Lucifer's Beginning (The Lucifer's Trilogy)

CHAPTER ONE

Ana

My head is killing me, which is probably because I spent the evening dishonoring my FBI badge by listening in while a senator entertained his side chick. How is this my job? Why is this my job? At twenty-six, and with three years on the job, somehow, this is not the dream anymore. Meanwhile, my partner, Darius, laughed his way through the “show” and stuffed his face with French fries with zero concern as to what was going on inside the agency we work for. Or the fact that Senator Pike is an asshole, but from what we’ve both seen over the past three months, he’s not breaking the law, just his marriage. Why are we even monitoring him? Obviously, someone knows something I’m not privy to, which is all too often the case.

I pull into the parking lot of the convenience store near my house with the intent of grabbing something for my headache. Once I’ve parked near the door, I step outside into the chilly night. Beautiful, fat snowflakes are fluttering about, here and there, reminding me why I love winter in Colorado. It also makes me happy I’m in street clothes that include jeans and a turtleneck sweater.

My boots crunch on gravel as I walk toward the entrance of the store. I’m almost there when a car speeds up and screeches to a halt. The passenger’s door pops open and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. A man exits the store, a gun in his hand, and all but lunges for the vehicle.

Adrenaline courses through me and I draw my weapon, but it’s too late to stop what is in motion. The man is already inside the car, and it’s moving. I jog after it, trying to catch a plate number, only to discover there isn’t one. Seconds could save a life, and I race for the store entrance. The door opens again, and another man begins to exit, a gun in his hand. I step in front of him, aiming my weapon.

“FBI!” I shout, wholly concerned about what’s in front of me and what could happen behind me, and I add, “Step back and drop the weapon, or I’ll shoot.”

As I’ve been trained, I document his appearance. Tall, fit, his jawline defined, his face chiseled, the slight lines at his eyes aging him to thirty, and despite his long blond hair tied at his nape, he reads military to me.

“Easy there,” he says smoothly, seemingly unaffected by the fact that I could shoot him dead. But he smartly responds to the threat I represent, holding his hands and his weapon upright and taking several wide steps backward. “I’m not the bad guy here. I’m licensed to carry. I was here when the robbery took place. I tried to stop it.”

I’m inside the door now, and there is a woman behind the counter, literally trembling, and another man on the ground, who appears to be knocked out. There’s also a gun on the counter.

“It was his,” the blond man says. “He was holding it on her, and I knocked him out.”

“It’s true,” the woman argues in his defense. “This man just walked right up to the guy and knocked him out. His partner ran after that. I was so scared.” Her voice trembles. “I thought I was going to die.”

“You should cuff him,” the blond stranger says. “He might not be out long.”

“Drop the weapon,” I demand again, my voice cool but sharp this time. “Then I’ll cuff you both.”

He flips his gun around, offering me the butt, his blue eyes alert but not challenging.

“That’s not the ground,” I warn.

“Yeah, well, your back is to the door, and both of us are thinking about what’s behind you right now.”

He’s right.

I need to lock the door and reposition myself away from the entrance, but that’s not an easy task with a rack of chips in the way, therefore I will not be doing so until his gun is on the ground.

“He helped me, miss!” the woman behind the counter shouts. “He saved my life. That man was going to shoot me.”

This might be true, I think, but I’ve been trained to expect the worst. A trick is a trick. A spade is not always a spade. I don’t look at her. I stay focused on the blue-eyed devil in front of me, and he is a devil until I know differently. “Drop the damn weapon and get on your knees!” I order. “Or I will shoot you.”

He grimaces. “This is a mistake,” he says, but he goes down on one knee and sets his gun in front of him, lifting his arms and lacing his fingers behind his head, as if this isn’t his first rodeo. He’s been in this position before now. I kick away his gun.