Morgan watched from a distant treetop as the police stormed the building, and then quickly brought Adam and Micah out to the waiting paramedics. Her own vision blurred when she saw the medics bind Micah’s eyes with gauze that glowed a ghastly white against the darkness. She heard them say something about chemical burns.
Both Adam and Micah were critical enough that they called in LifeFlight. When the helicopter took off, whipping the tree branches that concealed her, she had nothing left to care about, so she left as well.
It took her several hours to find her way back to the medical center. She probably could have gotten there faster, but her heart just wasn’t in it. But she also couldn’t not go. Micah deserved that, at least.
She crept about the surgical floor, staying only long enough to hear that Adam was stable after they’d repaired a ruptured vein and pieced his shattered femur back together. He was still in recovery, but she didn’t try to sneak into see him—he was better off without her.
Micah was on another floor. His mothers were talking to an eye specialist, who told them only time would tell if his corneas would heal or if he’d be permanently blind. Another man, a plastic surgeon, assured them that his burns weren’t serious and that he didn’t expect any scarring. Which was nice to hear, but Micah’s eyes—that about wrecked her. How could he be an artist if he was blind?
Blind because of her. Her stomach roiled so violently that she rushed to the nearest restroom. She didn’t actually throw up, just felt like it as she huddled on the cold tile floor between the toilet and the wall. Finally, she stood, washed her face, and cautiously emerged once more.
A man in his twenties with dark hair and a complexion that could reflect almost any heritage was lounging against the wall across from the bathroom, his hands jammed into the pockets of his denim jacket. “Ms. Ames? I’d like a quick word.”
She glanced both ways down the empty corridor. No witnesses. They were at the far end near the staircase. Without a word, she strode to it and pushed through the door. Once on the other side, she drew one of her daggers and waited.
He came through the door but immediately spun away from her ambush before she could make her move. Fast. Faster than she’d expected—or she was simply that exhausted. He stood on the opposite side of the landing, out of her reach. “No need for that. I’m just a messenger. I’ve seen your handiwork—as have my bosses.”
“What do you want?” she snapped, sick of games.
“They—we—would like you to consider joining us.” He extended her a card with a single phone number on it. “Call that number anytime.”
“Wait. Us? Who are you?”
“You can call me Ryan. I’m like you, bit of a different skill set. But I must say, you are the youngest I’ve ever seen recruited. A child prodigy of sorts.”
“But who are you? Your group? What do you want with me?”
“Our group? We get things done—things regular government and law enforcement can’t. I guess you could say we take care of the ones who slip through the cracks.”
“But you’re not part of the government?”
“We’re not part of anything. Officially we don’t even exist—or have a name. We, the grunts on the ground, don’t even know who our real boss is. In fact, that’s what I call us, BOSS—Black Ops Shadow Stalkers.” He grinned, and she realized that despite his cocky attitude, he wasn’t all that much older than she was. “I wish I could tell you more, but I was simply given orders to reach out and extend an invitation. The rest is up to you.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and she tensed, but he came out with a hard drive. “A gesture of good will. The video from tonight.” He extended it to her. “I’m told it’s the only copy left.”
Right. And she had a bridge in Brooklyn to sell. Still, she took the drive.
“Also,” he continued. “As far as the police and the DA are concerned, you weren’t anywhere near what happened tonight. Your name has been dissociated with the investigation.”
Whoa. Now that took some real juice. Despite herself, Morgan was impressed. “What does this group do?”
“What needs to be done.”
“Kill people?”
“If that’s the only way, yes. But only as a last resort. We don’t enjoy it.”
“You think that’s me? Someone who doesn’t enjoy it?”
He regarded her from across the landing. “You tell me.”
“You don’t know who gives the orders? But you go out and kill people? How do you know they’re not innocent? Or that you’re being manipulated, used?” She couldn’t think of a worse fate, turned into someone’s pawn—like her father had done with her when she was a child. Like Crane had tonight. Never again.
“Trust but verify. It’s a good motto to live by. And believe me, that man back there, your mad bomber? The folks we handle are a lot worse. Some of the others, they do see it as just a job, following orders. But they’re in the minority. Most of us, we’ve gotten here the long way around, not always following the righteous path, so it’s a chance at redemption, to be the good guy for once. From your history, I’d say that might be something you’re interested in?”
She nodded, searching his face for answers beyond his glib words.
“You’ve killed a lot of people for someone so young.” His voice dropped. “But I watched you with your bomber.” He nodded to the hard drive. “Ironic, isn’t it? You and your father had nothing to do with his wife’s death. You were in Atlanta at the time.” He sighed. “Crane simply couldn’t accept that he’d lost everything in a random, senseless accident. He needed someone to blame, to pay for their deaths.”
“Guess I’m an easy target.” She didn’t try to dilute the bitterness that colored her words.
“Thank your father for that. Still, you didn’t really want to kill Crane, did you? On the video, you seemed almost sad after. Didn’t seem to enjoy it at all. Am I right?”
“You already asked that,” she snapped. He was right, but also very wrong. The flash of rage that had driven her in that moment—she’d been out of control. Only for a moment, but it was long enough to end Crane. As well as all hope of a life with Micah.
“And you didn’t answer. I need an answer. Is killing something you need to do? No judging. Most of us, we got our addictions. But a job like this—if that’s you, if you need it, want it, enjoy the high, well, it’s too much temptation. And too dangerous for the rest of us. So, answer me, Morgan Ames. Do you enjoy killing?”
She couldn’t meet his gaze. “Yes. I did—when I was with my father, when I was younger, and he was my world. I used to…enjoy it. A lot.” The flush that stung her cheeks surprised her; she couldn’t remember ever feeling ashamed before. “But not anymore. Especially not tonight.”
He stared at her for a long time. But she forced herself to hold his gaze. Finally he gave her a slow nod. “All right, then.”
“Is that all I’d be doing for you? Killing?” She shoved the card back at him. “I’m nobody’s hired gun. I like thinking for myself. And working for myself.”
His lips twisted in a smile that seemed more directed at himself than her. “I said the same thing. But then I realized… being alone out there, doing what we do, it’s too easy to make mistakes. To let innocent people get hurt.”
Micah. Lying in a hospital bed, maybe blinded for life—because of her. More than him, there was Adam and Andre and Jenna, all paying the price for her and her father’s crimes. She might have killed Clinton Caine, but she hadn’t destroyed his legacy of pain and blood. Her blood. Forever tainted.
He shifted his weight. “Think of us as a pack of lone wolves. There for each other, but also very independent.”
She frowned, staring at his card. It wasn’t often that she was uncertain about anything. But this… this could change everything. And it was maybe a way to protect the people she cared about. From her.
“Just think about it,” Ryan urged. “You wouldn’t even need to give up your day job. It makes for good cover, in fact. When we need you, we can hire Galloway and Stone—and get your special services as a bonus.” He turned and stepped back into the shadows. “Think about it, Morgan. You’re not alone. We can help. Give you a future. A home.”
And then he was gone.