“I hope those shoes are comfortable,” Hunter says, corner of his mouth lifting briefly.
Matthew stares down at them as if trying to decide.
I grip his nape and pull him back, kissing his temple. “We don’t want the sound of the car to alert them to our presence. The element of surprise is our friend.”
He grabs the back of my shirt, always one step behind me. Miles stays at the back, head on a swivel, with Hunter at the front, guiding us, using the internal map he’s memorised. He’s always been a good navigator. Years of being chauffeured means that my directional skills aren’t as developed as other things I can do.
By the time we’re close to reaching our destination, Matthew’s breathing is ragged—more likely out of fear than fitness related, but the walk was a fair distance—and he’s clenching my shirt so tightly that it’s stretched across my chest like a second skin. I don’t ask him to let go.
Hunter stops, holding up a hand. “We’re almost there,” he says quietly. “Matthew, remember—”
“I know. Stay behind you, stay quiet.”
“We don’t know exactly what we’re going to run into. We’re not here to stop the drugs exchanging hands or to take them into custody. We’re after Lester. Once he’s done, and he goes to leave, we intercept.”
“We’re just going to let them go, and t-take their drugs into the city?” Matthew asks. “Shouldn’t we do something about it?”
“No,” Hunter says simply. “We have one priority. Authorities will have to deal with the rest of it. We can gather information for them to make it easier for them, but we’re not to engage. Understand?”
“I love it when you get bossy,” I say, leering at him.
Instead of getting annoyed or waving me off, he grasps my tie and pulls me into a wet, open-mouthed kiss that’s entirely inappropriate for the situation and also the best fucking thing in the world. He goes to pull away, and I palm his cheek, keeping him for just a little longer, soaking in the taste of him.
“Ready?” Miles asks, eyebrow raised in what’s most definitely judgement.
“Mmm, think so,” I murmur.
Things go FUBAR far quicker than even I anticipated. One second, we’re walking through the stacks of shipping containers, counting as we go, and then Hunter steps around one and almost catches a bullet in the side.
He curses and moves back, pulling out his gun. Miles and I do the same, Matthew firmly between us.
“Did we miss a lookout?” Miles says, frowning. He taps Hunter’s shoulder, and they switch places, him on the outside. He peers around the corner. More shots. Coming from closer this time. “Careful, I think they’re surrounding us.” He leans his head back against the container. “Cover me.”
Hunter nods, and then Miles is darting to the container across the aisle, spreading us out.
“Oh my God,” Matthew whispers, hands clenched on his thighs. “What do we do?”
“Stay calm.” Panicking will only put us at a disadvantage.
“You know what I hate about technology?” Hunter says, cursing under his breath. “How small everything is getting. They could have put a half dozen cameras up everywhere, and we’d never see them.” He fires blindly around the corner.
“Is Lester there?” I press Matthew against the container, right in the middle, coax him to slide down until he’s huddled on the ground, and gesture for him to stay. He looks terrified, but he nods. I pull the knife I have hidden on my ankle and flip it around, handing it to him, handle first. He’s shaking, but he takes it, holding firmly. There’s so much more that I should do to help him through this, but there’s no time. A quick kiss to his forehead, lingering as much as I reasonably can, is all I can do.
A man comes around behind us, trying to be a sneaky fuck. I put a bullet through his head before he can so much as breathe in our direction.
Matthew makes a horrified sound, and he hunches over himself, vomiting at his feet.
Hunter was right; we should never have let him come here. Comfort will have to be given later; the men trying to kill us are the immediate issue that can’t wait.
A bullet goes past my ear, and I curse, ducking back behind the container. “How many are there?” Being a sitting duck is one of my least-favourite things.
“At least six,” Hunter says, peering around and firing with calculated precision. A grunt of pain accompanies one of the shots. Good.
“Lester is getting away,” Miles remarks, almost casually. “Making a run for it.”
Like fucking hell, he is. We lose him now and we might not get another chance for too long. I won’t risk that. Darting out of cover, I bolt in the direction Miles is looking.
“Xavier!” Hunter yells. “What the fuck are you doing?”
