Page 49 of Isaac

"Do you see boss?" Marco whispers.

"Yeah, I see him," I reply without turning my head to Marco.

My eyes are playing SWAT analysis and the verdict?

We're waist-deep in shit.

One of the bikers is rounding the vehicle behind which Isaac is hiding and the biker’s intent is clear. I notice the deadly wink of his gun under the saffron sun and before my brain calculates all the reasons why I shouldn’t do what I do next, I elbow Marco with a curt, "Cover me, man!" and bolt out, aiming for the biker’s thigh. Killing him is a cake I don’t want on my plate but damned if I'll let him drill Isaac Thoreau into Swiss cheese either. The guy's key to wrapping this mission with a neat bow—without him breathing, we’re done for.

These thoughts fracture lightning-fast all around me just as my body shoves itself next to Thoreau.

The Glock in my hand feels heavy as I lock eyes on another biker cruising over. He circles the SUV to get a better angle and fires first. The air stirs all around us.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Take aim.

Squeeze the trigger.

Boom.

The biker crumples like a paper doll to the asphalt, his bike skidding away from him, wheels screaming against the gritty surface.

He’s not dead, just hurt a little. He’ll be fine. I know where to shoot not to kill.

My head snaps instinctively toward Isaac sitting behind me, slumped against our vehicle's metal shell.

Panic grips me.

Crimson splatters stain his pale neck and clothes and he’s breathing hard. Still on my knees, I surge forward and paw at his chest, frantically searching for the source of blood. The injury. My touch is desperate when I yank his shirt open. I just want to ensure he's okay. My target can’t die now that I have a shit load of good intel for Nicole. It would be inconveniently messy for the Bureau.

My heart is pounding and white noise in my ears that’s my pulse drowns out everything else.

And then I hear it. "Get off me!" Isaac snarls, shoving me away with surprising force that sends me tumbling onto hard ground. His eyes blaze with a mixture of anger and pain, and I'm taken aback by the intensity of his reaction. "Don't you ever fucking touch me without my permission," he grinds out through gritted teeth.

My hands hover in the air between us, confusion clouding my mind. "I was just trying to make sure you’re not fucking shot!" I growl back at him, adrenaline in me reached its highest point. I can hardly feel anything. My body has been in war mode ever since the first bullet was released.

Isaac opens his mouth but doesn’t get a chance to say anything.

"Enough!" Jeremy interjects sharply. I don’t know where he came from but he’s suddenly all up in my face as he shoves himself between Isaac and me and waves his gun in front of my nose. "Watch what you're doing, asshole." There’s a dangerous edge to his voice and I know better not to push.

Instead, I draw in a deep breath, my jaw clenched, eyes locked with his. My Glock is on the ground—where I stupidly left it when I was trying to make sure Isaac wasn’t going to bleed to death and I have no way of reaching it without Jeremy ending me right there and then.

"Shit, man," Marco’s voice thunders somewhere behind me. "Fucker’s got you."

I turn my head toward him, only now realizing the gunfire is no more. We are alone in the parking lot and pain flares in my left arm, searing and insistent. Everything in front of my eyes is swimming.

I drop my gaze to the source of that pain and see an angry red blob right above my elbow and a generous trickle of red spills down my forearm and onto the ground.

The adrenaline that has been coursing through my veins begins to ebb, leaving behind a heavy exhaustion.

"Shit," I mutter. I attempt to rise, but gravity pulls at my knees. They kiss the ground instead. Pain, sharp and urgent, claws through every nerve, threatening to swallow my consciousness whole.

My eyes pan over the wreckage surrounding us; it's a depiction of flawed human ambition sprayed across the pavement like modern art.

The air thick with tension presses against me as if it has weight. The scent of burnt gunpowder punches up my nostrils—a harsh reminder of violence just dealt. I press my uninjuredhand against my injured arm, feeling the warm stickiness of blood seeping through my fingers.

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