Page 3 of Sinner’s Game

Which was why Ronan had been less than enthusiastic when Devlin trusted Ellie and her two closest friends—Brandy and Lamar—with the secret.

Nowadays, Ronan would trust Ellie with his life. More than that, Ronan had to admit that he was a bit jealous of his friend. Not that Ronan was attracted to Ellie; he wasn’t. But he couldn’t deny the tug at his heart when he saw how happy the two of them were together.

He’d felt that kind of connection to a woman only twice in his life. The first in a past he’d worked hard to bury under a heart that had turned to stone. Or so he thought. Because recently, something dead inside him had started to bloom. Equal parts wonderful and terrifying.

But not something that he could or would cultivate.

Brandy Bradshaw might be temptation personified, but he knew better than to risk everything again. What was that saying? Once burned, twice shy.

He could rejoice in the fact that she’d become a friend. That he genuinely cared for her. That he’d always watch out for her.

But more than that?

Not now. Not ever.

And certainly not while Sheldon Cartwright was alive.

He realized he was looking at his hands, imagining Cartwright’s neck in his grip. He lowered them, then shifted his gaze up to meet Devlin’s curious eyes.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, thanks again. I know it’s inconvenient. But like I said, everything’s taken care of. We’re pretty light right now.”

“Run me through it.”

“A few things we’re monitoring, but I don’t expect them to pop for at least a month. We’re still gathering intel.” He took Devlin through most of the list, addressing the details of missions from Texas to Nigeria to Bangladesh without missing a beat.

“All sounds good. That everything?”

“Not quite,” Ronan said. “I closed the matter for Colonel Seagrave.” He hoped he sounded casual. That mission had gone off without a hitch. But it had also changed everything.

Alexander Seagrave was the commander of the Western Division of the ultra-secret SOC, or Sensitive Operations Command, and he often used black ops money to hire Saint’s Angels for specific missions. This one had come in while Devlin was touring Europe with his bride. Identify and terminate the leader of a terrorist cell that was bankrolling their weapon purchases by kidnapping teenage girls to sell as sex slaves. Sadly, an all too familiar story.

Ronan had found him, followed him, and assassinated him. A sanctioned hit, but one that would blow back on Ronan if his finger on the trigger was ever known. The agency damn sure wouldn’t claim knowledge.

He wasn’t concerned about the risk. None of Saint’s Angels were. They’d joined the organization because they believed in its mission to make the world a better place despite going directly against the establishment’s rules.

Devlin had never shied away from telling Ronan about the horrors in his life that had led up to the decision to create the SA. His vile father and the people he’d hurt or killed. The empire in which Devlin had been raised. The lies he’d lived with.

Ronan knew all of Devlin’s shit; it was only fair that Ronan should tell Devlin what he’d learned on the Seagrave mission and why he had to take time off.

And yet he couldn’t say the horrible truth out loud. Because to do that would be to admit his role in Michelle’s death all those years ago. Not to mention his own shame in not avenging her back when he’d had the chance.

Later. After he’d made it right—at least as right as it could be with Michelle long in a grave. Later he’d tell his friend everything, but right now, he needed to focus. Because Sheldon Cartwright had resurfaced. And no way was Ronan missing the opportunity to hunt the son-of-a-bitch down and put a bullet through his brain.

He drew in a breath. “Like I said, everything’s running smoothly. And I won’t be gone long.”

“Good. And take as much time as you need. I was an ass earlier. I’d say it won’t happen again, but I hate lying to my best friend.”

Ronan managed a chuckle despite feeling that kick in the gut again. “Yeah, well, maybe one day I’ll tell you.”

“Or maybe you won’t.”

Some of the tension left his body. It was good to have a friend who understood him. He pushed up out of the chair.

“Heading out now?” Devlin asked, also rising.

“No. Flight’s at eight tonight. You?”

“Los Angeles tonight, then heading to New York at the crack of dawn tomorrow. And why don’t you just take one of the jets?” Devlin asked, referring to the charter fleet he personally owned, which was sometimes utilized by the Angels.