Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 94834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Within the space of fifteen minutes, we’re pulling to a stop outside the apartment complex, my Escalade parked right beside Dalton’s Harley. We slip out into the night, moving around the back of the building and slipping in through Sawyer’s bedroom window, making sure we’re not seen by anyone on the street.
Peering through the peephole in his front door, we find the hallway clear and slip out of the small one-bedroom apartment. It takes barely ten steps to reach Oakley and Cara’s door, and before I even have the chance to knock, the door opens and we slip inside.
Cara looks up at me with big eyes as I scan the room, making sure we’re not too late. I know exactly what she wants, but that won’t be happening tonight. Hell, any other night. I lost interest a long time ago. The only reason I’ve allowed her into my bed is simply out of convenience. Besides, she’s Sawyer’s twin sister, and that shit just gets complicated.
“Here,” I say, handing her a set of keys. “You’re sleeping in Sawyer’s apartment tonight. Don’t come back here until I say you can. Got it?”
Disappointment flares in her eyes as she flicks her gaze toward Oakley’s bedroom. “Is this about the calling card we found on the back of her door?”
“You know damn well it is,” Cross says, striding right by her, the two of them unable to see eye to eye, though who the fuck knows why. She’s never liked him and simply out of principle, he refuses to like her.
I meet her stare. “You should have told me,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t have found out after breaking in here last night. We put her here because I thought I could trust your judgment. Do I need to reconsider who I keep in my corner?”
Cara swallows hard and shakes her head. “Don’t be an ass,” she says. “You know you can trust me. I thought you left the card.”
“I didn’t.”
Her eyes widen, understanding exactly what that means. “But then—”
“Yep.”
“Shit.”
Getting bored of her line of questioning, I pull the door back open. “Are you going to get out of here, or would you prefer to hang out and wait for the hitman to come and confuse you for Oakley?”
Her eyes widen, and within the span of two seconds, she dashes into her room, grabs a set of pajamas, her Kindle, and her vibrator then makes a break for it down the hall. I don’t close the door until I hear Sawyer’s front door closing behind her, then wait a moment later, listening for the soft click of the lock and deadbolts.
“Alright,” I say to Cross, closing the door behind me and flicking each of the locks. “Let’s do this.”
Knowing any trained hitman would be watching the apartment from a distance, we make a show of turning on the TV and sporadically flicking a few lights. Then wanting to get this show on the road, we turn them all off. Anybody looking in from the outside would assume the occupants of the apartment have gone to bed.
Whoever this guy is, he clearly knows which bedroom belongs to Oakley, so Cross and I slip into her room, leaving her door cracked and the window unlocked, almost making it too easy for the bastard.
We wait a little over twenty minutes before finally hearing a scratching noise from the living room, and a sick enjoyment fills my veins. I move into position behind the door, covered in shadows as Cross readies himself by the window, covering all our bases.
The room is pitch black, darkness clouding every corner, without even a hint of moonlight streaming through the window. It’s perfect. Just how I like it.
There’s a soft whir of the window being opened before an even softer thud as the hitman lands on the living room floor. He moves around the apartment, checking the coast is clear while leaving the window open for an easy getaway.
Excitement thrums through my veins, and I reach for my gun before thinking better of it. A gun is too easy, too forgiving. This is an attack on me, so I’m gonna make it count. I’m going to use this to send a message. Anyone who tries to fuck with me will suffer at my hands.
My palm closes around the hilt of my dagger, and the cool iron feels like victory in my hand, the anticipation sending a wave of adrenaline pulsing through my veins. It’s addictive, a fucking rush, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The bedroom door creaks open so slowly that the wait to end his life is almost painful.
The hitman takes a step and then another, and my hand flexes around the hilt of the dagger. He moves past me just enough that I step in behind him, his eyes locked on Oakley’s bed. He doesn’t hear me behind him, and he sure as fuck doesn’t see Cross by the window. We were trained better than that—better than him, apparently.