Page 8 of One Last Stand

The first woman struggled, fighting.

London drew in a breath, the reality of the quiet moment seeping into her. No, no this couldn’t be—“Don’t kill her!”

The second woman looked up, and recognition shuddered through London. “Ziggy.”

“She’s with the Orphans.”

And that froze London to the spot as she watched the assassin’s body still.

Her heartbeat punched her.No, no?—

Finally, Ziggy got up. “You okay?”

No. Not even a little. She nodded. Then, “How?—”

“I got a message from a friend who heard from Raisa Yukachova, the head of the Orphans, that someone put a hit out on you. We need to go. But first, you need to die.”

London knew how she meant it, but still . . .

She was tired of dying.

Maybe she’d hesitated, too, because a hint of rare compassion flashed in Ziggy’s dark eyes. “Now. We need to throw off the trail before they send another.”

Right.

So London packed while Ziggy took care of the nasty business of changing the woman’s clothes, deforming her face, taking off her fingertips. London had been out of the business too long, apparently—well, had never really beeninthat business—but seeing the woman’s mutilated body as Ziggy shoved her into the back of London’s Crosstrek had sent London to the bushes to be sick.

Ziggy waited for her by the car, holding keys. “This life is over.”

London snatched the keys from her, acid in her throat. Then she drove the car to the lake. They put the woman in the driver’s seat, then together, pushed the car in.

And then, London ran.

The last thing she wanted was to watch as her team found “her” body, so she’d stayed in Ziggy’s motel room while Ziggy watched and confirmed London’s death.

Then London had the row of her life with the woman who’d taught her everything.

I’m not leaving until I know he’s safe.

Maybe she should have said,I’m not leaving.Full stop. Because after a month, she still didn’t know how . . . well, how to tell him goodbye.

“Do whatever you have to do to say goodbye.”

What if . . . what if she didn’t have to? What if . . .

She opened her eyes and looked at her phone. He’d left the kitchen, and she switched screens. He had climbed up the stairs to his lofted bedroom, the darkness pitch around him, although the wan light from the rising moon in the big great-room windows betrayed his form.

She could sneak in and . . . at least tell him the truth. All of it, starting with the day he’d saved her life. He deserved that much, at least. Then, yes, she’d leave.

He’d keep her secret; she knew it in the depths of her soul. Shep was good at keeping secrets—after all, he’d lied to her for the better part of a year, and now,oops, tears brimmed her eyes. She’d forgiven him for that—but at the time, she’d been a little too hypocritical.

Or just afraid that he knew everything.

But he hadn’t probed, hadn’t said anything about the lies she’d told him. Instead, he’d kept showing up. Holding on to her.

No wonder she couldn’t let go.

Maybe he deserved a real goodbye?—

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