Page 5 of Wrecked With You

“Fine, fine. I’m assuming you agreed because you’re screwing my sister. God knows that was a big part of why I asked you.”

“Trust me. As much as I adore that particular activity, it wouldn’t be enough.”

“Then it must be because you love my sister.”

“Ah, yes. That’s why.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” I tell him. “And I’m not just saying that because you could push a lever and drop me on my head.”

“I’m lucky to have her.”

“Damn right, you are.”

“And right now, you’re lucky to have me.”

I laugh softly. “Can’t argue with that one either.”

“Care to give me a bit more information about what exactly you’re doing? Nature of the intel? Your mission objective?”

“Nope.”

“Because I might tell your sister?”

“Yup.”

“You know she’d—”

“Hang on.”

The bastard is pushing back from the desk, and it’s clear why—my own reflection right there on his goddamn computer screen. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

I wanted more footage. Lots more.

But I’ll have to make do with what I have, because it’s now or never time. And I’m not willing to stop now.

I do a quick flip in the harness, shifting my position to right-side up, then use the clip at the top of the harness to hook me into this position. These aren’t ideal conditions, but when are they ever?

I grab the Smith & Wesson .45 that’s holstered to my hip, say a prayer that the wind doesn’t shift, and quickly take aim. I’ve done this before, albeit not while suspended, but I’d always been assigned a partner on those missions. One of us to shoot out the glass, the other to almost simultaneously shoot the target, thus eliminating the need to account for the deflection of the kill shot when it penetrates the pane.

But I don’t have a partner beside me, and I don’t have time for hefty calculations. And while I’ll aim for a kill shot the first time, most likely I’ll have to take the second shot on its heels. If it works, great. If not, I damn sure hope Quince can haul my ass to the roof before Cane takes a shot at me.

Time seems to drag on dangerously slow, but that’s an illusion. The world is moving in slo-mo now. My thoughts coming at such a fast clip that he’s not even fully steady on his feet yet. But I’ve got the weapon ready, and the moment he’s upright and facing me, I fire. The glass shatters, and he’s close enough to get sprayed by the shards.

Flying glass can be deadly, but I’m not willing to take a chance, and the glass is still flying when I take aim, pull the trigger again, and send the bullet zinging through the newly formed hole in the window. And right into that son-of-a-bitch’s head.

I rattle off an ironic curse. Ironic because though I’d been aiming for his chest, I nailed the more difficult shot. Even so, I hate it when subpar conditions fuck with my aim.

I draw a breath, calm myself, and tell Quince to pull me the hell back up.

Immediately, I start to move up, and at a pretty fast clip. But that’s also when I realize that he hasn’t said a word. Yeah. He’s pissed.

“Listen, Bond,” I say, using this call sign. Because, hey, he’s British. “This was—”

“Bloody hell,” Quince growls. At first I think he’s even more pissed than I anticipated, but a split second later, I start to free fall and realize he’s dealing with an equipment fuck-up.

The clip holding me upright isn’t designed to withstand intense pressure, and when I jerk a few feet above Cane’s room, I also spin forward, the air coming out of my lungs with a whoosh. Suddenly I’m upside down again, staring through the glass into Cane’s room.

He’s still there, still dead, and still alone. There are no sirens. No sign that anyone at three in the morning noticed the shower of glass that rained down on the parking lot below. And no indication that hotel security is racing to his room.