Wicked Ever After (Wicked & Devoted #2) - Shayla Black Page 0,76

his water-beaded jacket.

The redhead closed her eyes, bracing herself, as his hand dropped to his zipper and he yanked it down.

Maybe he could have let Montilla have one final good time before he bit the dust, but One-Mile knew people had always thought of him as an asshole. Why break form now? After what Montilla had put him through, he gave zero fucks about robbing this son of a bitch of one last orgasm, one last chance to cheat on his wife, and one last opportunity to take advantage of someone smaller, weaker, and poorer than him. Pity the fucker would never know what hit him, but getting the satisfaction of his face being the last thing this lowlife saw was Hollywood shit.

His job now boiled down to aligning his shot and pulling the fucking trigger.

That’s murder, Logan reminded in his head.

Fuck him. If his boss couldn’t see that the world would be much safer without this violent, drug-manufacturing rapist roaming it, then he’d definitely lost his edge. As far as One-Mile was concerned, he was performing a fucking public service. Sure, he’d be saving Brea; that was his first priority. But he’d have a clean conscience when he left here because this girl would have one less john and Baby Jorge would have the chance to grow up with his mother.

Too bad no one had helped his own mom before it was too late.

At the memory, his anger spiked. His heartbeat surged. He breathed, trying to calm it while Montilla dropped his pants around his ankles. But One-Mile’s palms were unusually clammy. His hands shook. He couldn’t fucking compartmentalize this mission like he had all the others. He wasn’t killing this asshole for his unit or his country. This was personal. If he made this kill shot, months of fucking torment and worry would be over. He could finally go home, meet Brea’s daddy, wait for their baby, and love him or her forever. That was more than enough incentive for him.

But first, he had to fucking focus on the actions—which he’d performed hundreds of times—not the stakes. If he thought about the consequences for fucking up, he’d never succeed.

Dragging in one more breath, One-Mile forcibly cleared his mind to steady himself and froze, hyper-focused. He didn’t blink or hesitate. And he definitely didn’t let Montilla climb on top of the girl. He merely curled his finger around the trigger and squeezed.

Through the scope, he watched the asshole for the pure thrill, but he didn’t need to wait the fraction of a second it took for the bullet to plow into the fucker’s temple to know he’d hit his mark. It was done.

Montilla was finally dead.

As the drug lord crumpled to the ground and the redhead screamed, One-Mile closed the window and packed up his equipment with an economy of movement, hurrying without rushing. When he was done, he slung everything on his back, wiped every surface he’d touched clean, pulled his hoodie over his face again, and trotted down to the lobby. As if he didn’t have a care in the world, he bypassed the people scurrying and clustering around the bordello, ducked out the hotel’s back entrance, then disappeared down an alley and into the rain once again driving.

He didn’t mind getting drenched now. Tomorrow, there would be sunlight because tomorrow there would be Brea.

Saturday, January 10

Comfort, Texas

Brea dabbed at her happy tears as she watched Cutter dance with his new bride. After a touching ceremony in Shealyn’s grandparents’ barn that seemed so quintessentially small-town Texas, they clung together under fairy lights and swayed to Ed Sheeran, blocking out the rest of the world inside their bubble of happiness. It was probably a good skill since the press continued to hound them. But for this moment they looked ecstatic.

Hard to believe that, after their two-week Maui honeymoon at the Sunshine Coast Bed-and-Breakfast, Cutter would be moving to California with his new wife.

Brea was both happy for her best friend and beyond sad that he’d be leaving her. It added an extra pall over her despair.

Nearly a month had passed since she’d last seen or heard from Pierce.

This morning, a news report had claimed Emilo Montilla had been shot dead last night in a bordello in Mexico City by an unknown assailant. After hearing the report, she’d brimmed with hope. While Brea wouldn’t celebrate any person’s death…she didn’t mourn the drug lord’s loss. All day, she’d waited for a call or message from Pierce that he was coming