Chapter One
Maximus (Callsign: Reaper)
The casino is a perfect front for a terrible operation.
It takes marked effort for me to keep a smile in place as I pass the guards waiting at the front door, not missing the firearms holstered to their hips. I also clock the way they spend a little too long gazing at the female patrons streaming in and out, as though they’re appraising cows at a market.
This job is simple enough on the surface, yet complicated to execute. It requires me to expose myself to a crowd of wealthy men and women here to gamble their money away—and my organization doesn’t like any exposure.
I have Toby—a certified techgenius—running interference to erase any camera footage, but there are too many witnesses to kill.
Too many women, too. I’ve never been a fan of hurting women. It’s one of the things that makes working with the Nighthawks, a group of assassins that put fear into hardened criminals with the name and reputation alone, challenging.
It doesn’t help that both my superiors are deliberately pricks. Cain—the leader of the Nighthawks—more so than Greyson, who’s my direct superior. The only reason I’mhereis because Cain was in apissy mood and decided to take it out on me, which makes me more than eager to finish this bullshit and go home.
Unfortunately, I know it’s easier said than done. My mark tonight isn’t only powerful; he’s high-profile. I’d have much preferred to camp out on a rooftop nearby with my sniper rifle and wait for Dagon to expose himself, but the trouble is hedoesn’texpose himself. There have been so many attempts on that fuckwad’s life that he no longer takesanychances.
The only times he goes out with less protection than usual are when he comes to visit this casino. Word on the street is that he sets up camp in one of the backrooms with his soldiers to oversee operations.
Word also has it that Dagon is a certified piece of shit, and 1,000% deserves to get killed. The only problem is, he’s managed to kill the last three assassins sent after him.
It’s lucky for him that those men weren’t me. I’m not an amateur, and my kill record is spotless. I have never failed an op, and I don’t intend to start now.
The casino hits me in the face like a slap the second I step through the brass-framed doors. Light, sound, and money all vibrate at the same fever pitch.Everythingglows. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling like frozen rain, scattering golden light over polished marble floors with black veins. The air smells like expensive perfume, old money,newmoney, and desperation.
Rows of slot machines flank the main walkway, screens pulsing neon blues and violent reds reminiscent of blood, digital bells chiming with every fake victory. People sit hunched over them like supplicants at an altar, eyes glazed as they chase that next tiny rush—and risk unspeakable amounts of money in the process.
To my left, several poker tables run in a smooth line, green felt pristine despite the number of lives that have been gutted over it.Dealers in crisp black vests move with practiced ease, hands sharp, faces carved into polite neutrality.
I move through the well-dressed men and women like I belong here, suit pressed, tie straight, expression lazy. I get many admiring glances from women as I pass, but what they don’t notice is the way I clock every important detail: exits, blind spots, who’s drinking too much, who’s not drinking at all, and the number of guards.
I spend the next two hours at the poker table, pissing off the high-ballers by taking their money. One good thing that comes from nightly poker games at the Nighthawk Fortress is that I’m used to taking money from imbeciles. Doing so at a casino presents minimal difference.
I check my watch midway through the fourth hand. It’s Friday night, and Dagon is scheduled to make an appearance at any minute. I run my eyes along the well-dressed men and women flitting about the floor and circling tables, and—
Then I seeher.
My heart stutters and stops. The breath’s knocked out of me like I was just dealt a blow to the solar plexus. My hands lose their grip on the poker chips I’m playing with, and they land on the table with a clatter.
She stands in a circle of men, escortingDagon—my mark for the night—across the floor.
First, comes the confusion. What thefuckisEmberdoing here? With a crowd like Dagon’s?
Then, comes thefury. It skitters up my spine, tightens my shoulders, and sets my lips into a flat line. My eyes narrow on Ember as she crosses the floor. I spent years looking for her—years,but she’d dropped off the face of the earth. I assumed she wasdead, andI mourned her loss. It sent me into a spiral that only killing people pulled me out of.
Finally comes thelust. Little Ember grew up—without me, which is unacceptable—and turned from a pretty girl into a complete fuckingknockout.
Generous breasts and curvy hips, displayed by the borderline-scandalous dress she wears. Milky, well-toned legs that seem to stretch on endlessly, despite her short height. Cat-like blue eyes curtained by thick, dark lashes. Lips that have filled out since the last time I stared at them, close tofive yearsago. Raven-black, long hair. A delicate build on a delicate girl…
Except she doesn’t appear so delicate anymore. Her posture is straight. Her steps are sleek, like a cat’s. Her eyes run over the room with a sniper’s precision, looking for…something. And those eyes… those eyes that I remember bursting with life and emotions are blank.
So blank I almost think I must be mistaking her for someone else.
Then,Dagon reaches out and wraps a bony hand around her arm,jerking Ember into his side, and my vision goesred.
My mark is touching the woman I lost, and she’s letting him. She’s not leaning into him—the edges of her lips curl down with displeasure—but she’s letting him.
Blaring alarm bells go off in my mind. Confusion and anger converge within me, creating a roaring tempest that threatens to consume me. The semi I sprouted at the sight of Ember deflates quicker than a balloon that’s been popped, and in the span of a heartbeat, my mission changes.
