DECEIT (B723)

by Hazel Grace

  "I'm sure you mean that figuratively and literally?" he asks.

  "You got it." Powering on my screen, all the air that was just filling my chest deflates and disappears.

  EMMY: Hey, are you okay?

  "You staying at the trailer tonight?" Hardy's voice seeps through my vision of Emmy and her blondish-white locks. The way her honey-brown eyes, when they lift to look up at me, make me want to fuck her until I can't see anymore.

  Then I want to strangle her.

  "Yeah," I reply offhandedly as if I'm talking through a fog.

  My brother leans back in his seat and clasps his hands together. "Then you should know…Bubba is back."

  "Touch my ass again, Mills, and I swear to God, I'm going to fuck up those boyish good looks of yours."

  "I'm not trying to," he whispers sharply, immediately moving his meaty palms to my upper thighs. "It's in the fucking way, J-Lo."

  He pushes me upward again, giving me enough height to grab onto the gutters of the house, but I'm too freaking short to grip anything but the steel gutters.

  This isn't working.

  "We need to find another way in," I quip. "Let me down."

  "Hold on, Lou Boo." He then heaves me a second time, and my whole body flies through the air, my knees slamming into the rough texture of the roof through my thin leggings, and I wince.

  "Fuck." I suck in a breath through my teeth as I climb to the side so I can help Mills up.

  Or not.

  A grunt sounds behind me, hinting that Mills is already on his way when the snap of a branch catches my ear from a few yards away.

  "What the hell was that?" I whisper, clenching onto Mills's wrist, so he doesn't fall.

  "We must've missed a dude. Pull me up." I do, and together we get him onto the roof just in time for a skinny guy in a brown leather coat to round the trees to the right of the house.

  How in the fuck did we miss him?

  Mills and I keep crouched down to stay out of sight when the dude begins to approach the front door.

  Reaching behind me, I drag out my Wushu Whip chain. The weapon is steel but light, composed of short metal bars and rings that link them together. It allows me to move quickly and with less chance of injury to myself.

  Mills pulls out his gun as I inch closer to the gutters.

  "Em," Mills warns. "Don't—" Oops, I do, stepping off the house and right on top of the man who was going to die by one of our hands anyway.

  He barely breaks my landing, my feet hitting the ground as we both fall together. My right leg bitches at me for the lack of thinking this all the way through and that I'm gonna feel this tomorrow morning.

  Quickly getting the upper hand, I step off him to allow him access to sit up, but it's what I want him to do.

  Wrapping my chain around his throat, I expertly position one of the rods along the base of his throat before rolling another layer over.

  Then I yank—hard.

  He gurgles for air on his knees, attempting to pull the steel chain away from his neck with both hands.

  The man swings backward, trying to throw me off, but I casually step to the side. He's desperate for any prospect to get me to let go, but the moment I linked two layers, he doesn't stand a chance.

  Marty's in this house—alone.

  This idiot in my grasp is part of some stupid group that took his sister, Reagan, and his girl, Stormi, too.

  People I care for.

  It shoots a whole other wave of violence coursing through my body as I jerk harder, listening to him gurgle and gag for oxygen.

  The stranger's weight begins to bear on my steel, prompting me that he's losing consciousness. I hear Mills's heavy sigh above me, envious that he didn't get to finish this prick off.

  Jealous ass.

  Undoing the chain from around this guy's neck, I let him fall face-first to the dirt and neatly put my weapon away.

  I look up at Mills then bat my eyelashes. "Help me up again?"

  "Jump on the air conditioner," he grumbles with knitted brows, walking towards it.

  Climbing on top of the metal grate above the fan, I raise my arms while Mills hauls me up.

  "We should've done that before," I reply, still feeling the slight pain in my knees and now leg.

  “Where’s the fun in that when I get to hear you bitch at me for five minutes?” I roll my eyes as I get to my feet. “Where the hell is that governor of yours?"

  He's irritated and, if you knew him, isn't like this at all.

  Out of all the men I work with, Mills is the most carefree, the jokester, the one who'll make you feel better after a bad day, and the easiest to handle.

  But this is Marty we're talking about, a man that is like a brother to us, and he's in serious trouble.

  Hence why we're here.

  "Probably through the laundry room already."

  "Why the fuck didn't we do that?"

  "C'mon—" I tug on his hand, not about to explain the plan to him for the second time. “—complain later." He follows, and we only have minutes, maybe seconds, to reach all three of them before something terrible happens.

  Hopping over the governor's balcony railing, we enter Wade Lockwood and his wife, Reagan's bedroom. The smell of fresh sheets fills my nose as we stride through the white french doors, careful not to knock into anything.

  Voices carry from downstairs, giving me a slight twinge of relief that everyone may still be okay.

  That Marty may still be alive.

  I shouldn't have let him come alone, but Mills and I had to scoop up Wade and his son, Huck, before anyone else did. However, things never go well when it's one against multiple.

  A female suddenly screams, and my feet give out mid-stride before big hands catch me, pulling me into a hard chest before I crash into the hardwood floors.

  "Calm down, Lou Boo," Mills whispers gently in my hair. "We got this shit." I'm not sure if he's trying to convince himself or me because his voice cracks.

  That sounded like…

  "Mills…I think that was Reagan," I mutter, reaching for his hand on my shoulder. I'm on the brink of a nervous breakdown; I can feel it. Marty and I fight a lot, but I love him. He's a piece of me.

  They all are—Mills, Marty, Kyson, Bishop, and Blue. The last person is debatable, but that’s another story. We’re all part of the most elite, secretive, and dangerous group in the country—B723.

  We’re assassins.

  We kill the bad guys.

  We keep the American people safe, sound, and protected from outside and inside threats.

  We’re family.

  "Call Lockwood," Mills orders, giving my palm a squeeze before rounding me to take the lead out the long hallway.

  Plucking my cell out of the pocket of my leggings, I shakily speed dial his phone, and he picks up on the first ring.

  "I'm moving in," he answers gruffly.

  "Hold on," I scold. "Not—"

  "He shot my fucking wife, Em. I know her screams, trust me."

  Ew.

  "You'd hear more if she was hit somewhere vital because Marty would've already killed someone."

  "Emmy," Wade fumes lowly. "Get in position...because, in one minute, I'm moving."

  I snap my fingers once, getting Mills's attention before covering the mouthpiece to my phone. "He's about to move."

  Mills twists his face. "Tell him no."

  I suppress a scoff because you don't just tell Wade Lockwood no and expect him not to argue about it. Especially if he's really adamant about something.

  Trust me, I’d know because he was one of my assignments before he became my friend.

  Wade and I worked hard and tirelessly to get him into the Oval Office and become the next President of the United States.

  He was elected first by B723. My commander, Ledger, carefully watched him for years. Studied his personality and policies while other politicians attempted to gain office.

  I got him there. I worked with him in the big white house on 1600 Pennsylv
ania Avenue in Washington, D.C, and the rest is history.

  I still work for him here and there—he can’t live without me—and we still argue as much as we do since day one. When he gets an idea, it’s hard to crack through it.

  And I'd say he's exceptionally adamant about saving his wife, Reagan, right now while making himself a moving target.

  And it’s not just her.

  She’s pregnant with their second child.

  "Wade," I croon as softly as I can through every anxiety emotion known to man. "Please don't until I know what we're dealing with. Trust me, I promise I won't let anything happen to Reagan."

  "I do, but—"

  "The less talking, the better." Mills and I approach the end of the hall and the top of the stairs. "Stand by."

  Mills crouches down to look downstairs. "Two guys, AK-47s."

  "Where's Marty?" My heart is beating so hard in my chest that I think it's going to break a rib. I can hear the mumbling of male voices but nothing more unless we get closer.

  "I think in front of them."

  "Can we get down without them seeing us?"

  "Ask Lockwood if these stairs squeak." I open my mouth, but he already answers me.

  "No, you shouldn't have a problem."

  I nod for Mills, giving him the green light, and he returns it, rising to his full height before holding up a hand.

  "How good is your long shot, Em?"

  "Fine."

  "We're not getting far down these stairs. We'll need to pick them off."

  "Wade, do you have a clear shot?"

  "Emmy... it's fucking Eli Montgomery."

  My whole body numbs as I grip the railing and force myself to keep up with Mills.

  This is all my fault.

  About two weeks ago, I thought I had helped solve the mystery of who was behind Reagan's attempted murder. The evidence was black and white—Mayor Holden Montgomery was dead, shanked sixty-two times in prison in the chest, back, and legs.

  A sentence served up by the man on the other side of the phone.

  Long story short, Wade pulled the plug and got the Feds on his ass. Holden owed Wade money. He also stole funds from the city to gamble, buy prostitutes, the whole nine. I believe there were more charges brought against him, but I don't remember.

  But I did this.

  Eli Montgomery was his son; why wouldn't he avenge his father? Why wouldn't he be involved in the first place?

  Now Marty is in there, rescuing Reagan, his sister, and the love of his life, Stormi.

  This is revenge—plain and simple.

  I fucking hate politicians and rich pricks.

  "Forever, asshole." The remnants of Reagan's voice flows up the stairs, giving me some relief that she's still okay. "You tried to rape me!”

  My eyes tightly clamp shut.

  Reagan doesn't know it, but she isn't helping me keep her husband at bay from doing something really fucking stupid right now.

  "Em." Wade's impatience hits the other end, and the stress I've been trying to keep calm, it's starting to bubble to the surface. “Did you just hear—“

  "Hold," I leer, squeezing the phone and imagining it's Wade's throat.

  "Fuck this, you tried to touch my sister, motherfucker?!"

  And here goes Marty.

  My co-worker is as insane and impulsive as they come. Not only did he just hear his sister claim that Eli attempted to rape her—this is news to me—but Marty will gladly give his life for Reagan.

  Their sibling bond is like nothing I’ve ever seen in my life.

  Mills peers over his shoulder at me, jaw taut with fury. "When we hit the bottom of the stairs, we'll make a sharp left."

  I give him a thumbs-up as he promptly descends the rest of the way. The familiarity of the adrenaline rush that always pumps through my veins accompanies me as Mills and I press our backs against the wall.

  And at the exact moment, we retrieve our guns.

  Mills inches closer to the edge of the wall, peering over to see what's going on in the family room while I stare at the opposite side of the gray drywall on the other side.

  In a wooden frame is Wade's reason for living—Reagan, their son, Huck, and the man himself. The life I always wanted for my best friend and second half-ass boss.

  I’ve been so busy with B723 shit that I’m barely in the office with him anymore. I’m more emotional support when he’s about to lose his mind, but everything he has, he deserves.

  We’ve been through hell and back together. His wife's survival hangs in the balance, and I know he's blaming himself for the situation.

  That he was relying on me to make this go away, and I failed him. I told him the coast was clear, that Holden was dead, that they could come home from Italy.

  I put Marty in this position too.

  He gave up the love of his life, Stormi, so that she could live safely and not in the world—our world—that we walk through dangerously every day.

  Today, it was all me.

  I didn't dig enough.

  I didn't keep sifting through documents and phone records—a complete rookie move.

  A gunshot suddenly rings out, startling both Mills and I, as he tugs on my hand to pull me down with him.

  Blocking me with his body, we listen for another one, another scream, another hint of anything from our loved ones.

  "Did you just fucking shoot?" I yell-whisper into the phone.

  "No," he deadpans with zero emotion. "Marty was hit.”

  My face must give it away because the color of Mills's drains. I see the happy-go-lucky part of him seep through his frame as he waits for me to confirm what we're both dreading.

  "That blonde chick is fucking insane," Wade whispers sharply in my ear. "She has a gun to her chin."

  Stormi.

  "We need to move. Marty is going to lose his shit over his girl.” Mills doesn't wait, steadily moving down the stairs, but when I begin, Wade stops me with his next words.

  "Just in case you didn't hear it the first time...I love you," Marty says. "With every fucking thing I got. It's not much, but it's me. You make me want to come out of the shadows and bask in the sun with you. You create a sense of peace that I want to drown in. I want you always."

  My jaw clenches in anguish as Marty confesses his love to Stormi. Tears prick the back of my eyes because he's not supposed to be here—none of them are.

  Guilt rattles my body because Marty is saying goodbye.

  The strong, stubborn, keeps-his-feelings-to-himself Marty believes he's thoroughly fucked in the next room.

  "I'm moving to the other side," Mills whispers at my side. He grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. "Em."

  I crane my head to peer at him, hitting his chest first before trailing up to his perfectly cut jawline peppered in light stubble, those gray eyes that mirror storms, and his slight wide nose. Mills replicates a model turned killer.

  Something that doesn't happen.

  But Mills did precisely that right before my eyes.

  "We're gonna get them out," he tells me with confidence. "All of them." I can only bob my head in agreement because as much as I trust Mills with my life, it doesn't haul us out of this predicament.

  "I'm going on the other side—" He jerks his head to it. "—that way, we both have room for a shot."

  "Emmy, I think that blonde is going to shoot herself in like twenty seconds here," Wade says in my ear.

  Fuck.

  Mills glimpses around the wall, and I believe I hear him mutter shit under his breath.

  With one long step, he slides back over to me. "Marty is encouraging Stormi to shoot him, the stupid fucker."

  "When you hear a gunshot," I tell Wade. "Take out Eli. You got one fucking shot, don't miss."

  Wade scoffs, and I move, taking a possessive stance behind Mills, knowing that if the dudes with their backs to us come this way, he turns into my number one mission to protect.

  Slowly peeking around Mills, I see two linebacker dudes, one standing b
ehind Reagan in her chair, the other at Marty's back.

  Then I see bluish-blonde hair—Stormi dyed it with me weeks ago for a change—step into my view.

  With a pistol to her chin.

  What in the actual fuck is she doing?

  "Move that fucking gun right the fuck now." Marty steps forward, and the man behind him orders to stop before pulling out his pistol and shooting Marty in the back of the leg.

  He falls to the ground, and the moment Mills and I pull back on our hammers, the sound will only give us a second to act on making our mark.

  "Fuck that," Marty snaps loudly. "I'm telling you, woman...do not touch that trigger."

  Mills raises up a hand, holding up four fingers in a silent countdown. We know the drill the moment he gets to one is our opportunity to act.

  "Stormi!"

  "Remember what I said," I say into the phone to Wade. "We're counting down to three, you hear a shot, you take yours."

  "Done," he deadpans.

  Mills's three fingers turn into two.

  "I got the one behind Marty," I recite to Mills.

  "Stormi," Marty imparts again with defeat in his tone. I extend my arms, hands positioned over the handle of my gun. "Don't...please, baby."

  One finger.

  "You'll always be the best thing that ever happened to me."

  I cock the hammer back on my Glock through Stormi's words, her goodbye, and yank on the trigger. The sound combines with Mills's as a second shot rings out in the house.

  The rustling of bodies fall to the floor.

  One, two, three.

  Mindlessly, I step around Mills and locate Marty on his knees. Then Stormi, staring down at a body on the hardwood floors.

  A black suit runs out of my peripheral as Wade makes his way to Reagan. She's broken down in tears looking at her brother as her husband cups her face lovingly.

  My vision blurs with tears as I stride inside the room, my family safe from harm. I can feel Mills behind me, looking for himself to make sure everyone is secure. His arm wraps around me as he pulls me into his body in silent comfort—for the both of us.

  "Consider the debt repaid for my ex-wife," Wade vouches to Marty as Reagan jumps from her chair and into his arms.

  I groan at another long story that I'll save for a time when I'm not recovering from a mild heart attack.