and admonish him, flicking my chin at Mark Walker’s dead body. “Could you not have waited until I askedhim a few questions? I mean,fuck,Ghost. I need to know what he knows about Murphy.”

As if I don’t know he’s going to try to make me dead; therefore, the facts are irrelevant. As if I’m not going to make him dead. “Maybe I know what you need to know.”

His gaze is steady, perhaps deceptively steady, but there is no doubt he knows a lot more than most, or I wouldn’t be doing this stupid dance with him. I cross to join him, sitting down and noting the plates and silverware already present. I open the box in my lap, remove the pie, and toss the container before setting the prize on the table between us.

I reach for the butter knife he’s set out and hold it up. “I prefer a sharper blade. It’s less messy.”

“A blade is messy.”

I flash back to me on top of Roger, stabbing him over and over, blood splattering all over me. “Depends on how it’s used.”

“Based on experience?”

“Knowledge.”

His eyes narrow. “Knowledge?”

“That’s right,” I say, and that’s all he gets, not that it really matters what I say. One of us is already dead, and it’s not me.

He seems to think better than to push. “As a woman, I’d think a blade would be less effective than a firearm.”

“Shooting someone’s rather boring, don’t you think?” I dig the blunt blade into the pie and hit the shell with no success, setting it back down on the table “We need a proper knife.”

“I’ll get one,” he says, pushing to his feet and rounding the coffee table before offering me his back, essentially telling me he sees me as no threat. He assumes that as a law enforcement officer I won’t shoot him in the back, but he forgets the name Mendez really is gangster, and I’m the one who put burying a body on the “to do” list.

He’s tall, which I noticed during our last encounter, lean, fit. He disappears through a doorway, and I reach down and scoop whipped cream onto my finger. I’m not letting Ghost ruin this pie for me, and I give the sweetness a taste, allowing it to linger on my tongue, along with the idea of ending Ghost once and for all, and it tastes good, really damn good.

So does the whipped topping.

Ghost returns and saunters toward me, a loose-legged swagger about him that manages to be as casual as it is predatory. He sits across from me and offers me the steak knife, butt first, telling me I’m not a threat. I accept it, and I swear there is something about me and a blade that’s far too deliciously deadly.

Ghost sees it too, feels it, and for the first time since I arrived, there’s a flicker of uneasiness in him. He now knows what he’s suspected. Kane isn’t the only killer in our family. And Ghost isn’t the only killer in the room.

Chapter Six

A slow smile tugs at my lips, and I flip the knife upright, pointing at the sky where the good Lord is looking down on us and asking how he got us so wrong and yet this moment oh so right. The truth is, I might be a flawed creation, but there are few people who could sit across from a monster and feel no fear.

In this moment, the way I am makes sense to me. I lean into it. Embrace it. I wasmadeto kill this man.

“Thisis much better,” I say in approval of the shiny silver knife. I give it an admiring look and add, “Nice and freshly sharpened—just the way I like my blades, though properly funneled rage tends to overcome a dull blade.”

I slice into the pie, and the blade all but turns the crust into butter. I decide it’s time to give more thought to the quality of the blades I carry while somehow convincing Kane that it doesn’t mean I’ll be more likely to use them, but rather more likely to stay alive.

I cut two pieces of pie and set them on the two small plates Ghost has thoughtfully provided—proof even an assassin is thoughtful when it comes to food. I hand a plate to Ghost. “It’s delicious, and don’t worry about poison. I’m not that discreet.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes that fades quickly, a reaction that spells transparency that a man who is a ghost wouldn’t be in a position to reveal, but he’s allowed me the chance to see beneath the sheet, to memorize every inch of his existence. His eyes are green. There’s a mole on his left cheek and the scar on his right.His white skin so freshly tanned tells me he’s recently spent time in a tropical location, or his home state is sunny year-round.

He accepts the plate, sets it in front of him, and picks up a fork. “Let’s try this pie you love so much.”

“You followed me around and watched me eat it but didn’t actually try it?”

His lips twitch with my reference to him stalking me. He’s amused. I am not. “This will be the first time,” he confirms.

I set the knife down within reach, feeling as possessive as a lover about that blade, but settling for a fork for now. “Maybe next time you should just sit down with me instead of hiding,” I suggest and scoop a bite.

“I don’t hide,” he says, taking a bite before adding, “I observe. Understanding my prey allows me to exterminate them effectively.”

He just called me prey and expects me to cower. Go on with yourself and think that shit. I snort. “Right.” With that dismissal, I add, “Have you tried a pencil?”

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