Page 14 of Trigger Happy Ending

Or were.

I hate to talk about her in past tense.

“Smyth?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something else? Unrelated?”

“Of course.”

“What do you know about a current operative, codenamed Bodysnatcher?”

Smyth’s brow furrows. “Ex-black ops guy?”

“Yep,” I reply, leaning back on my hands. “Know anything about him?”

“Not a lot to be honest. Pretty sure he was discharged for war crimes. Why?”

“No reason.”

Smyth’s eyes round in alarm. “Are you on an assignment? With him?”

I avoid looking at Smyth, because like Tony Montana once said, “The eyes, chico. They never lie,” and Smyth knows damn well I can’t answer that.

“Jesus.” Smyth runs a hand through his short, sandy-brown hair. “Be on guard, Raine. He was part of a terror squad, and I’m pretty sure he’s the reason they’re dead. He goes rogue from what I’ve heard.”

Great. An insane ex-black ops, war-crime dabbling, anti-hero. Can this week get any worse?

“I should go,” Smyth says as he stands, brushing his palms down his jeans. “You’ve got my burner if you need me.”

I nod, keeping my eyes on Rainbow Puke.

Smyth hesitates and lingers for a few seconds. “Or if y-you want to grab a drink or something?”

By society’s standards, Smyth is handsome. Quarterback type of guy. The kind of man you could bring home to your parents. If I had them. But he’s not my type. Missing a few key characteristics such as tattoos and the skill to flay a person alive. But instead of shooting Smyth’s request down in flames, I give him a small, noncommittal, close-lipped smile. “Maybe.”

It might be a bitch move, leading him on like this, but I need him to continue to help me. I don’t have any other way into the Agency’s encrypted network without him. This might make me a user. But I make no apologies.

Smyth nods once awkwardly in farewell before slipping into the small gallery crowd and disappearing. I continue to stare at the overpriced blend of swirly colors. It really does look like puke. The canvas is splattered with color, but that’s about as deep as it goes. Nothing about it is meaningful. It’s almost hollow. Rainbow Puke is a mess pretending to be something beautiful. I can’t help but think the artist who created this must have been in pain.

I recognize it, you know. Pain, I mean. Pain recognizes pain. It stays. Lingers like bad perfume. Sometimes I wonder if I’m even capable of feeling anything else. Or have I carved myself into a shape so twisted that it only knows the ache? It’s a lonely thing, to be made of shadows and to measure your life in how many you’ve taken.

I know what Rainbow Puke reminds me of now.

Me.

No wonder I fucking hate it.

Chapter 6

Raine

The last five days have been a blur of surveillance. Soren and I have been tracking Lukas Klein across Boston which has turned out to be insultingly easy. The guy rarely leaves his remote property. The heavily wooded cabin is completely isolated, which has made both the surveillance and assassination plan, including mapping escape routes, blissfully easy.

Lukas is a creature of habit; there’s nothing remarkable about him. Sleeps half the day, stoned out of his skull. How the hell this drug addict rose to the ranks to become one of the world’s biggest arms dealers is beyond me. We’ll hit him early in the evening tomorrow, when his two bottom feeders are on the dinner run.

Soren and I barely acknowledged each other over the entire five days of covert surveillance. We only spoke when necessary, and even then, it was clipped and direct. There was zero small talk, which suited me just fine, as the last thing I want to do is get to know him. And he definitely doesn’t seem interested in getting to know me.