Zeke

“I have him,” I said into the hands-free walkie I was wearing. “Third floor, second apartment from the left. He’s alone.”

“Keep him in your sights, we’re moving in now,” Van said back.

Van King and his brother Hunter owned the King Agency, the P.I. firm I worked for. Van and I had also gone to high school and enlisted together. We had our own way of doing things, and often that meant working outside the law.

Not this time, though.

My finger rested along the barrel of my rifle. I hadn’t moved in an hour and a half, my focus razor sharp, locked on the guy across the street. If he tried to leave that apartment, I’d immobilize him. We’d been paid to bring this guy in by any means. He was wanted in four states, had robbed three jewelry stores and two pawn shops. He’d also killed three innocent people and injured two others. The cops couldn’t pin this asshole down and, though highly irregular, had brought us in to work alongside local law enforcement to get the job done.

Mainly because we had contacts, ways of getting information the NYPD didn’t. Contacts we wouldn’t share and the cops preferred not to know about.

My target grabbed a bag and started stuffing something in it. Clothes. “He’s packing up, about to head out,” I said.

Van’s walkie crackled in my ear. “Don’t let him leave.”

I inched my finger back to the trigger . . .

An image flashed through my head, flickering like an old movie projector behind my eyes. Suddenly, I was on a different roof, in a different country, at a different time. I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to shake it. But I knew what was coming and I also knew I couldn’t stop it. Sweat slid down my temples. I had to hold it. Just a few more minutes.

My hand started to shake.

Shit.

I took a deep breath, focused on my breathing, slow and steady. It was the only thing that helped me keep my shit together when this happened, when the memories forced their way into my frontal lobe and tried to fuck me up.

Tightening my muscles, I worked at controlling the shakes. The target slung his bag over his head . . . then turned to go. Now or never.

I got the guy in my crosshairs, released a breath, . . . and squeezed the trigger. The sound of shattering glass was swallowed by a frenetic New York City during rush hour. I watched through my sight as blood spread, soaking his shirt at the shoulder, his mouth open in a soundless scream. I lined him up again for another shot. If that didn’t slow him down, I’d take out one of his legs. The target dropped to the floor, though, propping himself against the wall.

I didn’t take my eyes off him until the door burst open three minutes later. Which would have been more than enough time for the guy to get away. Van and Neco, another of our agents, ran into the room. Ruby, a recent addition to our field team, and Neco’s woman, came into view as well. Her gun was on our target while Neco cuffed him, and Van checked out the rest of the apartment.

I rolled to my back, put my rifle on the ground beside me, and pulled myself up so I was leaning against the small wall edging the roof. The tremor in my hand intensified and I curled my fingers into a fist. Those images I didn’t want in my damn head forced their way deeper. Blood. Bodies, now unrecognizable, sprawled across the ground.

Grief overwhelmed me, hit so hard I didn’t know how to process it. It had been over a year and at times like this, it felt like yesterday. These . . . attacks, shit, I didn’t know what to call them, hit at random, like my subconscious popping in for a “hi, how are ya,” followed by a giant “fuck you.” Dragging back all the pain, making sure I never forgot the way I felt that day. Taking me back to a time when I hadn’t taken the damn shot, when I’d hesitated—when I’d second guessed, and my men had paid the price for it.

I’d been lost when I got home, but in the end I’d called Van and finally accepted the job my friend had been offering me since he set up his P.I. firm. I’d made a vow to myself that day, and to those men that lost their lives and their families. I’d take down as many pieces of garbage as I could, like the asshole I’d shot tonight, and I’d keep on doing it, until I couldn’t do it anymore. It wouldn’t bring my guys back, or make up for my failure, my soul would be forever marked by what I’d done—but I could do this.

It was all I had. All I could offer.

Nothing else got me out of bed in the morning, no one else, and that’s how I wanted it.

I was empty, had nothing else to give. I’d die on the job and I didn’t care when or how. The weight of those souls, they were heavy, a burden that I more than deserved to carry, but tonight, they were almost more than I could bear. Which is why I stayed where I was when I heard the scrape of a boot on the rooftop not far from me, when someone moved out of the shadows. I didn’t reach for my gun or the knife down the side of my boot, choosing not to think about why, and stared down the barrel of the nine-millimeter aimed at me. I sat, and waited. This guy, whoever he was, had been tailing me for a week. I’d let him. I’d been waiting for him to make his move, had counted on it. Looked like tonight was the night.

“To your knees,” the guy said. “Hands out at your sides.”

I did as he asked. “Do I know you?”

“No.” He shook his head. “You knew my brother, though. He was sentenced to ten fucking years because of you.”

In this job, we sent a lot of assholes away. I had no idea who he was talking about.

He dragged his forearm across his mouth. “Killed himself a week ago.”

I said nothing. What could I say?

The guy sneered. “You hunted him down like a dog and dragged him in. So I’ve been doing the same to you. Watching you, following you.” He held the gun with two hands now. “How about I blow your motherfucking brains out?”

This wasn’t how I imagined it would happen, but I was ready. More than ready. I wasn’t scared of what came next, I was . . . relieved. I lifted my head and stared him in the eyes, and waited.

“You got nothing to say?” he snarled.

I kept my arms out at my sides. “Do what you have to do.”

The guy blinked. “I’m not fucking with you, I mean it.” He started shaking. “I’m going to kill you!” he screamed.

Jesus, I was tired. So fucking tired.

“I mean it,” he said again.

“Then do it,” I roared back, then closed my eyes, locking out his shocked stare. My men never saw it coming, I deserved nothing more.

The sound of a gun cocking echoed around us and I braced . . .

“Drop the gun, now.”

Van.

The sound of running came next, a shot, shouting.

I opened my eyes. Neco was in pursuit and, pumped with adrenaline, my stalker sprinted toward the edge of the building. Neco was quicker, though, and tackled the guy to the ground before he could leap. I turned back to Van. He was standing in front of me, expression troubled. “What the fuck was that?”

I shrugged and climbed to my feet. “Unhappy customer.”

Jude, an ex-cop and the agency’s persuasion specialist, among other things, appeared and joined Van. I walked past both of them and headed for the roof top door.

“Zeke, hold up . . .” Van called after me.

I ignored him. There was nothing to say. And sure as fuck nothing I wanted to talk about. They had everything in hand, so I took the elevator to the ground floor and kept on walking.

* * *

I stared down at my third glass of Jameson and worked at forgetting the look on Van’s face. Shit. The guy’s uneasy expression was branded on my brain. He’d been waiting for me to flip the fuck out since I started working for him, had several times mentioned counseling. Jesus. I didn’t need him on my case about this, well intentioned or not. I downed the rest of my drink and motioned to the barman for another. The place wasn’t overly busy, and no one was looking my way. If anyone did, it was never for long.

Most people were unsettled by me, avoided making eye contact. Not something I worked at, but I was okay with it. I didn’t like to talk. When people talked, they gave away too much of themselves. They got close, formed connections. I didn’t want that, not from anyone. The only people who knew anything about what happened in Afghanistan were Van and my father, and neither of them knew the full story. Van and I enlisted together, were deployed the first time together. He’d been my closest friend before we were shipped out.

I didn’t know what we were anymore.

My hand lifted to the center of my chest and I rubbed at the ache. There was something inside me tonight, a feeling I couldn’t identify, didn’t know what to do with. A dark emptiness behind my ribs and a twisted voice in my head urging me to walk out of this bar and headfirst into a situation that would make that feeling go away, that would end it all . . .

I was done fighting it.

I was about to stand, when the door opened. My eyes slid to the woman that walked in. Blond hair, wavy. Lots of it. Subtle makeup. My gaze lifted back to her hair. Shit, it looked soft. She slipped off her jacket and revealed a curvy figure, lush. Denim hugged her round hips, and the blue top she was wearing was doing the same with her breasts and small waist. She had silver bracelets on both wrists and an intricate necklace. It looked like knotted leather, some glass and silver beads as well. Unusual. Her boots were brown leather and had spiked heels. She was alone and as she moved toward the bar, more than a few sets of eyes followed her, including mine.

The most important skill for a sniper is observation, picking out any irregularity, any possible threat. Sitting still and looking for anything out of the ordinary.

This woman . . . she was far from ordinary.

I needed a pair of shades just to look at her, she was so bright. Like a light shone from within. Fucking walking, talking sunshine, and I wasn’t the only one that noticed as she moved to the bar and ordered a glass of wine. I found myself straining to hear her voice. I bet she smelled good, too. She handed over the money for her drink. Her hands were small, delicate, and she had a wide gold ring on her thumb. Not silver like the rest of her jewelry, and it was obviously a man’s ring. She was twisting is as she stood there. A nervous habit, or maybe she was drawing strength from it? Because she looked a little nervous. The piece held sentiment. Someone she cared about. My gaze slid back to her face in time to watch her draw in a deep breath and glance around the bar. Yeah, definitely nervous. Tucking her hair behind one ear, she glanced at the door, then she turned back and . . . her eyes slid to me . . .

The oxygen punched from my lungs. Her eyes were wide and the brightest blue . . . shit, no, they were almost violet.

They darted away for several seconds, then she glanced back. I stared, unable to do anything else. She quickly looked away again and took a step . . .

Her hip collided with the stool, knocking it over. She flushed red and quickly righted it then tried to walk away again, but instead slammed into one of the waitresses, knocking a tray of empties to the floor. Sunshine dumped her bag and coat on the bar and got on the floor, helping pick everything up, apologizing and flushing darker. She laughed at something the waitress said, and her entire face lit up. My gut tightened and I shifted on my seat. As she handed over one of the glasses, I noticed a fading bruise on her elbow, then what looked like a burn on the side of her thumb, a scar on her ring finger. That, plus what I’d just witnessed—the woman was obviously prone to accidents.

Something inside me expanded until it almost hurt.

I’d take a wild guess and say Sunshine preferred to do everything herself. She didn’t like to ask for help. A woman like her wouldn’t be alone. How could she be? She’d have family, friends, a man. If she needed help, there’d be people she could ask. But she didn’t. Why?

Finally, she stood and walked quickly to the other side of the room and took a seat at one of the empty tables. I finished my drink and ordered a beer. I needed to leave, but for some reason I couldn’t make myself get up and go. I also couldn’t stop looking at her every so often over the next hour. She stayed alone during that time, but her eyes darted to the door whenever it opened, like she was expecting someone. Several guys approached her, but she sent them on their way.

Surely she hadn’t been stood up?

Who the fuck would stand her up? What kind of an idiot would miss the chance to spend time with her?

I forced myself to turn away and took a sip of my beer, but it didn’t last long, and I was looking back at her table a short time later.

This time, though, the table was empty. She was gone.

The sudden urge to jump out of my seat and rush out of the bar after her, to follow her, make sure she got home safe, hit me unexpectedly.

What the hell was wrong with me? I kept my ass glued to my seat even as my thigh muscles bunched preparing to propel me across the room and out the door . . .

The stool beside me creaked, followed by a wave of vanilla. I knew who was sitting beside me instantly. And shit, I was right, she smelled amazing.

The stool creaked again. “Um . . . hi, I’m Sunny.”

Her voice was soft, had a little bit of a rasp to it that sent tingles across my shoulders and over my scalp. I turned in my seat, my gaze sliding to the woman who now sat beside me. I glanced around us. She couldn’t be talking to me. Why the hell would she? But she was. Her eyes didn’t dart away this time, they widened slightly, but they stayed on me.

I stared back.

A blush crawled up her cheeks and a smile curled her full lips. “This is the part where you tell me your name.”

What the hell was this?

Her smile started to slip. “Do you . . .” She aimed her thumb to the exit. “Should I go?”

I shook my head, before I could stop myself. I didn’t want her to go any-fucking-where.

Sunny.

Shit, of course that was her name.

Her smile came back. She wasn’t looking at me anymore, but I could see the curve of her lips as she ordered another glass of wine.

I’d never seen anyone like her in my life.

She turned in her seat when she had her drink and crossed her legs, resting an elbow on the bar, those violet eyes back to me. “Well, that’s the last time I agree to a blind date.” She laughed and shook her head and more of her vanilla scent hit me as her hair slid over her shoulders. “Why do I do these things to myself?”

Jesus. Her laugh was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard. I shook my head. I didn’t get why the hell she’d need to?

“Gloria, one of my ladies at the Ashwood Retirement Home . . .” She waved her hand in the air—like I’d asked a question, when in actual fact I was sitting there like a dumb fuck, with my mouth glued shut—before she carried on, “I go in Monday afternoons and teach arts and crafts . . . anyway, Gloria set me up with her grandson. Apparently, he’s an artist and she thought we’d get on. I guess he didn’t agree.” She took a sip of her wine. “Whatever, right?”

I nodded. It was all I was capable of.

“You never told me your name?”

“Zeke,” I said.

She smiled at that, knocking the wind from my lungs.

We carried on talking for a little while, her mainly, but I actually managed a couple short and thankfully coherent sentences.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her, which meant I noticed a short time later when her hands started to tremble slightly that she’d gone quiet. Her gorgeous eyes were taking me in as well, moving over me, and her breathing had grown faster.

I don’t know why, but mine did the same. My pulse picked up speed.

“Zeke, I’m going to ask you a question,” she said finally, voice soft, a slight husk to it that hit me in the gut. “Your answer will decide my fate tonight.”

I had no idea what she was talking about. Her hand moved from her glass and curled around my forearm. I jolted, like she shocked me. That, combined with her wide eyes locked on mine, and I was frozen in place.

“I’ve never done this before . . . but, there’s something about you . . . and I . . .” She took a deep breath. “Would you like to . . . I was wondering if you . . .”

I held my breath. No goddamn way was she going to ask me to . . .

“Come home with me tonight . . .” she finished.

I still wasn’t fucking breathing.

She stared at me, brows raised, a hopeful expression on her face. “Zeke?”

I should back off, let her walk out of here and forget this ever happened.

But I couldn’t do it.

For some messed up reason this beautiful, sexy, vibrant woman, wanted me. She wanted to feel my mouth, my scarred, rough-as-hell hands on her perfect skin. Shit, maybe I was dreaming. Maybe this wasn’t even real.

Her fingers slid from my arm, taking her warmth from me.

Real. So fucking real.

She bit her lip, disappointment replacing hope, and started to rise from her stool, about to get up and walk off. If that happened, I’d more than likely never see her again.

My mouth opened before I knew I was doing it. “Yes.”