Occupational requirement. As a gun for hire, Grant wasn’t exactly the kind of uncle she needed. A trade-off he made to keep her safe. His freedom to do what he wanted when he wanted in exchange for the life of a young girl who probably didn’t even remember his name. Not her fault. The sins of the father and all that Bible-thumping crap.
Or in this case, the sins of the mother.
Sarah was just a kid. Innocent. Sweet. Oblivious to the danger her mother had put her in. Grant had no choice but to take the target from her back and pin it dead center on his. Sixteen grand a month. Miss a payment. Catch a bullet.
He had one year left on a three-year thirty percent monthly interest contract. Money owed. It was the only reason he’d left his job with the Canadian military and hooked up with Adam’s alter ego, Sam Black. Turns out international arms trafficking was big business, and the hazard pay enough to keep the mob’s money collectors focused elsewhere.
Despite Johnson’s failure to execute the domestic terrorist event intended to scare Americans back to the polls, and despite his backers subsequently trying to wipe out Adam and his entire special operations unit, the money Grant had come to rely on kept coming his way.
It was the only reason he still played house with the JTT.
Brain calling him on his bullshit, Gray’s green eyes flashed, and the memory of her kissing him, pressing her body against his, offering herself to him hurt his chest. Fuck. She’d already belonged to Chase at the time, but she would have done anything to find her friend Tara before she succumbed to her injuries in a dingy Savannah warehouse.
Anything.
Including sacrificing her body to Grant and her life to the gangster handpicked by Johnson to run his arms business. No chance in hell he would have allowed Victor Bodak to get his hands on Gray. The bastard would have flayed the skin off her back before he raped and killed her for pleasure. Her pain the exact thing he needed to get his rocks off.
Yeah, regardless of the slug in his chest, Grant would have ended the fucker himself if Adam hadn’t beaten him to it. And now that they knew the truth, knew Johnson wanted Gray dead in retribution for his son’s death, Grant couldn’t leave her. Not before they took care of the presidential wannabe.
Risky business putting the Secretary of Homeland Security in a pine box.
A risk Adam seemed hell bent on pursuing alone.
Fucking asshole.
As an undercover operative for the last two years, the man preferred to work solo, yet somehow, he still managed to maintain the appearance of being in charge. Tough fence to straddle, and hard on the balls if he lost his footing or if Gray got a hold of him anytime soon.
Jesus, if anything happened to her brother while he executed his fucked-up plan, she’d go ballistic. Thank fuck Chase’s nuts were first in line as far as targets went.
Having already been on the receiving end of her murderous rage multiple times, Grant remained aware of the damage she was capable of inflicting. And as much as he wanted to hate Chase, he couldn’t. He happened to be a stand-up guy, and the only person capable of keeping Gray from imploding completely.
Unfortunately, if Adam failed, Chase wouldn’t hesitate to go after the people who had Tak. Grant couldn’t let it happen. Gray had already suffered too many losses in the last month. Her business partner. Her best friend. Her father.
Fuck that shit. No way would he let the woman he loved go through one more day of pain because of Johnson.
Woman. He. Loved.
Christ. He was an idiot.
One kiss.
One fucking kiss kept his dumb ass on this barstool, nursing cheap whiskey and pining over a woman he couldn’t have while Cody’s dick serviced a bridal party of five in a private room upstairs.
He shook his head and shot the rest of his drink. The big redneck bastard had game. Grant would give him that much. A couple of hot looks, a few syllables of his Southern drawl, and two of the women had their hands in his pants before the elevator doors even closed. Not a problem, Cody had made no secret about needing to get laid, and they had time to kill.
Fifteen minutes up the road, Peter Hoyt had hunkered down in a small wooden shack out back of a dilapidated trailer home. They’d scouted the neighborhood earlier and decided on their approach while they had enough light to make out any threats. Now they waited for the cover of darkness to pay him a visit.
Grant looked forward to seeing the look on Hoyt’s face when they busted in on him. He had no use for the coward, but the fucknut had stolen his bag when he went AWOL. Grant didn’t give a shit about the guns. They couldn’t be traced to him anyway. Neither did he give a flying fuck about a couple of old T-shirts.
He wanted his grandfather’s knife back. The only thing he had left of the man who raised him, Grant had carried the switchblade clipped inside the front pocket of his jeans for so long, he felt naked without it.
About to signal for another drink, he set his glass back down on the bar when his phone vibrated with an incoming message. Hoping for a text from Gray, he fished it out quick. Even though it cut him to pieces that she’d gone to Mallorca, he still wanted the reassurance she was safe and happy.
Wasn’t her, and he felt the letdown deep.
Wasn’t a text from Adam requesting a status update either.
It was a dick pic. Cody halfway to home inside of a bent-over ass in the air belonging to thebride-to-begoing by the white sash he had fisted in his hand. Below the picture, he’d added a room number and a brief message.Plenty of pussy to go around, dipshit.
