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Regrets and what-ifs were a waste of time. So was sitting around chain smoking when he could be hunting down bad guys. He itched to go out there and do something.Shit, he hoped like hell that itchy feeling didn’t have anything to do with testicular parasites. With a curse, he scratched his balls. Now he was paranoid. But at least he was clean. If the choice between staying in a locked down lab or fleeing through a sewer tunnel ever came up again, he’d stay and shoot his way out of the facility.
Fuck shit, piss and parasites.
Fuck staying here, too,he thought moodily. He needed to get out of there before he went batshit crazy. Stubbing the glowing end of the cigarette out against the railing, he flicked the butt into the darkness and headed back inside.
The rest of his teammates were stowed away in their private quarters with their significant others, most likely fucking their brains out. Well, all except Braxton—the other “last man standing”—who sat on the couch by himself with River’s cat lying next to him. The TV was on, but muted, and he stared off into space, most likely wondering how he’d wound up in charge of such a dysfunctional group. He must’ve really pissed somebody off.
“I’m going out,” Saint said, shrugging into his black leather jacket. He threw a glance Brax’s way. “And I thought you didn’t like cats.”
“I don’t,” Braxton said. “Not usually, anyway. But this one won’t leave me alone. You going to the bar?”
Saint nodded, hoping Brax wouldn’t want to join him. He wasn’t really in the mood for company. Especially not tonight, and definitely not with their team leader. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate Brax’s company, but he didn’t need his de facto CO knowing he wasn’t actually going to get a beer at the corner bar.
He was going hunting.
Brax only nodded back, though. The guy seemed like he was in a funk and, despite wanting to walk straight out the door, Saint hesitated.
“Something wrong?” he asked. “You look like you just saw your wife fucking your best friend.”
“I don’t have a wife,” Brax said, a funny look on his face.
“Yeah, okay, well, see ‘ya later, Pharaoh.”
Saint shook his head, swiped up the keys to the second Suburban—the one that wasn’t covered in shit—and headed out. Just as the door closed, he could’ve sworn he heard Brax mumble, “Not anymore.”
Saint had no clue what that comment meant and it wasn’t a rabbit hole he wanted to go down at that moment. Instead, he took the elevator down to the underground garage, got in the SUV and headed toward Chadwick Carlisle’s home on Billionaire’s Row.
They hadn’t spent any amount of time investigating the house in Pacific Heights. And why would they? According to Zane’s research, the man rarely spent any time there, preferringto stay at his penthouse apartment near C.C. Towers when he was in town.
After some of the new info they’d gleaned from their new ally, who was currently in Inda’s bed, Saint wanted to check out Carlisle’s castle, and what better time than the present?
The little slice of real estate heaven that stretched from Lyon Street to Divisadero Street, better known as Billionaire’s Row, sat atop a series of steep hills and offered the best views of San Francisco Bay. Saint had never driven there before but, holy hell, when he pulled up to the curb across from the address of Carlisle’s house—scratch that,mansion—he almost vomited a little in his mouth. It reeked of wealth and waste, and he had the urge to walk over and take a piss on the perfectly-manicured shrubs.
No one should live like this when there are kids who go to bed hungry,he thought angrily. He knew only too well what that felt like. When his stomach had growled all night and the acids had eaten away at its lining.
No more, though. He’d left that life back in Russia a long time ago. He wasn’t the same scared little street rat he used to be. He’d been through more in thirty-four years than most people probably experienced in a lifetime, and it had turned him into the mean, sarcastic SOB his teammates all knew and loved.
“This is stupid,” he grumbled under his breath. He was sitting there in the foggy night, scoping out a dark house that looked empty, and fuming because the man who owned the place couldn’t care less. With his luck, a cop would appear and think he was casing the joint for a robbery.
Deciding to skip the stakeout, he planned to head back to his much more affordable side of town, go to the corner bar, toss back some vodka and maybe find a willing woman to let off some steam with. Seemed like everyone else was fucking, so why shouldn’t he? If he left now, he still had plenty of time for a quickie.
Saint had three rules he lived by: fuck ‘em hard, fuck ‘em fast, and leave ‘em even faster. It applied to both his job as an assassin and women.
The truth was the kind of women he associated with knew exactly what they were getting into with a man like him. The endless black ink, the scars, the worn leather jacket and his gruff appearance promised nothing more than a hard, fast fuck. And he never pretended to be anything other than who and what he was—a soulless, black-hearted grim reaper who killed people for a living. In other words, Saint didn’t do relationships, he certainly didn’t allow women to sleep in his bed and, God forbid, any female attempt to cuddle after sex. That was definitely a no-go. He slapped their ass and sent them on their way.
Putting the car in gear, he was about to switch on the headlights when the garage door built into the side of the hill beneath Carlisle’s palace began to roll up.Huh.Looks like somebody had been home after all. Curious, he waited, wondering if it could be Carlisle. Most likely, it was someone on his staff. A housekeeper or chef or some other needless employee a rich asshole would hire and promptly forget existed until he needed something from them.
Squinting, he caught a glimpse of long blonde hair and a flash of red. A minute later, a shiny, black Mercedes rolled down the driveway. Through the windshield, he saw the blonde’s face and his heart raced. She looked familiar, but why?
Then it hit him. He yanked his phone out of his jacket pocket and pulled up the photo River took when she and Zane had broken into Benedict Salinger’s NYC high rise. Four elegantly-dressed people smiled at the camera. Benedict and Elizabeth Salinger and Chadwick Carlisle and the young woman now driving away from his mansion.
Mia fucking Carlisle, his daughter.
A reckless plan began to take shape in his head as Saint pulled the SUV away from the curb and decided to follow Goldilocks. He was going to get some answers tonight, one way or another, even if it meant mustering up what little charm he had.
God help him.
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