Will this torture and hell ever end?

Weeks of convalescence had left Reaper feeling a tad ornery.

Real men didn’t let hospitals tether them to a bed. Real men gave the middle finger to a no-walking rule.

Most men didn’t have to deal with months of rehab because their body had succumbed to an infection from wounds that had put them into a coma.

He’d almost died.

Almost.

I am not dead yet. Probably because the Devil didn’t want him to stop doing the good work on Earth.

Reaper would never die if the doctors and nurses kept mollycoddling the fuck out of him.

“No, I don’t want to shave,” he growled as the nurse offered him a razor. “I’m leaving. Today.” Now. Because he’d had enough of pale green walls, white tile floor, and the smell that every hospital had.

Despair and death. The first, he ignored. Despair was for cowards. He wasn’t a coward.

But death… Yeah, that one gave him pause. He’d seen what it looked like. Nothingness. A big, blank fucking zero.

Everything he’d done in his life?

Didn’t mean squat once he croaked.

It didn’t make him happy.

So what? I’m not a happy guy.

Maybe I should try.

Try what? Turning into some smiling Pollyanna full of good cheer?

Fuck that shit. But perhaps a little life change was in order. He’d had time to reflect. Too much fucking time.

He needed to change a few of his priorities. However, that could only happen once he left this hellish prison.

The months he’d spent in a coma, then the additional time after in rehab, meant he walked with only a little limp to the door. One of the bullets had shattered part of his thighbone, and while healed, it wasn’t the same. Would never be.

Bullet wounds always changed something.

The doctors in this private facility—who didn’t question the story of him being attacked by a gang in the ‘hood—had fixed all his injuries. Left him a few new scars too, along with an inability to go through a metal detector unnoticed. Part man, now part machine.

Can’t be a good assassin if I can’t get into places.

What are you saying?

Nothing. Yet.

Extending his arm, he opened the door. He no longer felt a twinge when he used his left side.

The still angry-red marks from that wound had given him a holy-shit moment the first time he saw them. A few millimeters lower and he’d have been buried. Cremated actually because one, he didn’t want worms chewing on his brains, and two, just in case he was wrong, and zombies did exist, he wasn’t letting some strange parasite use his body.

I didn’t die.

Only because of some kind of fucking Christmas miracle, though. He should have croaked that day.

Three gunshot wounds? That was a lot, although it was not the first time that had happened and probably not even the last if he continued with his current job.

The difference this time wasn’t the coma or the rehab even. Been there, done that.

What differed this time around was that it bothered him.

I almost died.

The elevator slid open as soon as he pressed for it. Reaper scowled as he saw who stood in the cab.

Entering, he jabbed the button marked Lobby.

“Going somewhere?” Harry asked—his boss, his friend, the reason he’d been held prisoner longer than necessary.

“Home.”

“Didn’t the doctor want to keep you another week to ensure—?”

“I’ve been here long enough already, no thanks to you,” Reaper muttered darkly. Harry had greased enough palms to keep Reaper from leaving weeks ago.

“Excuse me for fucking caring.”

“You had them feeding me sleeping pills for weeks.”

“To let your body heal because we both know you would have tried to hop out of that bed before your leg was ready.”

“It left me vulnerable,” Reaper growled. The very idea of lying prone in bed, unable to defend himself… Yeah, that brought a chill that couldn’t be fixed by torching this place.

“When you woke up, I offered for you to come stay with me. We could have arranged home care.”

“Like fuck was I going with you.” Harry had a real home, with a wife and kids. He didn’t need some grizzly, broken assassin mucking shit up. “You should have let me go back to my place.”

“I didn’t want you to be alone.”

There was that pesky word again. Alone. Funny how it bothered him. It never used to. He used to revel in the solitude.

Damned injuries had made him maudlin.

Reaper shook his head. “I didn’t need a babysitter then, and I don’t need one now. I’m fine.”

“Good to know. But I’m still recommending you book some time off for a vacation.”

“I can do my job.”

“Doc says you need to take it easy. That bullet came awfully close to your ticker.”

Medical science had proven that he had a heart. Now, Reaper couldn’t ignore the fact that it existed—and it was lonely.

“I’m good as new.”

“I’m sure you are, but as your boss, and friend, I’m telling you to take some time to heal a bit more. It’s not like you need the money.”

A lack of anyone to spend it on meant it accumulated, especially since Reaper had simple tastes.

“Say I don’t come into work, what am I supposed to do? Twiddle my thumbs? Start knitting?”

“Why not learn to cook?”

“Says the guy whose wife makes all his meals.” Reaper had seen the lunches Sherry packed for Harry. They even included healthy vegetables.

Harry grinned. “I grill a mean steak.”

“Can’t live on steak alone,” Reaper noted as the elevator dinged and opened to the lobby.

“Says the man who has all his meals catered.”

“I wasn’t the one talking about learning to cook.”

“Fine, don’t learn to wield a spatula. What are you going to do?”

First off, enjoy the repast Reaper had ordered from the food service that kept him alive between missions. A prime rib with mashed potatoes, gravy, and asparagus. Yum.

Then, a long, hot shower and a few minutes with his hand. Months without privacy in the hospital had left him with a need.

A need a girlfriend would have satisfied for you.

A significant other would have also asked who the hell shot him up. They were nosy that way.

Once he was clean and fed, with some easy-listening Fourplay crooning faintly in the background, he’d find the cunt who’d shot him.

He had a favor to repay.

Harry must have read his expression. “We haven’t found her yet.”

Probably because the woman had cleverly wiped her tracks. “She’s bound to surface at some point.” Because, otherwise, they were pooched. They had no leads. None at all, not even a picture to work with. When Mason went to copy the security tapes before wiping them, it was to find them already clean.

There were no witnesses, no DNA, no fingerprints, no pictures, nothing, because the woman who shot him? Not Wendell’s girlfriend.

So who the fuck was she? And why was she there with a gun? Had their employer on that particular job hired two assassins? He’d claimed he didn’t after Jerome paid him a visit and tortured him for a while. But then, why was she there?

Had she mistaken him for Wendell, or was there someone looking to rid the world of Reaper?

“I don’t want you haring off on your own. If you find the woman who shot you, bring us in, and we’ll help capture her.”

By us, Harry meant Bad Boy Inc., an agency that seemed legit on the surface. International real estate. Great cover for operatives who needed to travel.

Beneath their squeaky-clean surface, though, they offered specialty services available through the Dark Web. They ranged from small-time to mega jobs. Assassination and espionage brought in the biggest bucks.

The staff of Bad Boy worked on contract, with only a few rules. They didn’t kill wives for rich men that didn’t want to pay alimony to fuck another pussy. And they didn’t kill kids.

But drug dealers who’d crossed another big dealer’s line? Those fetched a pretty price.

Want to know what a certain automaker was putting in their two thousand and something lineup? Bad Boy would bring you the blueprints so you could get the jump on them.

Activities that skirted the edge of laws meant big money. It could also be dangerous. Kind of why he liked it.

In the past, Reaper had worked well alone. He didn’t appreciate Harry implying that he needed assistance. “I don’t need help bringing in some chick.” He could handle one broad. A single bullet would solve that problem.

What he needed help with was finding someone to Netflix and chill with. But don’t tell Sherry, Harry’s wife. The woman loved to match-make.

And is that such a bad thing given my track record so far?

Harry mocked him. “Of course, you don’t want a hand. You’re the big bad Reaper.” The bringer of death.

“Did you just come here to hassle me, or did you have a real reason?” Reaper asked.

“I’m here because you need a ride.”

There wasn’t much point in asking how Harry knew Reaper would be leaving today. The man knew everything and had been a true friend since their days in the academy, which was probably why Reaper blurted, “What’s it like being married?”

Harry almost hit the door face first he turned his head so quickly. His hand shot out at the last second and shoved it open. “Can I ask why you care what my married life is like?”

“I’m thinking of dating.” The very utterance of the words earned him a startled side-eye.

“When did you stop dating?”

“I didn’t. Not exactly.” Reaper scrubbed a hand through his hair. “What I’m saying is, I’m thinking of something a little more permanent.”

“You want a girlfriend?” The high note of incredulity would have been insulting to anyone else.

But Reaper had made a point of living this long unfettered for a reason. “I think so. Yeah. I am getting older—”

“Just fucking ancient.”

“And it might be kind of nice to have someone to come home to. I mean, that’s gotta be one of the perks of you being with Sherry.”

“There’re lots of perks to being married. Downfalls, too. Keep in mind, Sherry knows what I am. I don’t need to hide shit from her. You, though, are you thinking of dating someone from the agency or a civilian?”

Reaper shrugged. “I hadn’t really thought about it. I know some folks get away with leading a double life. So it’s doable.”

“It is, but not easy if you’re still in the field. You retiring?”

“Retiring is for pussies who lost their balls.”

“There’s no shame in quitting while you’re alive. Your luck will run out eventually. We thought we’d lost you for good this time.”

“I know.”

“Is that where this interest is coming from? Facing your own mortality and shit?” Harry’s astute query dug into the heart of the matter.

“I just think maybe it’s time I settled down.”

“Weren’t you the one who said having a family is a liability?”

“Yeah.”

“Said that a wife and kids were just pawns that weakened an operative.”

“Yeah.” Reaper’s jaw locked as he had his words tossed at him.

“About time you admitted you were wrong.”

He stumbled and caught himself with a hand on the bumper of a car in the parking lot. “I never said I was wrong.” When Harry smirked, Reaper sighed. “Okay, maybe I was a tad harsh in my opinions.”

“A tad?” Harry snorted. “Whatever. I’m just glad you finally see the light.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means a man shouldn’t go through life alone. You should have someone to celebrate things with you. Someone to stand by your side, thick or thin. It’s about time you realized that and went hunting for that special someone.”

“Hunt?” Reaper’s nose wrinkled. “I’d rather not.”

“Then how do you plan to meet someone? Going to hit the singles clubs?” Harry asked.

“I am not hitting the bars to look for a girlfriend.” Drunk women had no appeal. He’d reached an age where he wanted more than just easy pussy.

Conversation might be nice, too.

“I’ll bet Sherry knows some girls.”

“I’ll bet she does, but I don’t know if I want someone who’s been around the agency.” Casual hookups happened a lot among them, especially since there were few women in the field. He didn’t want to have to kill colleagues just because they’d seen his girlfriend naked at one point.

“How the hell are you going to find someone then?” Harry asked.

“I’ve got a plan.” Reaper pointed at the billboard hovering overhead sporting a logo of a heart made to look like lips with a finger shushing it.

Harry gaped. “You’re going to use Secret Match?”

He shrugged. “I don’t exactly have a job conducive to meeting women to date, so I’m going to rely on some pros.”

“A dating service, though?”

“Don’t mock it. While I was being detained against my will”—Reaper glared at Harry—“I researched them online. They’ve got the highest success rate of all the local businesses.”

“I can’t see you browsing profiles and checking them out.”

“Because I won’t be. Secret Match does the work for you.”

His boss shook his head. “You’re going to trust a company to find you love?”

“I’m going to trust math and logic to find me a match.”

How hard can it be?