Page 103 of Rogue Mission
“Do I?” Walton steps aside, gesturing us in. “Come on. Coffee’s hot. I’ll make some food.”
The interior is sparse at best, but lived in. There’s a wood stove, worn furniture, walls lined with filing cabinets and what looks like old radio equipment.
Maps cover one wall, marked with pins and notations I can’t decipher.
Walton pours three mugs of coffee, black and strong, steam rising in lazy spirals in the cool air.
He hands me one, and I take it, grateful for the warmth seeping into my cold fingers.
“So.” Walton settles into a chair that’s seen many better days. “Someone wants the pretty scientist dead. And you want to know who.”
“And where to find them,” Justice adds, lifting his mug for a drink.
“That’s a tall order.”
“You owe me.”
“I do.” Walton takes a long sip, studying us over the rim of his mug. “But the debt doesn’t cover suicide missions. The hitter you’re looking for is not someone you want to find.”
“I don’t care what I want.” Justice carefully places his mug on the table, turning a burning, stark gaze on the man. “I care about keeping her alive.”
“Noble. Stupid, but noble.” Walton sets down his mug.
Stillness falls between us, only the crackle of a low fire as background noise.
Walton finally scrubs his jaw. “All right. I’ll tell you what I know. But first, you need to understand what you’re walking into.”
“Talk.”
Walton leans back, fingers steepled. “The contract came through a broker—high-end, exclusive clientele. No names, no paper trail. But I know the hitter they hired. Goes by Wraith. Former spy, rumored kill count in the triple digits. Specializes in making deaths look like accidents.”
Ice crawls down my spine. The mug in my hand could be two-hundred degrees and my hands would still feel cold.
Justice’s hand finds my shoulder, anchoring me.
“Someone said he’s called Bone Crusher,” Justice says, troubled expression tightening.
“That’s what he does, not his name.”
Oh god. Blood whooshes to my toes. For a beat, I grip the table’s edge, my vision going gray.
Justice immediately notices, his hand gently cupping the back of my neck. “I’ve got you.”
It’s all he says.
My lungs start to work again.
“Where can I find this man?” Justice asks in an eerily quiet tone, his eyes boring into Walton.
“That’s the problem. Only one person knows. Otherwise he’s a ghost in every sense. But there’s a pattern.”
He pushes his mug away, considering something inside his head.
“This is his weakness. Wraith plays a sick game of making contact with a target before the hit. Based on the timeline, that should be happening in the next forty-eight hours.”
Justice’s hand flinches on my neck. “You’re saying the killer’s coming to us?”
“I’m saying the killer’s already close. Maybe watching. Maybe waiting for the right moment to say hello in the grocery store as he squeezes by your cart.”
