The Sunset Job (The Rainbow's Seven 1)

“I will,” he said.

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?”

Wyatt nodded. “I went to the range a couple of times with an old fling. Absolutely hated it.”

“Good. Here.” Roman handed him his pistol, reaching for the second one he had on him. “I don’t know where Giovanni’s security is, but I’m going to take a guess and say those bullets were for them.” Before Roman left the garden, he grabbed Wyatt and kissed him, briefly but with a force that required no spoken words once their lips parted.

Wyatt ran with Giovanni to the edge of the garden, crouching behind a stone statue of a hunter holding out a taut bow. It would provide ample enough coverage, which was great considering the fact that three masked men burst into the gardens at that exact moment. Shots rang through the air as Roman dove behind a fountain, its spitting head blown clean off and sending shards of stone flying in all directions.

Roman braced himself against the ridge of the fountain, peeking over and taking a shot. One of the men dropped with an anguished cry.

Great, two left.

Another series of gunshots went off, bullets hitting the fountain. Roman’s ears rang, and his vision pulsed. Adrenaline worked to sharpen his senses, picking up on a brief silence as the men reloaded, leaving themselves open.

Rookie fucking mistake.

Roman took the bait—and bait it was. Neither of them was reloading, one of them having gone around the gardens and was now crouched feet away from Wyatt and Giovanni’s hiding place while the other took aim.

Roman dove back down, dodging the bullet by a hair’s width. “Wyatt, from your left,” he shouted in warning, hoping to all hope that Wyatt could use that gun. A few loud bangs erupted from that corner of the garden, and Roman braced himself as he called out, “Are you okay?”

Seconds—or a couple of eternities, hard to tell—ticked by before Wyatt answered. “Yeah, we’re okay, we’re good. He’s down.”

Roman breathed a sigh of relief, able to return his focus to the lone shooter. He was masked, wearing all black, making it easier to spot the long necklace that hung off the man’s neck, a lion’s tooth held in a steel cage inches from his heart. Roman knew to aim there, use it same as he would a bullseye at the range.

He steadied his breath, braced his muscles. The cold metal of the gun felt like an extension of himself, as if he could guide the bullet to the target with his fingers alone. Another steady breath, lungs full, pulse slowing.

Roman stood from his cover and pressed down on the trigger. Two shots exploded at the same time. The masked assailant’s bullet missed, hitting the wall behind Roman.

Roman’s aim wasn’t anywhere nearly as bad. The man dropped like a bag of lead, crumpling to the ground as blood pooled around his head.

That’s it. They’d done it. Neutralized the threats and salvaged their hit. He ran to Wyatt and Giovanni, both of them crouched on the ground, with Wyatt using his body to shield the panicked man. The gun was still in Wyatt’s hands, his knuckles pale from how hard he was holding on to it.

“You’re good, you’re safe,” Roman said, taking the gun from Wyatt and helping him back to his feet, holding both hands in his. He squeezed, kissing Wyatt’s forehead. The trembles in his shoulders hadn’t gone anywhere, but they did seem to lessen now that the gunshots had stopped flying. “You did good, saltshaker.”

“That’s such a shitty nickname compared to everyone else,” Wyatt said, his head falling into Roman’s chest, his lungs tugging in a deep breath. “Can it just be Salt? That sounds pretty cool.” His words were slightly muffled against Roman’s shirt, but he still understood every single one of them.

“Salt it is.” Roman kissed the top of Wyatt’s head before turning his attention to Giovanni. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“No, no. I’m okay. Thank you for that—you both saved me.” A man ran into the garden, suited like the guests but holding a jet-black pistol like he was a trained soldier. Roman raised his gun and locked the man in his sights, finger grazing the trigger.

A hand closed around his wrist. “No,” Giovanni said. “That’s Berto, my security.” Giovanni then reached into an inner pocket hidden in his suit and pulled out a neatly folded piece of thick paper, the edges aged with a tint of brown. Roman lowered his gun and reached for the prize. The sun was already beginning to set, but to Roman, the paper glowed as if spotlit by a direct beam of afternoon sunlight.

His fingers closed around the paper. Giovanni smiled, appearing relieved, happy—and when a muted pop sounded—shocked, stunned, blood trickling from his lip. He fell to his knees, letting go of the paper and clutching the blood-soaked fabric of his chest.