33
Kane
A Man Will Die
Ihang out on my park bench for two hours after Jess’ angry texts stop. Two hours of wishing she’d keep spewing anger at me just so I could feel her. Two hours of lying in the dark and waiting for Graham.
I could’ve gone to him. I know his name now, and since he has letters on the front of the fancy building, too, it takes no more than a minute to look him up on my cell and find his address.
But I don’t move.
I need a plan, because even a guy going off script needs something more than kicking a front door in and scaring the prick with his pants down.
So I watch the real estate instead, and I stare at my black screen like it’s her ocean blue eyes.
Jess loves me, the stupid fucking danger magnet. She loves me.
She has absolutely no idea how to keep herself alive. No idea how to be safe.
She’s off script, too.
Not only is she an unplanned side trip, but she’s thenewscript. I came to this town eighteen months ago with a fresh ID, a fabricated record that cites seven stretches in county jail ranging from single overnights to sixty days, one single thirty day stretch in a cocaine rehab center, and years of target practice proof at the local firing range.
None of it’s true except the sniper level accuracy.
But now that I’ve gone out on my own, now that I’ve ignored calls from the brass and told Eric to stop calling unless it’s to tell me he’s found Jay, I’m pretty sure I’ve become a legitimate criminal.
Just like Jess thinks.
Working deep undercover inside a filthy club for a year and a half wears on a guy. It drags you down to where you’re not sure you’re undercover anymore, or if that’s just the new you. The things you do, the drugs you consume, the women you fuck; it all starts out as a cover.
I couldn’t not do those things, or Abel would have killed me.
But eventually, you stop caring so much that the woman in front of you is a whore. Or worse, not willing. You stop caring that you’re not a user, because the high you get feels pretty fucking good. You stop caring about the people you kill, because they’re bad people anyway.
I joined the force nine years ago and pledged my life to serve and protect. To never do any harm. To bring criminals in and let the legal system sort them out.
But somewhere around my third or fourth month under Abel Hayes’ watch, I became judge, jury, and executioner.
And I fuckin’ reveled in it, because as an undercover agent under the protection of the ATF, it wasn’t murder. It was my job;do whatever you have to do to keep your cover.
I took that permission and I fucking flew with it.
Almost a decade of putting assholes behind bars, only for a criminal defense attorney to get them off again. I had permission etched into gold to deal with it on the spot. There would be no DA. There would be no trial. And there would be one less murderer on the street.
I’ll never be questioned for it. Never tried. I won’t have to look for a DA to plead my case.
Because it’s all sanctioned underdo whatever you have to do to keep your cover.
Killing Lance wasn’t something I had to do to keep Abel’s faith.
The opposite, in fact. Killing him nearly blew everything.
But I had to protect her. I was drawn to protect her. She’s mine, and until my dying breath, I’ll be standing in her shadows and sweeping in to take care of her.
That includes dealing with Graham – though this one won’t be sanctioned. If I lay under this parka and execute him in the street, I’ll be tried as a citizen. I’ll be put away for so much longer, because of my training.
But I can’t let him do what he did and not pay for it.