Page 33 of Enemy of the State

I will be, since she’s expected to die in less than four months.That thought sobers me up faster than a drunk driver being pulled over by the cops, and I step back from her lithe form. She blinks at me a few times as I retreat and rub a hand down my masked face, still able to smell her on my fingers, even through the fabric of my mask.

Snatching the fresh uniform, medical tape, and nail clippers from the bin, I carry them over to her, freeing her ankles from the restraints. I help her don the black pants before freeing her wrists from the chains.

Aware of the danger I’m creating by freeing her hands and feet, but for some reason, I’m not concerned. I probably should be, but if she wanted to slip my Glock free and land a round to my chest, shewould’ve done so already. She sure had the opportunity to maim me when my dick was out, yet she didn’t take it.Why?

I tug the uniform top over her head, and once she’s redressed, I reach for her hand, her gaze wary as I tear off a long piece of medical tape, attempting to rudimentarily splint her broken fingers. I could spend hours, days,yearsanalyzing the care I provide her, but I don’t know if I’d like the answer, so I don’t.

Daring to sink to my knees before her, I tap her ankle twice in a silent directive for her to lift it. Glancing up at her, I find her staring down at me before slowly lifting her left foot.

I’ve never been a foot guy—and I’m still not—but there’s something I deeply appreciate about Louhi’s delicate bone structure. Cupping her arched foot in my hands reminds me just how feminine she is.

Lifting the nail clippers, I begin trimming her toenails—at least the ones that are still attached. I didn’t anticipate doing this, but something about seeing her once black-painted toenails so long and unruly irked me.

When something grazes the top of my head, I bristle. My whole-body freezes, going rigid as I hold my breath, anticipating her next move. Though I’m still wearing the fitted mask, I can practically feel her nails gently scraping through my short, cropped hair, and I wish, not for the first time, that the stupid fucking barrier wasn’t between us. Although, neither of us makes a move to remove it, and I’m grateful for that. Fuck knows, I’ve had enough intimacy for one day.

Her hand remains on my head as I finish grooming her. When I finally tilt my head back, our eyes clash, and the intensity in her burning gaze tugs the tension between us taut.

Several beats pass and neither of us moves. Eventually, Lou slides her hand from my crown down my face, exploring my features with the gentle pads of her fingers, as if she were blind and aching to discover what I looked like. In some ways, she is.

The oxygen in the room seems to evaporate, and I hold my breath as she cautiously runs her fingers over the bridge of my nose—can she tell it’s been broken a few times?—and over the hollows of my cheeks before brushing her fingertips along my jawline. Her index finger trails over the seam of my mouth, and I glue my eyes to her, yearning to read her inner thoughts. The invisible mask she wears so well is firmly in place, so I don’t find what I’m looking for within those dark brown eyes of hers.

When her hand slithers back to her side, I ask hesitantly, “Will you answer some of my questions?”

I don’t know why I even tried, but I obviously just hacked into our bubble with a hatchet. Regret fills me as her face hardens to stone. “No.”

Sighing, I sit back on my haunches, holding her attention. “Lou, you have to work with me so I can help you.”

She laughs, a hearty real one. I know because the lines at the corners of her eyes crinkle, the sound filled with authentic amusement. Feeling the need to be on an even playing field with her, I climb to my feet. A foot and some loose change shorter than me, she tilts her head back as she smiles, the expression dripping with danger and something else.Regret? Wistfulness?

Her English accent sounds slightly more pronounced as she explains, “The list of people who could help me is very,veryshort, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re not on it.”

The sincerity within her words doesn’t do anything to lessen the bruising blow. Of course, what she’s saying is nothing but the truth. WhywouldI be on that list? Despite my offer, I’m not entirely sure what I’d do to “help” her either. Probably just give her a swift death, instead of drawing it out the way I usually would.

In light of the fact that I’m not on hershort list, I have a suspicion I might know who is, and to verify that, I need Jace to come through with that file.

Sean

The minute the chopper landed this afternoon, I met Jace at the helipad on the other end of the island and brought him back in the ancient utility vehicle. We went straight to the rooftop, sinking into the two chairs next to each other. The roof and playpen are the only places in this dimension of hell where cameras aren’t found. The camera in the playpen doesn’t even work, despite the fake recorder I’ve got set up in the corner. Major Thompson insisted we disable it so there’s no proof of the depravity that exists here, though I elected not to tell any of the guys on base that it doesn’t work outside of Jace.

Sounds of the violent, angry waves crashing against the cliffs below us and seagulls cawing in the distance mostly drown out our voices, but we keep them low, nonetheless.

“Have you looked at it?” I ask him, flipping through the file in my hands.

“I skimmed a few parts, but it doesn’t seem like much is there. Mercer Koskinen is your run-of-the-mill assassin. Nothing special.”

Five years ago, I would’ve scoffed at how casually he talks about an assassin. “What are the odds that both brother and sister are international criminals?”

He shrugs. “I’d say pretty good, considering how high up their father was in the Bratva.”

I arch an eyebrow. “The Russian mafia?”

“One and the same. Makes you wonder what their family dinners were like. Seems like Lou and Mercer kept the family business alive after their parents died.” He touches his cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag and letting it out as gray smoke clouds the space between us.

“The family business ofmurder?”

“Yup.”

This is getting too sticky for my taste, but as I turn the next page, I ask, “What’s his kill count?”

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