Page 111 of When He Plays

Logan.

With a shaking hand, she put the phone back on the cradle. “He said…said if I stopped for you, I’d be finding pieces of Harper for weeks. He’s watching. I had to shoot.” Now she had to move. Time was ticking down on the clock. “I have to go to the cage,” she said, voice not quite steady.

No movement.

Charlotte yanked on clothes. Jeans. Sweatshirt. Tennis shoes. She left the gun on the bed because he had to see her follow his instructions, and Charlotte ran through the suite.

She wanted to look back. Wanted to rush to Logan. But there was no time.

So she did the only thing that she could…

She trusted him.

I love you, Logan.

The door clicked shut when she left.

The bullet had missed him by a fucking mile.

All right, fine. A mile was an exaggeration.

It had missed him by inches. Deliberate ones because his Charlotte was a fantastic shot. He was sure that the CIA had made certain her shooting skills were, uh, on point, so to speak.

He’d known she would fire. He’d been ready. Logan had deliberately fallen toward the bed, timing his crash onto the floor at the exact moment when she’d shot her weapon. He’d moved quickly, hoping that for anyone watching, it would look like he’d taken a hit. Back in the day when he’d been a magician’s assistant, he’d had to pull plenty of tricks where it was all about making your audience think they’d seen something happen. When really, the audience was dead wrong. That wonderful art of misdirection.

It had only looked as if he’d taken a hit when the bullet had actually thudded into the bathroom’s door frame.

He’d turned as he fell, so that his stomach was concealed. That way, it wouldn’t be obvious to a watcher that he wasn’t covered in blood, as he should have been.

Some dick has a camera hidden in my bedroom? Worse…some soon-to-be dead creep watched me fuck my wife?

That sonofabitch would pay.

Logan normally had his suite swept for devices every few days. He was a suspicious bastard that way. But after Charlotte had left the hospital, he hadn’t even considered a new sweep. He should have. His mistake. He’d been at that hospital for over twenty-four hours, so a talented enemy would have been able to place a recording device inside. Especially if that talented enemy had help. Say…someone with access to Logan’s hotel.

More specifically, to his suite.

Before he’d faked taking a bullet, Logan had fired off a quick text to Jezebel. A warning.

He called C. Will kill Jamar if she doesn’t shoot⁠—

That was all he’d managed to send out. But as he’d fallen, he’d kept a grip on his phone. He’d intentionally extended his hands so that they’d wound up under the skirt of the big bed. His head was partially under that skirt, too. So he could move his fingers and keep texting and stare at the screen, but anyone watching from a concealed video camera in the bedroom wouldn’t be able to tell what he was doing.

He’d just gotten a reply from Jezebel.

Jamar isn’t answering his phone. Reinforcements on the way.

How long would those reinforcements take? He sent off a reply. Put eyes on C. She’s heading out. Do NOT be fucking obvious! Because an obvious tail might get her killed.

Then…

The creak of a door opening.

The door to his suite.

Logan had figured this would happen. After all, the bastard jerking all the strings in this show would want to make sure that he was dead. Not like Logan’s fate could be left to chance.

He put down the phone and reached for the gun that he kept hidden under the bed. When he’d moved into the suite, he’d had a gun safe installed in the framework of the bed. Why? Because he was a paranoid asshole, and he’d wanted the safe for extra security. Not like he’d wanted one of the maids to find his backup gun on accident.