Page 4 of Braxton

She was the Cardinal, the best fucking assassin in the world. Well, definitely in the top three, anyway.

Considering her background, it was to be expected. The CIA had taught her everything she needed to know—how to hunt, how to kill and how to take down her enemies. Most importantly, how to do it all with zero regret.

Then they’d fucked her over. Branded her a traitor. And, well, after that, everything changed.

Pulling her balaclava up to cover everything but her eyes, she crouched down and glanced out at the street from her perch in the northwest corner of the garage. Maybe they’d come, maybe they wouldn’t, but she was willing to bet they couldn’t resist a chance at a lead. From what The Agency had told her, and from her own personal research, she knew this would be a tough group to take out.

Ryland “Rip” Mills and Grayson “Demon” Ellis were former Navy SEALs. Same with Zane “Banshee” Hawkins, even though he’d moved to the intel side of things and was an excellent hacker. Inda “Bruja” Diaz, their lone female operator, was former Army and a Krav Maga expert. Apparently quite persuasive, too, since she’d convinced Lucas “Cipher” Sheridan to turn on The Agency and join ranks with Ex Nihilo. Then there was Nik “Saint” Valentine, a former Russian spy and alleged member of the Bratva.

And, of course, she couldn’t forget their fearless leader, Braxton “Pharaoh” Graves. The former Delta Force commander was intense, relentless, and always put the mission first and foremost.

She knew that better than anyone.

Gritting her teeth, she hissed out a breath and shifted her weight from one booted foot to the other. Maybe instead of killing their pain in the ass leader, she should kidnap and torture him a little. It would be so much more satisfying than simply granting him a quick death. After all the hell he’d put her through, she figured she owed him a little pain.

Quinn liked having options, so maybe…

It depended on how magnanimous she was feeling.

A lone figure walking up the sidewalk caught her attention and she straightened up. She’d recognize that long-legged gait anywhere. Tall with a slim, athletic build and slicked-back brown hair, Braxton Graves stopped in front of the parking garage, hands on his hips, and studied it.

She hated when he slicked his hair back like that, preferring the soft curls he kept hidden more often than not.

For a shocked moment, she thought he saw her, but then he disappeared into the shadows, stealthily moving around the three-story structure, no doubt planning to sneak in through the back and sweep each floor like the good little operator he was. He’d always played by the rules and should’ve been a fucking Boy Scout.

Feeling the urge for a little cat and mousery, Quinn stood up, dusted her hands off on the back of her black leather pants and grinned. If it was just Braxton then why the hell not?

It had been a long time since she’d had some fun with him.

???

Braxton stepped through the parking garage’s back entrance, gun tucked close to his body as he surveyed the area for anyone suspicious. But it was eerily quiet. Several dim light bulbs illuminated the place and the first floor was packed with parked cars. Most likely tenants from nearby apartment buildings who paid monthly rent, he surmised. Parking in the city sucked and they probably paid a fortune.

Creeping forward between parked cars, he scanned the surrounding area. Silent as a tomb. He briefly wondered if he was in the wrong spot. But, no. The message had said 222 ElmStreet. Somebody was playing with him, and he wanted to know who.

He spotted the elevator, noting there were three levels. So far, the ground floor seemed quiet enough, so maybe whoever had messaged him was on the second or third floor. As he considered his options, a sound snagged his attention. Spinning, he lifted his weapon, sweeping it past cars, searching for the source.

It sounded like someone had kicked a rock.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and some weird sixth sense made him pause. He was beginning to feel like the proverbial mouse and had the distinct impression a cat lurked in the nearby shadows. And, goddammit, he hated games.

“Who’s there?” he called out. Silence. “You texted me. If you aren’t going to reveal yourself, I’m outta here.”

A stone came flying from the right and pinged off his boot. Brax turned his attention in the direction it came from and stalked forward. A shadow darted between cars, and he took off running after it.

When he reached the spot where he’d caught sight of the shadow, he instantly froze. The sultry scent of jasmine filled his nose. Unbidden images of flaming red hair and sage green eyes assaulted him. Only one woman smelled like honey-dipped jasmine.

Quinn.

Mind reeling, totally confused, Brax lifted his Glock, squinting into the gloom ahead. It couldn’t be her.

Could it?

Determined to find out, he hurried forward, staying low, not making a target of himself. When he reached the end of the row of cars, he paused to assess his position. Another rock skipped across the pavement and stopped less than a foot in front of him. It had come from the left this time and he pivoted.

On high alert, he dropped down to the ground and peered beneath the parked vehicles. His gaze scanned the gloom and caught on a pair of slim boots as the wearer bolted from the spot. His little game player was making his orherway through the maze of cars across the aisle, moving deeper into the garage. Almost as though she were trying to lure him somewhere.

Too smart to fall for that shit, he backed up and started circling around the other way, planning to meet her from the other side. Because, yeah, his gut screamed it was a woman toying with him. And while he had his suspicions it was one particular woman, he couldn’t say it with any certainty. Yet. But he was going to find out.

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