by Anna Edwards
“You need to relax more, Jill,” I said, smiling. I brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, feigning the part of attentive lover, and pressed my lips to her cheek and then to her ear. “Remember where we are—who we are—and why we’re here. Calm down. And play along.” My lips met her temple before I pulled away, my act complete. Everyone around us would assume I’d silenced a little lovers’ spat with a kiss and whispered an apology in her ear. Nothing exciting, thereby pulling their attention away from us and onto our surroundings once more.
Jillian said nothing, her body still angled toward mine, her hand clutching her untouched drink. I ignored her in favor of studying the party below. Our CEO had left the bar, his whereabouts unknown, while a group of his employees socialized on the other side of the room.
The dossier listed eleven names.
I counted nine in that cluster.
Where are the other two?
The impressive hotel ballroom held very few hiding spaces. Everything was open, the lights downcast yet shining over every inch of the room, and all the walls were glowing from the projection images.
Nothing suspicious or untoward, and those two employees were definitely missing.
“We should wander,” I suggested, setting my drink on the ledge.
“Okay.” Jillian set her cup beside mine.
Note to self: Don’t buy Jillian a drink in the future. She’ll waste it.
Also note to self: Stop thinking about impossible futures. You’re the Enforcer, not someone who dates.
I led the way, Jillian at my side. We’d hit the lower level first, do a little wandering and socializing, then—
My pocket buzzed, causing me to pause midstride. I patted my pants, frowning. “Crap. I think I left my wallet at the bar.”
Jillian glanced up at me, her brow creased. “What?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I glanced around as if looking for a place for her to wait, taking in all the faces near us.
None of them were employees of Owlburn Industries.
Frowning, I said, “Not a lot of standing room here. Mind coming back with me?”
She must have caught on that I was up to something because she replied with a quick “Sure.”
The device stopped vibrating almost immediately as I maneuvered back to where we stood before at the balcony, near the upstairs bar. Since no one had detected my mishap near the top of the stairs, I didn’t bother with making a show of searching for my wallet. Instead I leaned into Jillian. “Your toy just buzzed against my thigh.”
Her head came up so fast she almost bumped my chin. With a casualness I admired, she took in the space we’d just walked through and turned back to me with a frown that matched my thoughts.
She didn’t recognize any of them.
Right.
Plan B.
“Let’s take a selfie,” I suggested, pulling my phone from my opposite pocket. I lifted it and took a few shots while pretending to figure out the camera, then moved to her side to feign taking a photo of us while artfully angling it over our heads and at the space behind us. The dim lighting made it difficult to capture all the faces. “We should take some of the decorations as well, send them to Dan. You know how much he loves comics.”
Jillian nodded, understanding bright in her gaze. “Yeah, he’ll be jealous.”
“Yep.” Whiskey’s real name was Daniel Jackson. It sounded a lot like Jack Daniel’s, hence the nickname. We walked slowly toward the top of the stairs, and I pretended to take photos along the way of Jillian with the ballroom behind her. But I tilted the lens to capture every face around us, the device in my pocket buzzing like crazy again. It stopped as we descended the stairs. No one seemed aware of our actions, everyone too caught up with their drinks and chatting to notice.
Which made no sense.
If someone was exchanging private company information, they’d at least show an inkling of clandestine behavior.
Yet, none of them read as guilty. Maybe he didn’t feel bad for trading industry secrets? Or had it been the receiver of the information waiting for his contact to arrive from Owlburn?
“Let’s stay nearby, hang out at the bar down here.” I gestured to the one closest to the bottom of the stairs. “We can people-watch.”
“Yeah, sounds good. You should send those pictures to Dan now so I can see his reply.”
I smirked. “Definitely. I’m sure he’ll be entertained.”
She chose the perfect spot, giving us a view of the room and the stairs.
When she ordered us two drinks, I cocked a brow at her. “And who is paying for that?”
“Me. I’ll charge it to the room. Since you lost your wallet and all, right?”
I chuckled, amused that she actually made a joke. “Yeah, totally did.” It was in my back pocket. I sent a text off to Whiskey while she covered our drinks, telling him we needed identities on everyone in the photos, then hit Send on the collection. He responded in seconds, saying he’d be in touch in an hour. “I’m guessing he’s getting the kids ready for bed,” I said, talking in code to my partner. Whiskey definitely didn’t have children, but it was about that time on the East Coast. “I’m sure he’ll respond in about an hour.” It was my subtle way of conveying the timeline to her.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she replied. “I guess we’ll—”
A scream rent the air behind us, sending me to my feet.
Another ear-piercing shriek followed as a female burst through the doors, blood coating her hands. “Help!” she shouted, tears streaking down her face.
Jillian started toward her, but I pulled her back. Yes, we were trained to react. But not in cases like this.
Joining a scene with blood usually resulted in cops.
And cops asked questions.
We couldn’t afford to answer those questions in our line of work.
Alliance of Black Ops Operatives was a private organization. Government officials hired us all the time, but only for cases where they wanted someone unaffiliated with a certain agency to take care of an issue. High-profile companies hired us as well, such as Owlburn Industries.
Which meant we were here under aliases, ones cops might see through if they asked too many questions.
Chaos ensued around us, several people running out the door to help the woman—which meant they were going to gawk at whatever had painted that blood on her hands.
“Gideon,” she whispered urgently, trying to tug out of my grasp.
“Remember your cover.” The words were a breath against her ear. “We can’t help.”
She went rigid, her gaze finally finding mine just as more shouts trickled through the air. The music ceased, and the lights went to full force as people ran around. Flashes came from the hallway, people taking photos of the incident. It would be on social media any second now, making our work cut out for us.
Humans were curious fuckers. They loved to gawk and share gruesome tales, even when they pretended to fear them. It was what the media catered to, and this was no different.
I waited two minutes before pulling out my phone and opening the app I knew would be targeted first.
All it took was a search of our location, and there it was, a photo depicting chaos.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
Not because of the bloody mess portrayed on my screen. I’d seen much worse carnage than a blade to the throat.
No. It was the face staring lifelessly up in the image that had me cursing.
Because it belonged to Richard Owlburn.
Our client.
“Looks like we’ll be working together on a much more serious assignment, Jill,” I said softly.
She’d been so preoccupied with people-watching that she hadn’t caught the photo on my phone. “What do you mean?” she asked, barely paying me a glance.
I showed her the screen. “Good thing we’re sharing a room.” Because we had a hell of a lot more things to discuss. Starting with how to get our hands on the hotel video footage.
<
br /> “Oh, shit,” she breathed.
“Yeah, that about sums it up.”
I sent the link to Whiskey, adding a note about ensuring our aliases were airtight because this conference was about to be overrun by cops. And they’d want every identity in this room.
This case? Yeah, it’d just turned into a nightmare. And if anyone realized we weren’t supposed to be here, we’d be the key suspects in a murder investigation. Proof or not, the cops didn’t take lightly to rogue agents playing around crime scenes.
So much for Dawson handing us an easy case.
Well, at least I was officially off office duty. Because the image indicated a professional hit, meaning I had no choice but to go back on active duty now.
And there wasn’t a damn thing the physicians could do to stop me.
My lips curled. Ready or not, the Enforcer’s back, and it’s time to play. My way.
Dear Reader,
When I embarked on this journey, I didn’t realize how much Chase and Jillian had to say until it was too late. Their story will continue in winter 2019 as Book One of the ABS Operatives Series. And their novel will be a standalone. I promise. This is only their beginning <3
Cheers,
Lexi C. Foss
About Lexi C Foss
USA Today Bestselling Author
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Chapter One
Will
The first thing we do when we’re born is breathe. It’s something we all take for granted, and the most natural thing in the world. Breathing in and out should be simple, right? Wrong. It’s never been that simple for me, and it never will be. Each day is a struggle; the medication I take is just another part of the morning routine, which everyone else goes about without hassle. Most nights, I’m lucky to make it through without waking up in pitch black darkness and gasping for fucking oxygen.
I need my medicine to function like a normal person, and without it I’m nothing more than a fucking, wheezing asshole, suffocating with my faulty lungs. I’m past the point of wishing things were different, and that I wasn’t constantly impeded by this condition. Recently my breathing started improving and getting more manageable; a change that can no doubt be attributed to the adjustment of the inhalers I’ve been using since I was a child. A higher dose and a different brand, but it seems to be working better than the last medication.
Stepping out into the frigid air is a shock to the system, and I can already feel my chest tightening in protest. Pushing past it, I make my way down the street to the pharmacy to renew my prescription. I detest the constant reliance I have on these inhalers, but I’d rather breathe oxygen than choke on it like I used to.
Passing the familiar streets and shops, I keep my head down and ignore all the people walking by. I don’t like the way people treat me when they know I have asthma. It’s a fucking lung condition, not a contagious disease, and it doesn’t make me a lesser man. I may be limited in a way others aren’t, but I’m not incapable, and I’m not weak.
Standing in line, I wait for my turn, tapping my foot lightly on the linoleum floor. I hate coming here, especially with my former high school bully working behind the counter. It’s always awkward, and the air is thick with tension and unspoken words the entire time. It’s been that way ever since I broke his nose for constantly ripping into me at school in front of all his jock friends:
“You’re so pathetic, Will. Of all the things you could suck at, it’s breathing. Loser!” Parker taunts, shoving me into the metal lockers in the changing rooms.
Having asthma doesn’t make me a loser, and if I could change just one thing about myself, then that would be it. Laughter rings out from the group of boys who’ve stopped to watch, and I can feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Every time we have gym class I have to go through this because my mom emails a note excusing me from participation even when I beg her not to. I’m not fucking ‘delicate’, and I hate being treated like glass all because I have asthma.
Parker invades my space, puffing out air in my face. I hate him. Something in me snaps, and I slam my head forward into his. The sickening crunch followed by his yell of pain as blood explodes from his nose over the both of us is as much of a surprise to me as it is to him.
Thankfully, there’s a new employee working today, and she checks my prescription against the array of medicines stacked on the shelf behind her before verifying it with the pharmacist. It’s an almost painful effort having to bite back the irritated sigh wanting to escape at the length of time this is taking.
The young woman smiles brightly at me when she hands me the bag containing my prescription with a cheerful, “Here you are Mr. Taylor.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, attempting to smile back at her before I make an abrupt turn and head for the door.
Clutching the bag in my hand, I exit the pharmacy. In my haste and effort to avoid meeting people’s eyes, I bump into someone right after the automatic doors close behind me. Mumbling an apology, I move to continue on my way, however, I’m halted by a firm grip on my upper arm. Pulling my arm away, I spin around to glare at the stranger. But as I do, I’m met by a a pair of the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen looking back at me, and my breath catches in a way that’s completely unrelated to my medical condition.
I exhale sharply with my breath fogging out in front of me. I’m caught in their gaze and rendered temporarily immobile. I clench my teeth together as I fight the urge to shudder from the way they seem to look straight into the fucking depths of my soul. The cold air makes my teeth chatter, and I shiver anyway. I stumble backward a step, quickly turn on my heels, and walk away, fighting the urge to turn and meet the eyes I can still feel on my back as I depart.
Getting to the corner of the street, the prickle of tension from being watched settles on my skin, and I can no longer resist temptation. As I turn the corner, I angle my head just enough to look behind me. Our eyes meet again, and I watch his lips twist up into a devilish grin. Quickly averting my gaze, I continue to make my way home, not wanting to think about what just passed between us.
I don’t meet people, I don’t talk to people, and I don’t fucking like people. People, in my experience, are assholes, and I don’t need any more of those judging me. Who gives a fuck if he made my stomach twist with a feeling I’ve not had in a long time? It doesn’t fucking matter, though, my attempts to squash all thoughts of him are fruitless. I kick myself for dwelling on his piercing blue eyes and short, messy blond hair, tousled by the chilly winter breeze.
My chest tightens, and my breath escapes in wheezy gasps in the cold air, puffing out in visible wisps. By the time I finally make it to the front steps of my apartment building, I’m fucking suffocating in my own body. Sinking down onto the icy bottom step, I rummage through the bag for the blue inhaler which will open up my airways.
When my cold fingers close around the device, I pull it out and shake the medicine inside before placing the mouthpiece between my lips. I press down on the aerosol to release the compressed medicine while slowly breathing it in deeply, as best I can, and then holding my breath for a count of ten. Repeating the action, I spend a few moments waiting for it to kick in fully although it grants some relief almost instantaneously.
This wasn’t the best place to stop and use it, but sometimes an attack can come out of nowhere. At this time of year when the temperatures are low and the air is almost constantly damp, it plays havoc with my system. A low, husky voice draws my attention, and I look up to see the guy I rammed into a short while ago staring down at me with a mixture of curiosity and concern on his face.
“Are you ok?” he asks, and I nod before quickly trying to stow the inhaler in my pocket, out of sight.
“Fine,” I answer shortly as I’m still a bit breathless from the sudden attack.
His eyebrows pinch together, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but I’m not about to admit to a total stranger why I’m perched on an icy step practically gasping for breath, on a winter’s morning.
I get to my feet, and a rush of lightheadedness overtakes me, making me sway. Before I can retake my improvised seat he reaches out and steadies me with a hand on my shoulder.
“Thanks,” I mumble begrudgingly, feeling embarrassed at being seen like this.
I’m normally a lot more careful. It’s been a long time since I’ve had an attack so publicly, and it’s thrown me off more than I expected. This was more severe than some I've had previously, but not the worst I’ve ever had to deal with. I should be thankful for small mercies.
“Do you want to come with me for a coffee? You’re looking a little pale,” the stranger observes, and I shake my head.
The bitter taste sitting on my tongue from the medicine reminds me I need to rinse my mouth out, but I don’t want to go for a coffee with him. I need to go inside and get out of this cold air before I’m overcome with yet another attack. Even with the medication, it’s not impossible to have them in succession.
Thankfully, that doesn’t happen to me often, not since I switched brands anyway. The previous brown inhaler I was prescribed only made my asthma worse. After using that inhaler, which was supposed to prevent the attacks from happening, I was immediately having to use my blue inhaler, meant for relieving attacks, to alleviate the symptoms aggravated by the brown one.
I’m not sure what was in that shit, but I spent six months avoiding using the damn thing, because then at least I wasn’t suffering so much. I probably should have visited my nurse at the clinic to discuss a change of medication, but I thought I’d be fine as I was. Needless to say, when it was time for my bi-yearly check-up, she wasn’t impressed to learn I’d been skipping the doses.
