For anything that might still matter.
“I hate rush jobs,” he mutters. So do I.
We move like shadows, quiet and deliberate. The target is sprawled across the couch like a man who believes himself untouchable, pizza box balanced on his lap, fingers slick with grease as he flips through channels without seeing any of them and takes a swig of beer. Comfort. Carelessness. The kind that gets men killed.
Jaxon tests the front door. Locked.
We drift along the veranda instead, shadows clinging to us as if they recognise their own. “There better not be some massive, feral dog out back,” he murmurs under his breath. For all his brutality, Jaxon has always had a healthy fear of teeth bigger than his own.
Light spills from the kitchen window, warm and domestic. Empty. I close my fingers around the handle and turn it slowly. It opens without resistance. That always surprises me, how many people trust locks they never bother to use.
We slip inside, silent as intent. I lead. Jaxon stays close, a presence at my back. My body tightens, every muscle coiled, breath sharp and controlled. I lift my weapon as I move down the hallway, doors yawning open on either side, like mouths that might speak if given the chance. I signal him forward. Clear.
The television hums from the front room, noise without awareness. No footsteps. No breath.
I round the corner.
Gun raised.
Nothing.
The couch is empty.
Pain explodes across my skull without warning, sharp, blinding. Beer and shattered glass cascade over my face, slick and disorienting, theworld tilting violently off its axis. For a heartbeat, everything blurs. I brace myself against the wall, forcing my vision to steady through the haze.
A shot cracks the air.
A groan answers it, but the bastard doesn’t fall.
My weapon is ripped from my grasp, skidding away as a fist slams into my jaw. Heat blooms where my lip splits, copper flooding my mouth. Then he runs, panic finally outweighing his arrogance, as Jaxon surges after him like a predator scenting blood.
I straighten slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, fury curling tight in my chest. “Son of a bitch.” This is exactly why I hate rushed jobs. Sloppy. Unpredictable. Dangerous.
My gun lies abandoned beneath the coffee table. I retrieve it, fingers closing around the grip like an extension of my will and move after them.
At the end of the hallway, it’s already over.
Jaxon has him on his knees, hands locked behind his head, body trembling as if it knows what comes next.
I approach with measured steps, deliberate, unhurried. He’s earned this moment of fear. His head lifts when he senses me, eyes glassy and wild.
“Khai,” he sobs. “Please. Don’t do this.”
I crouch until we’re level, until he’s forced to look at me. “Why does my father want you dead?” The question surprises even me. I’ve never cared enough to ask before, but something about this reeks wrong.
“I don’t know,” he whimpers. “I swear.” Tears, snot, blood, it all blurs together as he shakes. He’s lying. I can feel it in my bones.
I press the barrel to his temple. “I’ll ask once more,” I say softly, each word spaced and lethal. “Why. Does. My. Father. Want. You. Dead?” A pause. A breath. “Be honest… and I might let you disappear.”
His gaze flicks between me and Jaxon, calculation warring with terror. Finally, he cracks.
“Okay, okay. I’ll tell you.”
“Then speak.”
“After you were shot,” he gasps. “Your father sent me to his safety deposit box. Sensitive files. I was putting them away when one slipped.” His breath shudders. “All I saw was your name. And your brother’s. With a date.”
I watch him carefully. “That’s it?”
