Page 69 of Never Die for a Sinner
“What if I told you I know who’s been stalking your little girlfriend?”
I freeze.
Well, fuck.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Senator Johathan Wright ring any bells?”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” he cocks a brow.
“He’s dead. You shot him.”
“He is . . . but does that mean he’s no longer a threat?”
I narrow my eyes, searching his face for a tell, some flicker of uncertainty that might give away the bluff. But Marks doesn’t flinch—he never does. He’s the kind of bastard who could stare you down while stabbing a knife in your back.
“You’re saying Wright’s alive?” I ask slowly, the smoke from my cigarette curling between us.
Marks tilts his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “No . . . Capable from beyond the grave? That’s another story. I’ve seen ghosts before, Levi. This one happens to be pulling strings from the shadows—and those strings lead straight to Wright.”
My stomach tightens, but I keep my face blank. “If that’s true, you’d have taken it straight to your people.”
“Not this.” His eyes glint. “There’s a leak in the DEA. I don’t know who I can trust—except, ironically, the last man I should.”
I narrow my eyes. “And that would be me?”
Marks spreads his hands like it’s obvious. “You’re already out. No badge, no leash, no stake in the game. That makes you dangerous—but it also makes you useful. You’re the fork in their plan they didn’t see coming.”
“Or maybe you’re just setting me up again.”
His smile twitches. “If I wanted you gone, you wouldn’t be standing here.”
I can’t help but chuckle darkly.
“Why me?” I ask.
He steps into the light, the shadows cutting sharper lines across his face. “Because the person I’m hunting has a very personal interest in something of mine. Wright’s not the one you should be afraid of.”
“Then who?”
He steps closer, his shoes crunching on the grit-strewn concrete, and lowers his voice like the walls might be bugged. “There’s someone else. Someone inside. Clever. Careful. Invisible when he needs to be. I don’t have a name yet . . . just whispers.”
“Then why should I believe you?”
“Because,” Marks says, his gaze boring into mine, “Two nights ago, one of my informants turned up dead. And the last thing they sent me before they disappeared was a single word.”
I arch a brow. “Which was?”
“Black.”
Interesting.
“That’s it? That’s your smoking gun?”
“I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to listen to me. Really listen.” He lowers his voice, glancing around the empty warehouse. For the first time since I met him, Marks looks nervous.
