The CIA was still looking for me, and the people who had taken my family were still out there.
The CIA didn’t enjoy it when their top-secret operatives dropped off the face of the planet. They didn’t like it when they couldn't control the future lives of people like me, people who held secrets that could overturn powerful people in office.
There were things I knew about this country and its darkest secrets that the Agency would stop at nothing to keep quiet.
They didn’t simply allow people to quit without repercussions, without the proper debriefing and mind-wiping tactics. They didn’t allow people to walk away like I had, disappearing without a trace and staying on the run. I was their best special agent, the one they went to when operations were going south.
I had been good at everything.
Combat. Psychological warfare.
Weapons and bomb-making.
I could fuse and defuse with the best of them before fighting my way out with my bare hands. I could take on ten men at once and leave them all unconscious without breaking a sweat.
Men like me didn’t walk away without consequences.
But I had.
I wasn’t going to sell out my country, but I was a man who could no longer be trusted. In their eyes, I was as good as AWOL despite the fact that I’d quit. Coupling that with the criminal group whose operation I hadn’t wrapped up yet meant association with me was deadly.
No matter what form it came in.
I ran my hand over the dent in my truck again and sighed. I’d worked on this truck with Kason all the time, taught him all the parts of a car and how they worked and came apart. This was our personal project, our restoration, and I hadn’t touched it since he died.
My cell phone woke me from my trance, and I pulled it out of my pocket. It was the mechanic shop calling, informing me that I’d gotten the job. I knew I should’ve been happy, but I wasn’t. They paid under the table, which meant no official paperwork, but it also meant having to interact with people. At least, my interactions would be limited to co-workers and I’d never have to speak to a customer.
My mind rushed to my neighbor and our encounter yesterday, and I remembered how damaged her car was. All I had to do was pop out a dent and smooth over the small scratches, but hers was a completely different job. And with her having to drive a child around in that thing, it wasn't nearly the safest option for them.
I wondered if she’d let me fix it, at least get it back to the condition it was in before she’d ran into me.
It wasn’t my damn problem.
But she had a daughter.
The last thing I needed was more kids dying because of me.
I got to work on the dent in the truck before I heard footsteps. I looked up from underneath the hood of the car and saw the mailman walking away. I furrowed my brow and walked out of the garage, wondering why the hell he had walked all the way up to my porch.
There was a package on my doorstep, and I froze.
I was long and rectangular, and it could’ve been anything. A bomb. Tear gas. A box rigged to blow something in my face once I opened it. I mindlessly reached for the gun on my hip as I moved toward the package slowly and steadily, in case something inside could be triggered by motion.
But when my eyes landed on the delivery sticker, I groaned with frustration.
It was a package meant for my damn neighbor.
Picking it up, I hauled it across the lawn. I walked up the porch, knocked on the door, and set the package down. I turned to walk away but the door flung open, and I bit back a groan.
Shit.
“Hello?”
I turned around at the soft voice of my neighbor and I tried to bury my shock.
I was too outraged to see clearly the day she ran into my car, but today I saw her features unmistakably. She was absolutely gorgeous.
She starred at me with her dark green eyes. Her auburn hair was piled on top of her head, and her cheeks were flushed with a healthy glow. I could hear her little girl giggling behind her, calling out breathlessly for her mother to come back and play.