Page 48 of Wicked Devotion
“DEA?” he asks, unfazed.
“Yeah, because I would stand here all calm and collected after killing three DEA agents.”
“Why not?” He shrugs, and I shake my head in disbelief.
Logan turns the first dead body around, revealing a bullet hole right between the man’s eyebrows.
“Should be a sniper with that aim, sunshine.”
The guy couldn’t have been much older than me. I get to live another day, and he doesn’t; the fact that it could bemydead body lying somewhere becoming hauntingly prevalent in moments like these.
“Don’t you ever get tired of blowing up shit?”
I huff, almost offended by Logan’s question. I would rather work for HR than be a sniper. Too little movement, boring, and worst of all, no explosives.
“Please tell me you’re not stealing a dead man’s clothes,” I say when Logan pulls the guy’s shirt up.
“I’m checking them for tattoos, you idiot. Red’s gonna want to know who else knew about the shipment.”
While Logan is busy snapping pictures for Red, I try not to focus on my throbbing arm.
“And, who are they?” I ask when he shoves his phone back into his vest.
“Not my problem,” he replies.
His gaze lingers on me a second too long, eyes narrowing. He knows something is up, and my only luck is that he doesn’t know what exactly. Yet.
“Helo’s coming,” Rockwell calls for us over comms.
We continue our trek towards the clearing where one of Red’s men is supposed to pick us up, and Logan’s phone beeps with a new message.
“Goods are secured.”
“Does it never feel weird to you that we’re helping him with shit like this?”
“See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,” Logan responds. “Everyone involved in this business knows what they signed up for. And I’m not one to play moralizer, sunshine. Cantrell doesn’t give a fuck as long as Red stays out of Cali and Arizona, so why should I care?”
“Fair point,” I mumble as we reach the clearing where Sam and Rockwell are already boarding the helo.
The thing is tiny, and since the others were here first, I can’t choose where to sit. Which means I have the pleasure of sitting next to Sam. Sam, who makes a Dodge Ram look normal-sized when standing next to it.
He shifts in his seat, pressing me—and my injured arm—against the now closed door of the helo, and I bite down on my tongue so hard I taste blood.
“Sorry,” he says while his huge body still has me rendered immobile.
Every attempt of his to give me more space only does theexact opposite, and the minutes trickle by a second time today as I wait for us to touch down on Red’s property.
I’m the first who leaves the helicopter, with legs more shaky than I’d like them to be, and Sam’s bruising grip is what keeps me from landing face-first on the ground.
“Get your man some fucking sugar before he starts talking to a fucking palm tree, Cabrera,” Rockwell says, redirecting Logan’s attention from the pilot over to me.
“I’m fine,” I insist before rushing toward the patio doors.
Logan and I share a room, and in any other situation, I’d be damn happy he has to sleep next to me, but right now, it’s making everything complicated.
I jog over to the house, my vision blurring with every step I take. Not because of the wound but because I still remember vividly what happened the last time I got hurt on a mission. I am pretty sure Logan wouldn’t kill any of Red’s men in his fury, but there’s no need to find out.
When I turn around to check if Logan is still busy with the others, my gaze catches on something hiding in the thicket surrounding Red’s house. A pair of eyes glow down in the darkness the rainforest plants provide, and maybe Rockwell was right, and I really need some sugar.
