Page 45 of Hard Luck (Blackstone House)

Since Dusk had been bitching about the world in general and Senator Presley in particular at lunchtime, Marcel had put extra weed in them today, but even a dozen cookies wouldn’t take the edge off my mood.

Until I caught myself pacing, I hadn’t realised just how much this morning’s conversation with Cole had affected my psyche. He was one of the few people I’d let see a part of the real me. Even Bastian hadn’t known about the kink—I’d been too busy trying to be the woman I’d thought he wanted. And to be fair, I’d succeeded. Except, as it turned out, he hadn’t wanted a wife. He’d wanted someone with a compartmented security clearance.

I hadn’t engaged in pillow talk, and I hadn’t talked to him about my job, but since he was also in intelligence, he had an idea of what I did. His Russian handlers had no doubt helped him to fill in some of the gaps. And not only had he bugged my engagement ring, but he’d also rented the apartment next to mine and eavesdropped through the wall, plus I very much suspected he’d drugged me and used my fingerprint to unlock my laptop. Although I never discussed operations with him, he knew when I was leaving the country, and by watching what I packed, he had an inkling of where I was going.

And what I’d be doing when I got there.

I’d started out in the US Army and made it to the rankof sergeant before I got poached by the DIA. They liked my ability to ferret out information, and not only that, I was good at the hard stuff too. Following a particularly challenging hostage rescue, the assholes in my unit had nicknamed me the Incredible Knightcrawler.

The DIA had honed my skills, both in intelligence gathering and in acting on that intelligence. Nobody wanted to admit assassins existed, but people like me were the reason men like Cole could sleep at night. Okay, perhaps that was a bad example. I didn’t want Cole to get much rest, but the other citizens of Las Vegas could have sweet dreams. I lurked in the shadows so they could live in the light.

But all good things must come to an end.

The ambush had happened in Rostov. One of my colleagues and a local asset had died, and I’d made it out through Ukraine by the skin of my teeth.

My first hint that Bastian had been involved came when I arrived home and the motherfucker looked surprised to see me. As in, he was neatly packing my belongings into boxes. Obviously, his contacts hadn’t yet realised that there was one fewer body than expected in the remains of the burned-out building, and he’d garbled an excuse about hearing the mission had gone wrong.

That was the day something inside me broke.

Somethingelse.

If I was honest, I hadn’t quite been whole since I realised my dad had abandoned me.

Anyhow, I turned to the only people I could still trust. My girls. There had only been two of them in those days—Echo and Dice. Dice convinced me to bring Priest into the mix, and after a few tears, a liberal amount of alcohol, and plenty of brainstorming, we decided to set Bastian up.

Together.

Priest had never met my father, but he knew him byreputation. Jeremy Pope had been one of the agency’s rising stars, at least until he disappeared while working under non-official cover. And until Bastian did his worst, Priest had never met me. But when he did, he proved to be a rock. Hell, he’d even offered to take care of Bastian, but I wanted to do that myself. Well, “wanted” was too strong a word. I’d felt it was my duty. I’d inadvertently screwed up, so I had to fix it. In the end, Priest travelled to Russia with Dice and handled that end so I could focus on the US issue.

But while I was feeding false information to Bastian, the folks at work had been quietly investigating the leak. My job was on the line. So, Priest had stepped in again and found a solution. We might have busted each other’s chops constantly, but he’d always have my back, and I’d always have his.

He hadn’t wanted to head up the Choir, or as we were officially known, Point Team Golf. No, he’d been quite happy surfing in Hawaii until the guy who’d been slated to take the job—a transfer from one of the other point teams—died in a car wreck. A semi shunted his vehicle a hundred yards into a utility pole and snuffed him out in a heartbeat. There was something unjust about that—folks like us were supposed to die creeping around in foreign lands, not on the side of the highway because our car broke down.Looking at you, Thelma.Anyhow, Priest initially said no to the job, but with me on the way out at Langley and Dice determined to follow in her father’s footsteps, he’d grudgingly agreed to hang up his wetsuit. The Choir was born. The name was a play on his—Rayner Chapelle—and in the past three years, he’d taught me more about death, destruction, and general sneakiness than I’d thought it was possible for one person to know. He’d turned me into a living weapon.

He’d believed in me.

For a moment, I considered calling him for advice on theCole situation, and then quickly rethought that. Priest’s track record with women was appalling. He’d just congratulate me on the sex and warn me to stay away from the Little White Wedding Chapel.

But why was I so tense, anyway? I’d spent the morning on the shooting range, an activity that usually relaxed me, and then worked out in the gym until I felt like a limp spaghetti noodle. Yet still the nervous energy flowed through me like a swollen river, threatening to burst its banks.

My phone buzzed, and I snatched it out of my pocket.

Cole was calling.

I hotfooted it out to the terrace because Marcel didnotneed to hear this conversation.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.”

Was this goodbye? “Did you think about what I said?”

“I thought about it.” When he didn’t continue right away, I squeezed the phone so hard my hand hurt. “I’ll agree to your terms on one condition.”

“Which is?”

If he mentioned handcuffs or golden showers, I was out.

“You let me buy you dinner.”

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