Dying for a Fix

by G. K. Parks

  Francisco was still hoping to cut a better deal, and there was some talk that he’d get additional incentives for turning on the gang’s drug connections and for testifying against the Lords. But the one person he wouldn’t turn on was DeAngelo Bard. Even if Bard was a ruthless killer, he took care of Francisco, and that loyalty was something that wouldn’t waver even in the face of decades’ worth of prison time.

  “I thought you left hours ago,” Jablonsky said, sidling up to my desk.

  “I did. Now I’m back.”

  “Uh-huh.” He shook his head, unable to make sense of my presence. “The case is closed. You’ve filed your reports. The only thing left is to give Director Kendall an answer.”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Okay,” he rolled my chair backward, “get up.” We went into his office, and he shut the door. “Pros and cons, go.”

  “People die. Martin’s pissed. I still don’t know that being here is the right decision.” I paced in front of his desk. “But we helped cut off a branch of one of the biggest cartels, and in the process, two gangs are on the outs.” I chuckled. “You know, you probably could have done those things without me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” I’d like to think they needed me, but someone else could have done it. And that someone probably wouldn’t have risked Heathcliff’s life or endangered their boyfriend in the process.

  “It sounds like you’ve made a decision,” Mark said, scrutinizing my expression. “Except for the simple fact that you don’t have a hard and fast reason to leave this time.”

  “Martin threw down the gauntlet.” The highlights reel from our fight played behind my eyes. “It might already be too late for us.”

  “So this job is the only thing you have left?” Mark was playing devil’s advocate, and I scrunched my nose at him, making a face.

  “I won’t do a long-term undercover assignment again.”

  “There’s no reason why you’d have to. You never did before. SACs aren’t normally field operatives, and if you come back, everything will be back to the way it was.” He saw the pain and protest in my eyes. “Well, as close as it can be.” His smile was bittersweet. “After a bust like this, Carver would be proud.” Biting my lip, I nodded.

  After spending far too much time thinking, I returned to Martin’s compound. He was sitting on the couch, surrounded by paperwork, and the phone was glued to his ear. I took a seat on the edge, not disturbing any of the things he was working on.

  Mark made a valid point; if something were to happen between us, work would be all I had. Hell, work was still my main priority, mostly. But if I planned to commit to the OIO again, I’d also have to make a commitment in my personal life. This was about balance.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered when there was a break in his conversation, and he smiled, mouthing back ‘me too’.

  He scooted a few of the papers over, and I curled up on the sofa next to him. When I opened my eyes hours later, my head was on his stomach, and his hand was tangled in my hair while the other tapped away at a tablet. I snuggled my cheek into the soft material of his shirt, feeling his washboard abs underneath. It was decision time.

  “Martin, is it too late for us?”

  He dropped the tablet onto the end table and focused on me. “I hope not.” He smirked. “I was just warming to the idea of sleeping with a special agent.”

  “Some things will have to change. You can’t come over anymore.”

  “Alex,” the annoyance was already in his voice, “this is getting ridiculous.”

  “My apartment is off limits. It’s strictly for work,” I swallowed, “because I want to move in with you.”

  “Ha ha. Very funny. That’s not the way you end a fight.”

  “I’m serious, assuming the offer still stands.” He studied my expression, stared into my eyes, and then lifted me off his lap so he could kiss me.

  “Yes. My god, yes.” He held me tight. “We’ll convert the downstairs office into your workspace, and you can change the bedroom if you want.” Already, he was planning to hire interior decorators or something equally moronic.

  “Stop. This is overwhelming enough. Let’s ease into this, okay?”

  He nodded. “So you’re staying at the OIO, and you’re staying here.”

  “It looks that way.”

  * * *

  Monday, I reported to the office as usual. Well, the new usual. It felt eerily normal. Almost as normal as staying at Martin’s. Maybe the fact that most of my stuff was still in my apartment and I still had an apartment might have had something to do with it. We agreed that if I had to work undercover or investigate something particularly dangerous, I would stay at my place, or rather my old place, and I promised to prepare him ahead of time by telling him as much as I could about my assignments.

  Agent Cooper put the final touches on the FBI’s original investigation that the OIO concluded, welcomed me back to the building, and said a few kind words about the two of us working together in the future. Lucca didn’t seem quite as pleased, but he was still a boy scout and knew better than to mouth off. I gave Kendall the news. And he nodded, giving me the task of convincing my contacts in the police department to turn the evidence collected over to us. Civil forfeiture meant that a lot of property was now up for grabs to whichever agency made the bust, and of course, the OIO wanted the biggest piece of the pie. I offered to do what I could, which realistically was absolutely nothing, and returned to my desk.

  “So you’re back for good?” Mark asked, watching as I lined up the stapler, hole punch, and inbox tray on top of my desk.

  “I’m back for now.”

  Mark snorted, shaking his head and continuing to his office. All bets were off when it came to how long I’d stay this time. Hell, even I didn’t know if it would last, but it felt like it would.

  The next novel in the Alexis Parker series, Intended Target, will be available October 2015. Sign up for our newsletter to get the latest updates on releases and promotions:

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  Now, enjoy this preview of Condemned, the first novel in a brand new series.

  Chapter One

  Everything had become interchangeable. The cities, the women, the jobs, none of them were special. They all blurred together in an indecipherable haze.

  Julian Mercer stood on the balcony of his hotel room, staring out over the city. If it wasn’t for the Ferris wheel, he might not have realized he was in London. He chuckled at the absurdity. Having been born an hour outside the city and spending his youth at the most prestigious preparatory academies, one would have assumed he would recognize home. But he didn’t. Not anymore.

  The woman he spent the last twenty minutes fucking opened the door and joined him on the balcony. “You got a match?” she asked, holding up an unlit cigarette. She was completely nude, and her breasts were barely concealed underneath her tousled red locks.

  “No.” He assessed her as if he had never seen her before. She was pretty. Ginger, as his mates would call it. Pale skin, freckles, and auburn red hair. The reason she left the pub with him was a complete mystery, but he didn’t complain an hour ago. “Smoking will kill you.”

  “Bugger.” She ran her hands up his pectoral muscles; her fingers tracing the various scars that littered his chest and arms. “How’d that happen?” she asked.

  He looked down, trying to be polite, but completely bored now that their romp was concluded. It had been adequate but not something he had any desire to repeat. Hell, he wasn’t even sure what her name was. It seemed trivial and unimportant, so he couldn’t be bothered to take note of it.

  “Thirty-two caliber bullet.” His tone was matter-of-fact.

  She stepped back, maybe shocked or perhaps turned on. Another detail he couldn’t concern himself with. “What’d you say you do?”

  “I didn’t.” He brushed past her and back into the room. He found his shirt on the floor and put it on. Her belonging
s he carried to the chair closest to the balcony and dropped them off.

  “You’re an asshole,” she snapped, tugging on her shirt and pants. She shoved her underwear and bra into her purse and stomped to the door.

  “Thanks for the lovely shag,” he retorted as the door slammed, rattling the dresser. “Birds.” Fastening his watch, he glanced at the rumpled bed and felt the familiar hollow void. Maybe the reason he neglected to notice he was in London was because the city brought back the pain.

  Picking up the untraceable cell phone, he dialed the only number stored in its memory. After the second ring, Bastian Clarke answered. “You’ve scared off another one?”

  “Bas,” Mercer was losing his patience, “is everything set?”

  “Yes, sir. We move in tonight to collect the package.”

  “I’ll see you at the rendezvous point at ten. There’s something I have to do first.” Mercer took out his wallet, opening the tiny sealed compartment and slipping his wedding ring back on, and then he went downstairs, bought a bouquet of yellow roses, and hailed a cab.

  Remaining out of sight, Mercer waited for the elderly gentleman to finish uttering a few quiet words. The rain had picked up and sluiced through the frigid air in sheets. Another obvious indication he was home. Sure, other parts of the world got rain, but it always felt different in England. Perhaps he was nostalgic. After the man left, Mercer swallowed, bolstering his nerves.

  “Michelle,” he put the flowers down, “I’ve missed you.” He played absently with the silver band on his finger, no longer accustomed to wearing it. “And I’m sorry.” The grey marble slab stared at him, unyielding and harsh. “Your dad still visits on your birthday, I see.” He blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. He was a soldier, a trained killer. He wasn’t supposed to be emotional. “This is ridiculous. I’m talking to a bloody piece of granite.” The anger hit hard, as it always did, and cursing whatever deity might be listening and mocking his pain, he kissed the top of the gravestone like always and stormed back to the waiting cab. The sooner this job was concluded, the sooner he could leave. Then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. He could focus on the job and not the excruciating emptiness.

  As the taxi meandered through the streets, he stared at his ring, wondering why he kept it and why it felt imperative he put it on before visiting his wife’s grave. “Old habits die hard,” he mumbled to himself.

  The cabbie glanced at him in the rearview mirror but didn’t comment.

  Each time Mercer returned from a mission for the SAS, he always put his ring back on before walking through the front door. It meant he was home and that he belonged somewhere. To someone. It was his lifeline, a tether to normalcy, but with Michelle’s final breath, he had lost his footing.

  Over the last two years, his team, particularly Bastian, had tried to act as his moral compass, but often, it seemed it would be easier not to have to worry about such hindrances. When the four of them were employed by Her Majesty, there were no ethical quandaries, just orders. But ever since being forced into an early retirement from the Special Air Service and becoming a personal security specialist, the lines were quickly blurring. If things continued like they were, eventually there would be no more lines.

  The cab halted, and Mercer paid the man, exiting without a word. He trudged back up the steps to his hotel room, planning to spend the next few hours reviewing the building’s layout and memorizing the plan and at least one contingency. Opening the door, he drew his Sig and pointed it at the intruder. The scent of cigarette smoke tipped him off that he wasn’t alone. Constantly on alert, he was trained to decimate anyone who stood in his way or posed a threat.

  “I hope you sent Michelle my best,” Bastian remarked, snubbing the butt in an ashtray.

  “Didn’t you quit?” Mercer asked, annoyed by the intrusion, as he tucked the gun in the holster at the small of his back.

  “That was yesterday. Depending on how tonight goes, I’ll reconsider quitting again tomorrow. But in the event we all bloody well die today, then there’s no reason I should torture myself in these final hours.” He studied Mercer, looking for cracks on his impassive exterior. “Jules, you can’t go on like this. She’s gone. You need to move on.”

  “I have. Now are we going to get to work?”

  “No.” Bastian Clarke had been an intelligence analyst. He knew his way around a gun and could hold his own in a firefight, but his real skills came with reading marks, hacking surveillance, and predicting enemy movements. He was also Mercer’s best friend, second-in-command, and the only person not afraid to mouth off. “Hans and Donovan don’t want you on-site. Not today.”

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “Today, I am,” Bastian said, watching as Mercer stalked across the room. “Under normal circumstances, you barely have the rage under control, and with it being Michelle’s birthday, any problem we encounter will turn into a bloodbath.” Bastian lit another cigarette and exhaled. “Maybe you’re okay with the killing, but we’re not mercenaries. Minimal collateral damage, understand?”

  Mercer grabbed the cigarette from Bastian’s mouth and smushed it into the table. “If I’m going through hell, then so are you.”

  “Deal.” Bastian flipped open the dossier they compiled on the kidnapped child, Louisa Hamberson, and skimmed through the information. Mercer had spent the entire week negotiating with the kidnappers on the parents’ behalf, and finally, the two parties agreed on a location for the exchange. Typically, these matters were civil. But sometimes, the human element could get greedy or the package was damaged, and things would turn ugly fast. “It’s still your op, Commander. So why don’t we work on the exit strategy together?” Bastian offered as consolation.

  Julian rubbed the bridge of his nose. He needed an outlet to escape. The woman from the pub didn’t help, visiting the cemetery only exacerbated the situation, and working on a mission he wouldn’t be a part of would just add to his feeling of impotence.

  “Figure it out yourself,” he barked, storming out of the room and slamming the door.

  Since he was stuck in this godforsaken city for another day, he should at least see if any progress was made on finding his wife’s killer. It was the only thing that mattered, and despite his best efforts and the efforts of his team and numerous private investigators he hired, no one was ever caught. The police probably still believed he was to blame, and on those sleepless nights when his past haunted him, he wasn’t sure that he wasn’t.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  G.K. Parks is the author of the Alexis Parker series. The first novel, Likely Suspects, tells the story of Alexis’ first foray into the private sector.

  G.K. Parks received a Bachelor of Arts in Political Science and History. After spending some time in law school, G.K. changed paths and earned a Master of Arts in Criminology/Criminal Justice. Now all that education is being put to use creating a fictional world based upon years of study and research.

  You can find additional information on G.K. Parks and the Alexis Parker series by visiting our website at

  www.alexisparkerseries.com

  Sign up for the e-mail newsletter for the latest information on upcoming releases, sales, free promotions, and more.

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  Full-length Novels in the Julian Mercer Series:

  Condemned

  Full-length Novels in the Alexis Parker Series:

  Likely Suspects

  The Warhol Incident

  Mimicry of Banshees

  Suspicion of Murder

  Racing Through Darkness

  Camels and Corpses

  Lack of Jurisdiction

  Dying for a Fix

  Intended Target

  Prequel Alexis Parker Novellas:

  Outcomes and Perspective: The Complete Prequel Series

  Assignment Zero (Prequel series, #1)

  Agent Prerogative (Prequel series, #2)

  The Final Chapter (Prequel series, #3)