Page 31 of The Sinner and the Gunslinger
I’m dressed in my black skin-tight Sinner uniform, carrying a duffel bag of clinking supplies in one hand and a sheathed katana in the other. It’s been a day since they surprised me with the new mission.
I might have cooled down a little, did a little baking this morning, but I’m still too pissed off to respond. It’s her fault I have to spend days alone with the one man that makes me blind with rage.
Scratch that. Maybe I have something. I shove the cookie into my lips, chew the mouthful, then flip her the bird over my shoulder, using my sword as a giant middle finger. Her laughter makes me lose a little of my defiance and I smile, despite myself.
“Call me when you get there.” She shuts the door to her room, and I hear a feminine giggle followed by a masculine rumble of appreciation. I suppose she deserves to take a break. She’s been pulling all-nighters with Wes in the archives.
But I’ve been railroaded into this mission with Zeke. I can’t really blame Thea for taking the lead. She has the relic and the knowledge. Mercy is distracted, and Raven is having migraines. If I know her, it’s probably worse than she’s letting on.
We spent the day reviewing what Thea knows about our mark and the relic in more detail. I’d intended on drilling Raven about her visions, but she stumbled out the night before, looking like she was about to die from pain. I haven’t seen her since. Half our team left this morning for Italy. Without their input, the rest of us could only run through possible scenarios for how this mission could turn to shit.
When the others left, Thea and I brainstormed what I might have to do to get the collector to talk about his mythical helmet. Madam Mina is an effective dominatrix persona. I haven’t been on a mission as her that didn’t get results. Sometimes I think I should just become her. It would be a helluva lot easier living my life by BDSM rules.
While we brainstormed, Tawny sent a dossier of the mark while mid-air on her plane across the Atlantic. She’d hacked into highly classified police files that tied this collector to trafficking rings in Romania. All the women he helped kidnap were brunettes.
He has a standing membership to five sex clubs worldwide, an Only Fans subscription to a Dom specializing in spanking and denigration, and a nameless benefactor who donates five million Euros annually to procure rare antiquities for his private collection. With all the extracurricular activities, I wonder how much of his business is authentic.
Over the hour I talked with Thea, it became glaringly obvious that Zeke, Dom, and I were the last to know about this new information from the gospel.
Wesley and Thea are lying about something. I’m sure the Rev knows too, but I can’t find her anywhere. She hates lying, which is why she made herself scarce at the mission briefing. But why lie?
Maybe Raven’s vision was something I wouldn’t like. Maybe they’re sending me to my death. Or Zeke’s. He mentioned his old contacts would kill him if he showed his face. And what the fuck? How does he know an arms dealer? What exactly was he doing with his life since the group home fire?
Zeke has dark secrets from his past, and I don’t like the icky feeling in my chest from knowing this. Instead of spending the past few weeksfuming over his reappearance, I should have shoved my feelings deep down and acted like a Sinner. I should have pushed aside all emotion and justgot on with it—hunting demons and finding these relics are more important than my feelings.
The man in question waits on the front porch, facing the wrought-iron gate in the distance. He absently flicks the flint on his lighter, but at least he’s not smoking.
I’ve caught him unguarded as he stares at the setting sun. The golden light accentuates his brown hair’s uneven texture. It’s as though he cut it himself in the mirror with blunt scissors found at the bottom of the bathroom cabinet. I did a better job when I was nine and playing his Wild West barber. I’d trimmed his hair and then combed olive oil through it to emulate Val Kilmer’s greasy style when he played Doc Holliday in the movie. I even glued freshly cut hair onto Zeke’s prepubescent upper lip to give him a mustache. Not that he needs the help now. His five o’clock shadow is already thick and dark. The scruff only adds to his sex appeal.
Torn jeans mold lovingly to his toned buttocks. When he flattened me in the garden, the hard muscles of his abdomen contracted against mine. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. My cheeks heat at the memory. I felt everything—even his steady heartbeat thudding rhythmically against my breast. He’d looked concerned, but that heartbeat had soared.
My gaze slides to how Zeke’s shoulders and biceps stretch the leather of his jacket. He’s strong. I’ve caught him a few times in the gym with Dom, but he tends to stick to the weights. Cardio would have been difficult with his illness and smoking habit. I could probably outrun him in a pinch if I needed to. I’m sure he won’t keep up.
But he pinned me down easily.
Zekesavedme. A lethal blade came at my head, and he shielded me with his body. Then he cupped my face and asked if I was okay. His hazel eyes blazed with panic, but when I said I was good, that panic turned to steel. He almost killed Sister Agnes... I think to protect me.
And was he following me as I completed my fire-hazard checks?
No.
Why would he do that when he... No, it doesn’t make sense. He must have been hiding out in the garden to have a cigarette without being harassed by his team. Saving me was what anyone would have done in that situation. And even if he was trying to weasel his way back into my life, I have no room for him.
“We need a car,” he says without facing me.
“I booked an Uber.” I drop my bag. Weapons inside clanked.
He slides an amused gaze my way before tucking his lighter into his jeans pocket.
“So you just cab it or walk everywhere?” Dark brows raise. “That has to be costly.”
“It’s cheaper and more reliable.”
He scoffs. “I find that hard to believe. There has to be another reason. I thought this place was meant to be secret. Why invite strangers to your doorstep?”
“Obviously, it’s part of the cover,” I reply dryly. “The more people who think this is an average Benedictine Abbey, the less likely they’ll suspect us of being deadly assassins.”
“So what was with Thea turning up with a severed hand?”
