Page 7 of Ravens
The magazine clicks as he slides it into his gun. Clearly, I am missing some vital information and am beginning to feel like an idiot.
“So, what do you want me to do?”
Maintaining the helpless, vulnerable-girl persona is key because I get the feeling that York is a bit of a big fish in the British government, and getting information on him could be very significant for us. It’s tempting to get frustrated with how this is going and being kept in the dark, but I’ve got to let him run the show.
The fine lines deepen on his forehead as if I’ve asked a complex riddle, and aggravation flares when he doesn’t answer immediately.
I tamp it down and exhale with a little laugh. “Do you want me to interrupt a meeting you’re going to? Act as a distraction at some point?” I pull my hands out from under the pillow and sweep my hair back. “Am I accompanying you somewhere to help you blend in?”
A sour laugh tears out of his throat, and he tilts his head back for effect. It startles me, and I flinch as his chin drops and his eyes pin me. There is no humor on his face.
“Dove,” he begins, the word dripping from his mouth as he leans forward, “youare the operation.”
“What?” I whisper.
The back of my neck tightens, and the sensation moves up to my scalp, like I can sense a gun trained on me. Fear. It’s thereand potent as my heart kicks up, but there is also so much more. Anger, confusion, indignance.
My gun is on the other side of the room still.
“You fucked me, and now you’re going to kill me?” I stare at him. “Well, at least things make sense now.”
“Do they?” He takes another drink, resting the gun on his thigh.
Maybe he’ll be too drunk to aim when the time comes.
“This assignment was too vague . . .” I trail off for a moment. “I also didn’t understand why I didn’t have an independent rendezvous and extraction point.”
He contorts his face in a knowing, judgmental way, which makes me feel like an idiot. Why didn’t he kill me immediately though? Why this performance and the stress of letting me know it’s coming?
“Shit,” I whisper to myself.
My last act on this planet was letting a psychopath fuck me. Jesus, my lack of prudence and self-control was begging for this. The Agency wants me dead . . . but why?
“Well,” I manage confidently and rise to my feet as my heart thunders in my chest. He rises with me—unease overtaking his face. “I know I can’t get to my gun before you put a bullet in me, so let’s get this over with.”
His face shifts, and he rolls his eyes, ejecting the clip from his gun and sitting back down. I stop breathing and watch him as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and clasps his hands together.
“Sit down. I’m not going to kill you,” he says, annoyed. “Although, I am rather surprised you chose to be a good sport about it.”
Relief floods me, and I drop back to the bed, hyperventilating as the adrenaline courses through me. I want to cry with relief, but I don’t dare. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I work to get my breathing under control.
“I anticipated you going for your gun or the window, not surrendering.”
“This is a no-win for me.” I wave to the room, which is essentially a kill box.
He’s perfectly positioned between me and my gun and me and the window, which is my fault. I trusted him. My preparations for escape were based on someone outside this operation trying to kill me, not him.
“So, you don’t even try?” he says with contempt.
“What do you want me to say? I’m not an agent. My level of training is far below yours,” I lie, shaking my head. “What would you have done if I had gone for the window or the gun? Honestly.”
“Well, I probably would have let you escape and then just grabbed you again . . . but if you went for the gun, I would have put a bullet in you to avoid a standoff.”
My brows shoot up.
“Just a flesh wound. Nothing serious.” His mouth turns up at the corner slightly.
I’m not convinced this threat has passed, but I can’t help losing my cool a bit. Getting up, I stalk over to him and slap him across the face. Recoiling, his nostrils flare and his eyes lock onto me as he slowly stands.
