Page 10 of Tapped

There’s a knock on the door at the same time the radio he dropped on the floor next to us comes to life. “Micah, we’re pulling into the neighborhood. Just a warning, I’d say the sitter is freaked given the fact she barely hit twenty miles per hour all the way home.”

“Great,” I mutter.

The agent looks down at me. “I’ll get you your proof. And when I do, you’ll thank me. When you hear it, you’ll wish you would’ve put a little more faith in the asshole on your doorstep.”

That sounds like a warning.

I don’t like it.

But I don’t need to mull that over. “I look forward to the proof.”

He shakes his head. “Lady, you’ll regret those words. That is nothing to look forward to.”

“I can deal with truths. The unknowns are what unnerve me.”

There’s another rap on my door followed by a chime of the doorbell, which is really getting a workout. “Do you promise to stay here so I don’t have to worry about you cracking your head open when you faint again?”

“I’m not going to faint again. If my son is home, I don’t want to scare him. They can take my vitals and prove to you I’m fine.”

His exhale is as frustrated as it is theatrical.

I’ve had about enough man drama today. Hell, I’ve had enough man drama for life.

No more men.

“Let me up,” I demand.

Instead of giving me what I want, he doesn’t move and yells, “The door is unlocked.”

I look to the side and see two EMTs stalk through my door with bags of equipment. Behind them, Chase comes running through, followed by Tonya, and a tall, handsome man with a gun holstered on the waist of his jeans. He’s sporting a twin badge just like Micah’s, clipped front and center.

His dark eyes dart between me and the agent pinning me to the ground before they widen. “What the hell are you doing, Emmett?”

* * *

Micah

“Two years.Two years of seventy-hour weeks, no life, and living out of my government car or the wire room down the drain. I was close. So fucking close, and it’s all flushed down the shitter.”

“You had no choice.”

I look at my partner and best friend, Brax Cruz. We’ve been tighter than blood since we were assigned as roommates in the academy. He had his own career-making case when he took an assignment in coordination with the CIA and went undercover for years. He’s still riding the high of making a name for himself. The DEA gave him a choice of any assignment in the country, and he chose Miami.

I followed him here, and we’ve been working in the Magic City ever since.

I was kicking ass, racking up charges, and had almost enough evidence to connect my Colombian distributor to a high-level cartel out of Panama when it happened.

Jeff Michaels.

The dumbass who thought hiring someone to kill his family was the perfect way to get around the prenup his wife was smart enough to have him sign before they got married eight years ago. A divorce would leave him with nothing. And since Evita Litchfield is a doctor herself and from one of the wealthiest families in this part of the country, Jeff wasn’t interested in legally severing his marriage only to be left with nothing.

Since their prenup accounted for divorce but not mortality, Michaels’ only option was thedeath-do-us-parttype of a not-so happily ever after.

I have proof.

But Brax is right. I didn’t have a choice. The wire room went ballistic when they heard Jeff Michaels talk about the order. We had no time to waste and intervened.

“She really doesn’t believe you?” Brax asks.

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