Page 42 of Targeted By Vengeance

“You’re responsible for my father’s death.”

“As is the case in a lot of situations. Be more specific.”

“Xavier Nichols,” I said, my father’s name almost foreign on my tongue. I didn’t say it much. My chest always ached whenever I did.

Marcos’ brows pinched as he pondered over the name. “Nichols, Nichols,” he murmured to himself. He shook his head. “Are you sure this was my doing? That name doesn’t ring a bell.”

The pure confusion and ignorance on his face turned the heat back up. My blood boiled as I stormed towards him. I gripped up the collar of his robe with one hand and shoved him back onto the balcony.

His back collided into the railing, and he damn near stumbled over it had I not been holding him. He stared at me with surprise, but not fear as my other hand shoved my gun in his face.

“Special Agent Xavier Nichols,” I snapped. “He was ten seconds away from busting your ass when you got your buddies in the FBI to handle him.”

“Oh, him?” A chuckle rumbled in his throat. “I remember Agent Nichols. I admired that motherfucker almost as much as I hated him. But his death isn’t on me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I wanted him off my back, but I didn’t want him dead. The agents made that decision all on their own.”

“You’re lying,” I said, giving him a shake. He had to be. Why else would the FBI want him dead? What other reason would Logan kill his best friend?

He held up his hands. “On my dead wife’s grave, I swear I had nothing to do with it.” His lips grew into a wicked smile. “But if it was for my benefit, I must say, it was a hell of a nice favor.”

“Yeah,” I said, pushing harder against his collar. “So is this one.”

His brows came together as his feet lifted off the ground. “Wait, wait, what are you-“

I shoved him off the balcony before he was able to finish his sentence.

He hollered as he grappled at the air, searching for something to stop or soften his fall.

A harsh thud ended his screams.

Peeking over the balcony, I watched the blood slowly pool around his head, smothering his silver hair in a sea of red.

THE ASSASSIN

“Simone,” I called as I rapped my knuckles against the bathroom door. “Are you alright in there?”

Behind the door, I could hear the shower head still running, but the water had to be cold by now. Simone had been in there for almost an hour.

When she and Maria arrived back at the van, I was worried about the lack of blood on either of them. Usually, our missions always ended with some blood splatter. For a second, I thought Simone changed her mind about killing Marcos.

Then, I saw the hollowness in her eyes. The one that follows after your first kill. No matter how badly the kill may have been warranted or wanted, it never failed to leave you with questions. About mortality. About morality. About yourself.

Simone barely spared me a glance as she climbed back into the van. She just sat down on the bench in the loading bay and started unloading her weapons belt.

“What happened?” I whispered to Maria, who climbed up in the passenger seat.

She tossed him off the balcony, Maria signed. Took me almost ten minutes to drag her out of there because she wouldn’t stop staring.

Knowing Simone, she was probably committing his dead face to memory. More gasoline for the fire she was going to spit at whoever was next on her list.

Although I was proud of her for following through on this, I was worried about how else the image may affect her.

Simone didn’t respond to my initial question, so I knocked again. “Simone, I need you to say something or I’m coming in.”

Her voice didn’t pierce through the running water.