I’ve already killed four agents…
He’s dead.
Conor Gallagher is dead.
The bomb hasn’t exploded yet, but my heart — oh, my aching, breaking heart — detonates into a zillion pieces inside my chest.
* * *
For a long time,no one seems to do a damn thing.
I have a feeling there’s a flurry of discussion going on behind the scenes — pros and cons being weighed, ideas being proposed, strategies being suggested — but from my perspective everything has gone totally quiet. Only the faint sound of the engine rumbling behind me inside the garage; the restless shifting of men in heavy body armor ahead of me.
A sudden screech of tires splits the air.
My head whips toward the sound. In fact, every head in a two block radius whips toward the sound. All I can do is watch as a black Jeep Wrangler flies down the street, around the police barricade that’s been set up to cordon off any incoming traffic. Whoever is driving appears to be a total maniac — hopping curbs and front lawns, dodging mailboxes and parked cars with seemingly no regard for traffic rules, let alone the fact that there’s a very active hostage situation unfolding right now.
My heart is in my throat as the Wrangler slams to a stop at the end of the driveway. And a tremble moves through my whole body, from the tips of my fingers still pointed at the sky to my bare, bloody toes pressed against the smooth stone. Because there’s a man hopping down from the driver’s side, dressed all in black despite the summer day — from his shirt to his pants to his badass motorcycle boots. A man with the darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. A man who is unquestionably, heart-stoppingly…
Alive.
Those deep blue eyes are fixed firmly on mine as he walks up the driveway with steady strides, only the faintest hint of a limp revealing the injury concealed beneath his clothing. My stomach lurches as I realize he’s hurt. It turns to lead when I notice the pallor of his skin, so unlike his usual coloring. As though he’s lost half his blood.
Christ.
Was he shot?
If so, how the hell is he walking, right now?
His face is a mask of composure, but I know him well enough to recognize the fury churning through him. It’s there in the fissure between his furrowed brows, in his tight-locked jaw, in his clenched fists. I see the strain in his shoulders and know he’s desperate to break into a run. That if he could, he’d close the distance between us in less than a second and rip the bomb from my body with his bare hands, if necessary.
But he’d never put me in that sort of jeopardy.
From the garage, Lefty blares the car horn in clear warning.
Close enough.
Conor instantly stops moving. He’s ten feet away, now. I can see every muscle in his throat working roughly, as if he’s struggling to find the right words. His eyes never shift away from mine as he calls out, “I’m not armed! I just want to talk.”
His voice is loud enough to carry inside the garage.
Waiting for a rebuttal from the Evanoffs, we stand there drinking each other in. I can see the desperate fear in his eyes. The sight of me in danger is killing him.
I’m sure my own eyes are a perfect match, but I try to smile anyway.
His frown gets more pronounced. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t you fucking smile at me like that.” His voice is low, gruff with anger and terror. “ Like you’re giving me some nice last memory to remember you by. You’re not going anywhere, Hunt. You hear me?”
I suck in a breath at his words. I so desperately want to believe him. To believe that I’m going to walk out of this. To believe that we’ll walk away, hand in hand, and live happily ever after, just like in those fairytales I’ve always derided and dismissed.
I pull in a breath. “Just so you know, I was only smiling at you because I’m so damn happy you’re alive. But if you’re going to give me attitude while I’m wearing an explosive vest—” My voice breaks, despite my best intentions. A tear slips out, spilling down my cheek in a rush.
Conor watches it fall to the ground, flinching when it makes impact. As though it’s hit his skin instead of the stone.
The horn beeps again — twice in succession.