Page 57 of Wanting What's Wrong

I look into his eyes, seeing that dangerous fire again. “I know.”

“For me to do what needs to be done, I need to know that you are completely safe.”

I nod, pushing my trembling lips together to keep the tears at bay. But it’s no use. I am a mess of tears and sobs. This isn’t about punishing a schoolyard bully; this is about life. And death. “That’s why I didn’t tell you before. When you were away.”

“Stop that. Stop it. Shhh. I know,” he says, calmly and firmly. Not angry now. Just pureTrent.“I fucking get it. But now I’m home. And now you’ve told me. You did great, baby girl.”

Did I? All those terrified nights. All those secrets. All those Skype calls when I told him I was fine, everything was fine, when it was just the opposite. I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself for keeping so many secrets from him for so long.

“Did I?”

The look in his eyes, it’s both pride and lust. “You did perfectly. But now it’s time to let Daddy do his job. Because there is no universe in which someone threatens you and lives, we clear?”

My belly tightens and my heart pounds. “I know,” I whisper through a sob. “I’ve always known.”

Twenty-Two

Trent

Wearing civvies and carrying my McMillan Tac-50 rifle in my backpack, I have Edward drop me off in front of a nine-story bank building downtown.

I give the security guard a nod, like I know him, and head for the elevators. Nobody gives me a second fucking look. All the time, I’m scoping out my surroundings. Assessing threats. Doing my fucking job. But this time, doing it for the one I love.

The only woman that will ever matter to me in the world. The one who gives me purpose. Peace. Meaning itself.

She didn’t fucking like it, me coming down here, doing this. But she knew it was necessary. For her. For me. For us. And though she cried her eyes out, she didn’t fight me.

Not that I’d have changed my fucking mind even if she had.

Because nobody hurts my family and survives. Nobody threatens her and lives to tell about it.

Nobody.

The elevator opens on the top floor and I step out, with a brand new phone I bought on the way over here in hand, looking just like another fucking financial planner in a sea of guys dressed like me. But when they all head to their nine-to-fives after lunch, I head for the staircase that goes up to the roof.

I scan the stairway for security cameras but see none. God bless this fucking country. So fucking innocent still. So fucking naïve.

I check the door for any alarm, but there isn’t any. So fucking far, so fucking good.

On the roof now, flat and coated with gravel-covered tar. My dress shoes crunch underfoot. That sound is as powerful as a fucking IED explosion. Just like that, I’m back in the white-hot sun, making heat snakes everywhere. I don’t mind this flashback. Not a fucking bit. Because then, just like now, it was my job to rid the word of evil.

And I’m fucking good at my job.

I pick a spot pointing west, toward where Luke pinpointed Rominovski’s main office. On my stomach now, I unpack my McMillan, doing what I’ve done a thousand times.

I position my bag underneath my chest and adjust the scope. In the sight, the target area comes into focus, exactly .59 miles away from me now, due east. It’s a long shot, but doable. Totally fucking doable. For her? Anything.

On the far end of the parking lot are three big piles of gravel. A dump truck rumbles into the lot, sending up dust, screwing with my line of sight. Rominovski’s business front is hauling and materials; as shady as they fucking come.

The dust settles and right between the crosshairs, I see it. That black fucking Mercedes, double-parked on the far end of the lot.

My body knows what to do automatically now. So I slow my breathing. Calm my nerves. Focus my vision.

And wait.

It’s sundown and the sun is at my back now. I haven’t moved in hours, but I’m still just as laser focused as when I got here. Even more now, because now it’s closing time. And Rominovski’s time is officially up.

A secretary leaves, then a couple of guys in hard hats, then some fucking slick-ass guy who looks like he was born to cook the books.

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