Page 20 of Property of Saint

Withdrawing my hand from her arm, I lay on my back, placing my hands beneath my head. Air leaves me in a sigh. “I sense this kill-you-or-claim-you shit is a problem.”

“Well, um, yeah?” She sounds incredulous that I should question it.

Bullseye is going to kill me.Even so, I can’t stop the words coming out of my mouth. “You’ve got to heal before you can do anything. So, focus on that for now. While you’re doing that, how about you try to get me to trust you? To believe you’ve no nefarious interest in my club.”

“Why should I? Your minds are already made up.”

Removing one hand from behind my head, I move it in a seesaw gesture. “Maybe, maybe not. But it’s your only hope of getting out of this. You convince me, and maybe, I can convince my club.”

“And what then? You’ll let me go?” she sneers. “You’ve made me dead, remember? I don’t exist anymore. If I resurrect myself and return to the agency, your abilities to hack into government systems will be discovered. Even if I don’t say anything, they’ll put two and two together.”

And there’s no way on this earth I’d risk Freak’s son being exposed. “You really want to go back? You’ve got a chance to reinvent yourself, to make a new start in life.”

She exhales loudly. “I wouldn’t begin to know how to do that.”

“You can take your time. You don’t need to make decisions now. If you go back, you know, there’ll always be some idiot wanting to make themselves an urban hero by taking you out. Moving on means no longer looking over your shoulder, and it could keep you alive.”

I feel her shrug. “But first, I’ve got to make you believe I’m not here to infiltrate your club.”

That’s the gist of it. “Yeah.”

CHAPTER TEN

PHILLIPA

Yeah.Such a simple word, but so much meaning. I close my eyes and lean back my head. There’s no way I can blame the MC for being suspicious. I am a Secret Service agent, and somehow, I’ve ended up in their club. Even if there was no way to predict it, now I’m here, I can’t truthfully say I bear them any ill will.

The Kings of Anarchy. I knew who Saint was the moment I saw his cut. But then I was only thinking of self-preservation. At that moment, to keep my life, I’d have signed a deal with the Devil himself. Which is what I may well have ended up doing.

With chapters all over the US, the Kings are not a weekend riding club. They don’t do good acts, don’t escort abused children to court, and probably would run over an old lady on the road rather than help her across. Gun running, drug trafficking, brothels, money laundering, you name it. They’ve got a finger in so many pies, and none of them are nutritious or would make up any kind of healthy diet.

I might not be a Fed in the true sense of the word, but I have briefings, especially when protecting a high-profile target.The Kings are one of the gangs we’re warned about. Men, prone to violence, who act to their own agenda, some with military experience and shouldn’t be underestimated. Political alliances, unknown – or in other words, liable to be bribed or just swing whichever way the wind is blowing, and most likely to be beneficial to themselves. But usually they’re also dismissed as uneducated, ignorant, and so hooked on sex and drugs, as to be unable to form a cohesive alliance outside of their own particular chapters.

From my attendance at their meeting, I already know not to dismiss them as country bumpkins, or men who don’t know left from right. Bullseye was perceptive, and the other officers were too. And Saint? Well, I doubt he was elected to the VP spot without showing some signs of intelligence and leadership.

What came across strongly was the sense of brotherhood, all for one, and one for all. And damnit, while I don’t like it, I admire the fact that Saint would kill me if he thought that was the only way to protect his club and way of life. There’s not much difference between that and how I’d not hesitate to shoot anyone who was threatening the person I happened to be charged with protecting.

I’m actually grateful I’m still breathing. If I was the one with the gun, maybe I’d remove the perceived risk immediately, rather than waiting to see if my suspicions bore out. Providing protection often means acting on instinct. It’s better to remove the threat than regret the results.

Losing Adams on my watch hit me deeply. When the accusations started, I admit to analysing myself, my actions, what I did and didn’t do, and whether my size meant I wasn’t cut out to be an agent. But having gone over and over it in my head, it was Adams who was an asshole, preferring to boast to the crowd rather than obeying my instructions and keeping his head down. Nevertheless, the bitter truth that the man basicallycommitted suicide doesn’t matter one bit to the conspiracy theorists who latched onto me being to blame.

Saint’s right. As witnessed by the situation I’m in now, I’ll always be in danger. If I was to show my face at the wrong place, at the wrong time, someone would take a shot at me and go down as a hero. It might not be today, or tomorrow, in a week or a month’s time, but conspiracists have long memories, and I’d probably always be at risk. By “killing” me – if that’s indeed what they’ve done, and part of me rejects they have that ability – they’ve given me a chance, a new lease on life.

Nevertheless, I hate what they’ve done. Hate that they’ve taken a decision away from me. What would I have said if they’d offered to disappear me and let me in on their plans? I suppose the rule follower in me would have said no. But now it’s a fait accompli. If, indeed, their hacker is as good as they say, I’ll officially be declared dead. It’s a chance for me to start all over again, with none of Adams’s unfortunate demise hanging over my head.

Has this dreaded motorcycle gang given me a way to be safe?

I suspect if their ruse goes undiscovered, there will be a well-attended funeral, as I was one of the elite agents with clearance to protect the highest officers in the land. Not that my colleagues will put in an appearance. They’ll all stay undercover and as discreet as they can. There will be no family there, as I have none. Mom and Dad both died overseas in a car crash where I was the only survivor. The graves I’d visited had been for people I couldn’t even remember. I’d viewed the headstones with sadness and grief, for them, for wasted opportunities, and for what could have been a different life. An orphaned kid, I was placed with an elderly aunt and uncle who’d taken me in from a sense of duty. They weren’t cruel or deviants, but had no idea how to bring up a child, and little intention to learn. I’d spent the next sixteen years striving for acceptance, for recognition, forpraise, if not love, but never received it. Despite that, I survived. Unscathed. At age eighteen, I’d left, and I think there was relief on both sides.

It’s going to take me more than a moment to get my head around this, but time isn’t something that I’ve got. Unless I find a way to escape fast from Saint and the Kings, there’s every reason to believe that I’ll be declared dead. And coming back from that will prove potentially difficult, especially with my records changed in the way that they say they have.

I’ve got to do some thinking, and fast.What has the Secret Service given to me?Disregarding that it’s unwittingly put a target on my head, my job fulfillment is stopping someone else being dead. Someone whose policies I might not believe in. I go into work, knowing this might be the day I throw myself in front of a bullet to protect a man or woman whose views I might not respect.

What about my personal dreams? While I might not have had the ideal childhood, nor examples I’d wish to follow, don’t most women dream of finding a man who loves her, and a house surrounded by a white picket fence? Children? I never saw myself having any, but if the Kings kill me now, I won’t have the choice. Resolve sweeps through me. I don’t want to die. I’ve so much more I want to accomplish. And if it means keeping the deal I seem to have made with the Devil, it might be worth it to stay alive, to give myself a chance to get my dreams realised.

Raising my eyes, I look directly at Saint. There’s no denying he’s a sexy, handsome, very desirable man – on the outside. Underneath that heavily tattooed skin, I’m not all sure he’d meet any definition of a good man. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. “What does being your old lady entail?”

My question startles him. He rears back. His hands brush his gorgeous, long hair behind his ears, as he takes a moment to react. His face hardens. “I don’t want a fuckin’ ol’ lady,” hemenacingly growls. “Never did, never will, and ain’t going to start now.” He pulls himself up straighter. “But to answer you, an ol’ lady stands behind her man, supporting him in everything. And, most importantly…” Breaking off, he sneers, taking a moment to let his eyes roam the shape of my torso hidden under the sheet. “She makes her body available to him, anytime, anyhow.”

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