Page 33 of Penny for Your Saints

I thought for certain, when push came to shove—any of these bozos would waste me rather than compromise their own safety.

If I had wanted to, I could have killed Caz. He put his life in my hands after I put mine in his. I’d be lying if I said the connection—the passion I felt with him, that I have never once glimpsed before now—didn’t play into my choice to spare his life.

Now we both have to live with the uncomfortable truth of the limits of our own cruelty.

Then there’s the matter of the ‘truths’ the Saints have been selectively feeding to me since Seb and I’s little dinner the other night; my parents weren’t just research scientists who worked for a large pharmaceutical company—they were working not only for the government but also for shadow organizations who wished to use my parents’ research into designations and fated mates for nefarious purposes.

Even though I was generally unwell as a young child and spent lots of time in and out of various hospitals, my parents never brought their work home with them to a place where I could see it. Both my mother and father were highly dedicated to what they saw as their calling, their life’s work—but neither had actually made any groundbreaking, life-altering discoveries in the field—as far as I knew.

For all I know Frank Stone was full of shit when he said that the terrifying ‘suppressant melter’ gas he dosed me with the other night was one of the fruits of my parents labors, but if there’s even an icicle’s chance in hell that he was telling the truth—then there’s a great deal to be afraid of.

Especially if my parents were somehow behind the mysterious Zeitnot virus and I am somehow the key to finding a cure.

I surface from my dissociative haze to the loud rumbling of my stomach, my body comfortably buzzing and warm from both the bath and the deep satisfaction of cumming on Caz’s hard cock.

Shaking off the memory of our bodies together—of the easy, almost inevitable feeling of our congress; I wiggle my toes in the wrinkled bed sheets on the futon, flex my fingers, and wet my lips slightly before I offer Caz a weak, ‘Thank you,’ unsure of how long we’ve been standing there in silence, or if I’m thanking him for the shampoo and condition, the clean sweats, or for making me cum—making me feel.

He looks away from me as I crawl into the sweatpants, tank, and pullover hoodie that he’s laid out for me while we wait for Frank and Q to return home with proper clothes for me, and a more robust plan of action for our next moves.

I’m about to ask him if we can go bother Seb to make us some lunch when the door blasts open, flying off its hinges into the room with us.

Two FBI agents in undercover duds with badges on ball chains burst into the living room—guns clutched in their hands pointed directly at Caz and I.

“FBI! Get down! Hands on the back of your head!” Dennis’ voice calls from the back of the pack—his telltale strawberry blond hair covered by a Liberty City Ballers cap.

My body moves on its own—my arms stretched wide, hands open—fingers splayed as I step in front of Caz.

“AGENT LOUISE PENNY, FBI—DON’T SHOOT!” I use my loudest, most authoritative sigma bark—two of the beta field agents up front lower their firearms immediately on instinct.

“Hold your fire!” Dennis screams—dropping the muzzle of his own gun as he pushes to the front of the group.

“Dennis!” I can’t contain the sob of joy that escapes me as I take a staggering step toward him.

“Louie,” he gasps—his own voice tight with tears as he holsters his gun. “Hold your fire!” he repeats himself, as I take another trembling stride forward.

I catch the movement from the corner of my eye. One of the alpha field agents up front moves his thumb to the hammer of his gun. The business end pointed between Caz’s eyes.

“Louise Penny, FBI—do not shoot!” I yelp, my voice cracking with desperation as I watch this nightmare situation unfold in slow motion before me.

Evidently, the alpha field agent has other plans—I hear the click of his hammer seconds before Caz closes his arms around my waist—dropping us both to the ground; the sound of the gunshot reaches me a split second before the burning sensation blossoms in my cheek.

In the split second that it takes Caz and I to fall to the floor, two shots are fired from behind us—through the narrow kitchen cut-out window, dropping the two agents at the front of the formation—pools of deep crimson blood spread beneath their slumped bodies on the poured concrete floor.

“I said hold your fire!” Dennis uses his alpha bark, withdrawing back through the metal apartment door frame to duck out of range.

What the fuck is this? Isn’t this supposed to be a rescue mission? A retrieval? This isn’t a beginner’s job. How the hell is some non-rookie ‘accidentally’ hitting me in the line of fire? No SWAT, no Kevlar, no uniforms. Whatever it is, I don’t fucking like it.

Suddenly, there’s more gunfire from behind me. Quentin has appeared, seemingly from nowhere; a gun in his single-handedgrip. He peels off a couple of rounds—dropping the remaining visible agents that haven’t retreated per Dennis’ orders.

A small ferret-faced agent that I recognize as a member of an ATF field squad ducks his head into the frame only for a fraction of a second—the shining barrel of his dart rifle coming into view just as he fires at Quentin.

The dart doesn’t even have time to fully load the dose of whatever sinister serum is inside before Quentin pulls the tufted metal projectile from his upper shoulder.

The ferret-faced man looks on in shock and horror as Quentin seems totally unphased. His eyes dart to mine—making momentary contact. This man knows me, or at the very least, recognizes me. There’s a complete shock and terror that widens and hollows his expression—as if this outcome wasn’t imagined possible.

Admittedly, I’m a little shocked that Quentin hardly seems to have batted an eyelash. Was it a tranquilizer? Some other catalyst? Quentin is certainly massive for an omega—but even that wouldn’t account for his complete and total lack of reaction to a tranquilizer or some other inhibitor.

“I said stand the fuck down Navitz! We haven't been authorized to use—” Dennis begins barking at the agent with the gun from their safe hiding places behind the door frame when a loud metallic plink and a low thud draws the attention of the room, a small canister lands a few feet in front of us, rolling toward the door frame.

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