Sonata (North Security 3)

“Christ.” That means the corruption in the US government goes higher than we suspected. Most of our missions were classified. We know the dark side of politics. The foreign leader who dies of natural causes in another country. The militia with leaking intelligence. That was our job before we left service and started North Security.

Samantha’s father was a diplomat. His records would have the highest clearance, but Josh is owed enough favors from the people in the State Department to get it.

Information might be redacted or blacked out, but if it’s missing entirely? That means someone at a very high level has tampered with official documents.

That means treason.

Josh crouches low on the rooftop, running his hands through a smattering of pebbles and detritus on the edge. Three indents mark the soft concrete underneath. He gives a low laugh. “You scoped out a five-mile radius, didn’t you? Paranoid motherfucker.”

“It doesn’t matter. We can’t stay here forever.”

“Can’t you? Maybe you can buy a little cottage on the beach. She can weave baskets while you do whatever the fuck it is that men do around here. Get a boat. Fish.”

“Samantha is a violinist.”

“She hasn’t played in weeks. Maybe—”

“Samantha is a violinist.”

He looks away. I know he doesn’t agree with the way I handle her. That makes us even. I don’t agree with the way he handles a goddamn thing. “Whether she plays again or not, you don’t need to follow her around. You definitely don’t need to jump in front of another goddamn bullet.”

“Then we’d better make sure there isn’t another one.” Because there’s no way I’d ever let one touch her pale, soft skin. There are things I won’t do when it comes to her. Leave her. I won’t leave her. I’m feeling the sand run through my fingers. We’re running out of time.

CHAPTER TWO

A study examined the deaths of artists and determined that a musician’s lifespan averages 25 years shorter than the general U.S. population.

Liam

I force myself to study the communication report, but stars blink in front of my eyes. Pain. Low blood pressure. Lack of oxygen. I catalog the physical responses without indulging in emotion. I’ve taken bullets before, but never one that tore this particular path through vital organs. Three months later, and I can barely manage to stand for an hour at a time.

Creaks on the stairs bring Samantha closer. It used to be a kind of peace, having her nearby, listening to her play in the room next to my office. The only peace I’d ever found. Now it’s gone. Her approach spikes my heartbeat. Resentment ripples inside me. I have to force it back, behind a bland façade.

She opens the door, her expression determinedly cheerful. “There you are. I’m going to make sunny side up this morning. And there’s some fresh baguettes to dip the yolk.”

Sunshine. That’s what she looks like. Bright enough to blind me.

I glance down at the yolk in question, which bobs precariously near the floor. Even if there are unharmed eggs in the bag, I’ll probably be served that specific one, replete with dirt and shell, as punishment for making her run. I have to know, though. Have to know that she can spot a tail and lose it.

Or maybe I’m punishing her for choosing this life. The running. The hiding. This is what she picked instead of being in the goddamn spotlight. For you, a low voice murmurs. It sounds like my father. She gave it up to keep me safe, the tour canceled, tickets refunded by the time I could stand. I’m the reason she no longer h

as a bright future, and it’s killing me worse than that bullet.

“I already ate,” I say, pushing my gaze back to the report. It took the Red Team two weeks to put this intel together, and I can’t even focus on it.

A sharp intake of breath as she sees the tray, complete with an omelet and orange juice and sprigs of fresh lavender. “How did you get Madame Tissot to agree to this?”

“I didn’t.” It was the cook I bribed. First with money. Then, when the cook deduced my skillset and arsenal from the maid, she asked for a different payment. Her sister’s husband used his fist to do the talking. And so one night, while Samantha slept in the little twin bed with lace-trimmed sheets, I climbed onto the roof and walked the city. A single bullet.

That’s all it takes to end a life.

Part of me wants to tell Samantha. The perverse part of me.

That’s who you gave up your career for—someone with blood on his hands. A murderer. I killed someone for a goddamn omelet. So that you could have breakfast sent up. And you know what? I’m not even sorry. I’d do it again. Do you want dinner, too? Surely there’s some other sorry soul who needs to sleep.

Except if I do that, she’ll look at me with horror in her soulful eyes.

I’m not ready for that.