Scars (The Killers #5) - Brynne Asher Page 0,109

me. “My informant has been tracking them for weeks. They’re tied to a big…” I glance back at our company who I can’t say much in front of. “Let’s just say something big. I need to question them.”

“They’re not going anywhere anytime fast.” Cruz has no issue speaking in front of anyone about the details of our targets. “My case is airtight. The asshole taken down by the Mounties is a mule tied to the cartels. Your targets are paying them to be smuggled into our country. I thought we were following a load, but it turned out to be people.”

Another tug on my leg and I whip my head around and bite, “Are you cross stitching me a damn love note down there? It was only a graze.”

The doctor’s eyes flit between my new DEA friends—as taciturn as they may be—and me. “Sorry. About done. We don’t get many gunshot wounds in here. In fact, this is my first.”

“Don’t add me to your collection of war stories to impress your dinner party companions—this is no GSW,” I assure him, thinking of the scar Bella will always carry. That is a fucking gunshot wound. “It’s a graze.”

The nameless DEA agent on the right laughs. “Dude, that’s no gunshot wound.”

“That’s what I said.” I’m fucking tired of this and look back to Cruz. “I’d give you my card, but it’s in my wallet which is in the rig.”

Jesse waltzes in. “Got it.”

“Great … someone else. I feel like an animal on display at the zoo.” I take my phone, keys, and open my wallet to pull out a business card. “Here. Shit has been busy lately but call me when you get back in the office. I can arrange someone to follow up if I can’t get there myself.”

Who am I kidding? There’s no way I’m going to be able to get there myself. I’m not even officially here.

“Also,” I add, pointing to Jesse, “put his name on the report, not mine.”

Cruz narrows his eyes. “I’ll call—we’ll figure it out. Anyone who can trace these jackasses around the world has my respect.”

Well, at least there’s that.

“You’re done.”

The doctor stands, looking proud of his work on his first GSW victim.

I climb to my feet, not giving a shit I’m the only one in the room in my underwear. The nurse hands me the scrubs and I toss my things on the gurney so I can pull them on. “Look, it’s a long story but give me a call so we can compare notes. I’ve got the information you’ll need to tie the cases together.”

“Got it.” He snaps my card between his fingers before stuffing it into one of his many pockets that are surely full of ammo. “Good luck recovering from that gunshot wound.”

I roll my eyes and unlock my phone.

“Later,” Cruz calls, but I don’t pay any attention. I have way too many messages from Bella.

And Crew.

And Asa.

And Jarvis.

“Shoes.” Jesse shoves my boots my way. I ignore him too.

Fuck.

No.

“Carson?” Jesse calls.

“Sir, are you okay?” the doctor asks.

I lean, ass to the gurney, finding it painful to search for my next breath.

I haven’t felt like this since…

Since I got the call about Bella.

“Carson,” Jesse bites.

I look up.

“I’ve got to get home.”

Chapter 35

Catch My Breath

Cole

I was an asshole when I was seventeen.

And sixteen.

And eighteen.

A regular jackass douchecanoe who thought his shit smelled like daisies on a warm spring day. At least that’s what I was told by a few.

Don’t get me wrong, I was the shit. Star baseball player, homecoming king, and I barely had to lift a finger to melt the panties off the entire cheerleading squad. I was a jock who could also use my brain to its fullest potential—check out the records for every debate in the thirty-mile radius of my high school. I could argue the ears off Dumbo and make him cry.

See? Asshole.

The God’s honest truth is I probably still am two days a week, on average. But becoming a dad has a way of humbling a man. I certainly don’t want Abbott to end up with anyone like the seventeen-year-old me, but I do want her to exercise every corner of the brain I gave her.

Since an athlete with brains isn’t the most common of cocktails, the scholarship offers started to roll in, making my head swell even bigger. If I could’ve taken them all, I would have. I wanted to go—get away from life on a tiny, shit farm that was too small to be classified

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