Page 24 of Trigger Happy Ending

Soren’s no exception.

Even if he is the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

He’d burn me to the ground for a dollar if he had the chance anyway. Contract killers are all the same: power trippers dealing death for a paycheck.

Besides, attachments are weaknesses in my world. I learned that at fourteen, kneeling on the floor beside my mother’s body. I’ve experienced firsthand what grief does to a person. How it empties you out, leaving something cold and foreign in its place.

That’s a feeling I never, ever want to feel again. Not for anyone.

And if that makes me mean-spirited and selfish? Then, whatever. I’m a mean girl, I guess. I’m Regina fucking George with an AK-47.

But at least my heart is protected.

***

We pull into the underground garage of a Midtown high-rise. A private elevator, fingerprint-only access, shoots us up to the fourteenth floor. The Agency spared no expense on this safehouse. It’s the nicest one I’ve been in. Marble floors, designer furniture, a terrace, a skyline view, all of it luxurious with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Agent O is already inside, waiting at the kitchen island, flipping through a black folder.

He stands to greet us. “Raine, Soren. Welcome to New York.”

Neither of us responds. Soren’s mood has gotten worse if that’s possible. Like he’s tunneled even deeper into his darkness.

“How was the flight?”

“Terrible,” I reply.

“Awful,” Soren says at the same time.

O sighs, like the way a parent does when they are sick of hearing their kids bicker. “How’s the ribs?”

“Fine,” Soren answers a little too quickly.

O nods, unconvinced.

I shrug off my denim jacket and press back against the counter, hands braced on the edge of the bench. Soren stands near the sink, expression blank, arms crossed and full of tension.

“Welcome to your base,” O begins. “I think you’ll agree it’s one of our more generous safe houses. It’s a sub-penthouse, two bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, and a study that’s been converted into a weapons locker. Surveillance tech is embedded throughout the building, including the basement, garages, and hallways; however, none within the residence itself. You’ve got two motorcycles in the basement, and a fully armored Audi in the garage. Your new IDs and burner phones are on the table.

“Despite the complications.” Agent O casts a quick glance towards Soren’s ribs. “Phase one was successful. Soren, you’re now Lukas Klein. Your first meeting with Carson is at his club, the Golden Claw, next week. Become as familiar as you can with the current weapons deal. It’s this deal that will determine whether Carson thinks you’re a worthy buyer for PARM-17. All of the information regarding the deal is here.”

O slides two black folders towards us. Neither one of us moves to grab it.

“And you.” O lowers his voice and flicks his gaze towards me. “You’ll be working as a cocktail waitress at the Golden Claw. Your role is to blend in. Get close to Carson and report back on who else he is making deals with. Do whatever it takes to get close to him. We need to know who he’s talking to about PARM-17.”

I reach forward to the counter and open the folder, flipping open my new ID.

Angel O’Leary.

“You’ve got a few days to get settled,” O says flatly. “Learn your roles and read your profiles. There’s no margin for error.” He’s halfway to the door before he glances back. “Oh, and Raine? No more shooting your partner.”

The door clicks shut, and silence fills the space. I toss my folder on the counter and walk towards the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. I really do love New York.

“Well,” I say, eyes on the skyline, hands on my hips. “At least the view’s nice.”

I spin to face Soren, only to find he’s already disappeared into one of the bedrooms, slamming the door behind him. Good. Hibernate. See if I care. I hope I’ve sunk my fingernails into his mind so deeply he has a fucking headache. I should feel complete victory. Instead, I feel … hollowed out. Like I got something I pretended I wanted, but didn’t actually want.

Why do I care? Get it together. Lock in.

I’m Raine fucking Maddox.