Dead No More. L. Nicolello R.
reached for the second gun strapped to her ankle. Her fingers brushed the cold metal, and she drew it out of its holster, simultaneously peering under the chair. She held her breath and flicked off the safety. The soft click echoed in her ears like a canon.
“Is that what this has come to?” he asked.
“Don’t give me that shit, Jackson.”
How were they having this conversation? Better yet, how had she not seen this coming? She’d sensed his distance and moodiness, sure, but chalked it up to the grueling hours on this assignment. Her mind raced, landing on sure tells that something had been amiss: the late-night calls, last-minute cancellations, occasional disappearances. She shook her head.
Son of a...
She should have seen those signs for what they were. But those damn green eyes of his got her every time, dulling her well-honed instincts.
Their romance was against Unit 67’s strict protocol. She knew it, Jackson knew it, hell, even the director of their top-secret government agency knew it. But when he’d hauled her into his office, she’d argued with him, promised to keep her romance with Jackson under wraps. Swore it wouldn’t impede her judgment.
When the director—who also happened to be her godfather—started searching for a new partner for Lily, she’d thrown the I-have-no-one-else card at him, which, no doubt, had been a slap in his face. Kennedy finally relented, agreed not to interfere with Lily’s relationship with Jackson, but threatened to bench her if she couldn’t separate work from play. She’d laughed, promised she had it under control.
Clearly, she’d been wrong.
“Stand up, Lily, or I’ll kill you,” Jackson said in a do-not-fuck-with-me tone.
Lily knew that tone, had heard it before, and he’d been good on his word. Shit. She checked both guns, took a deep breath and slowly stood.
Jackson leaned against the far wall, his weapon trained on her forehead. The kill shot he’d all but perfected. Her gaze landed on the silencer, and her heart seized.
She kept one hand hidden, raised the other arm, pointed her .45 at her partner—her fiancé—and prayed she wouldn’t have to pull the trigger.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I’m tired of putting my ass on the line for nothing but a pat on the back and a medal that’s taken away right after a classified ceremony.” He picked up the briefcase and took a step toward her. “Do you know what this formula is going for on the black market?”
“Give me the case.” She scanned the room with her peripheral vision, searching for an exit. The door was closed, and the window was shut—probably sealed tight. She was trapped. Just perfect. Choosing the closer of the two limited options, she edged toward the window and held up both guns. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, but I do. The man I’m in bed with now will kill me, and slowly, if I don’t deliver this. Besides, I’m looking forward to an early retirement.” Something that resembled hope flashed across his face as he took a tentative step toward her, reaching out his free hand. “Join me?”
She’d heard that tone before, the quiet plea blanketed in bravado, when he’d all but begged Lily to say yes, to throw caution—and protocol—to the wind and accept his marriage proposal. And just like then, it about damn near split Lily’s heart in two. Then she’d agreed. Now...she hesitated, caught up in the past, in the promise of more.
He stopped, tilted his head and locked eyes with Lily. She tried to see past the darkness dancing in his green eyes, to the man she’d loved from the minute she’d been paired with him for her first mission.
On the streets of Paris, they’d played the part of lovers perfectly, and she’d fallen for him.
She’d soaked up his woodsy smell as he’d tucked her into his side. They’d meandered down the Seine, their target in sight. The feel of his blond curls running through her fingers. The stubble on his strong jawline scratching her as he pressed his face into her neck sent fire racing down her spine. Everything about Jackson drew Lily to his side—his rebellious spirit spoke to hers on so many levels.
That connection followed them from that first mission in France, to the next and the next, until there was no separation between the cover of the mission and their reality behind closed doors.
She blinked hard. No. The man before her wasn’t the man who’d been her partner for the past three years, and definitely wasn’t the man she’d pledged her love to and was set to marry next month. It was supposed to be small and intimate, just the two of them and a couple witnesses, but that was all she’d ever wanted. Now it looked like that would never happen. A tremor ran down her arm.
How could she have been so wrong?
“You know I can’t,” she said in a broken whisper, barely recognizable to her own ears.
A dull, blank shadow descended over his face, turning his handsome, model-like features into something grotesque, evil even, and he stepped back. “Or won’t.”
“I’m not going to play this semantics game with you, Jackson.” She leveled both weapons, aimed them at his heart, and put more pressure on the .45’s trigger. “I don’t want to shoot you. Just give me the case.”
Scorching fury burned out any nostalgia she’d had left for her fiancé. If he’d turned, he was the enemy.
End of story.
“You won’t shoot me.” He smirked at her. “You can’t.”
In another lifetime, he would have been right—she couldn’t have pulled the trigger. But time blew by at a blistering speed, and she was no longer the agent racing after a known terrorist hell-bent on destroying her country. She was staring at a skilled, narcissistic traitor, a sociopath who had no problem whatsoever betraying his partner or the cause he’d held dear.
And for what? Self-preservation?
She’d promised to defend her country against all enemies foreign and domestic.
The bullet flew past his head, nicking his right ear. Jackson’s hand shot up reflexively to the wound. Pulling his hand away, he glanced at his bloodstained fingers, stunned. Seizing that brief moment of dropped guard, Lily sprang and tackled him.
He recovered quickly and went on the defensive, flipping her over his shoulder. The .45 sailed from her hand. Landing hard against the scratchy carpet, his body tumbling down onto hers, Lily thrust her open palm into his throat, hoping to crush his larynx. She was off by a fraction. Nevertheless, he gasped and stumbled backward, struggling for air.
Pushing to her feet, Lily searched for an escape. Jackson had recovered from her attack and now stood blocking the door. She glanced at the window, weighing her options. Where was her freaking backup?
That moment of inattention was her undoing. With a roar, Jackson charged. She snapped to attention, sidestepping his assault. He spun and jabbed out his arm, his fist connecting with her jaw. Light exploded behind her eyes. As she blinked back the pain and squared off again, his other fist made contact with her lower back, just below her kidneys. Lily swallowed the cry in her throat, swung again. He deflected her fist and drove his into her stomach.
Lily tried to stumble away, doubled over in agony. But Jackson was faster, grabbing her by the shirt and lifting her off her feet. With a snarl, he slammed her into the window. It shattered. Knifelike shards of glass bit into her back. Pain ripped through her. A shadow crossed Jackson’s face—was it regret?—but quickly disappeared. She clutched his wrists. He pushed her hard until half her body dangled out the window.
“You should have said yes.”
“Don’t do this.” Cold panic encased every cell in her body. Dear God, he’s going to drop me. The blood in her veins crystalized. She tightened her grip. “Jackson, please. Don’t do this.”