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A fter setting up the trap, Quinn took a moment to go over the details, making sure she didn’t miss anything. She was thorough like that. She’d hidden blocks of explosives in each corner of the parking garage. And laser tripwires, barely visible to the naked eye, extended strategically throughout the space. If anyone crossed one, whichever side was nearest would blow sky high. Now all she had to do was hide and wait for her marks to enter the garage. If she was lucky, she could take out more than one of Ex Nihilo at once.

Two birds, one stone.

Eventually, she’d eliminate them all. It’s what she’d been hired to do and The Agency had just deposited half her fee in an unmarked account in the Cayman Islands. Quinn’s services weren’t cheap, but you got what you paid for.

She was the Cardinal, the best fucking assassin in the world. Well, definitely in the top three, anyway.

Considering her background, it was to be expected. The CIA had taught her everything she needed to know—how to hunt, how to kill and how to take down her enemies. Most importantly, how to do it all with zero regret.

Then they’d fucked her over. Branded her a traitor. And, well, after that, everything changed.

Pulling her balaclava up to cover everything but her eyes, she crouched down and glanced out at the street from her perch in the northwest corner of the garage. Maybe they’d come, maybe they wouldn’t, but she was willing to bet they couldn’t resist a chance at a lead. From what The Agency had told her, and from her own personal research, she knew this would be a tough group to take out.

Ryland “Rip” Mills and Grayson “Demon” Ellis were former Navy SEALs. Same with Zane “Banshee” Hawkins, even though he’d moved to the intel side of things and was an excellent hacker. Inda “Bruja” Diaz, their lone female operator, was former Army and a Krav Maga expert. Apparently quite persuasive, too, since she’d convinced Lucas “Cipher” Sheridan to turn on The Agency and join ranks with Ex Nihilo. Then there was Nik “Saint” Valentine, a former Russian spy and alleged member of the Bratva.

And, of course, she couldn’t forget their fearless leader, Braxton “Pharaoh” Graves. The former Delta Force commander was intense, relentless, and always put the mission first and foremost.

She knew that better than anyone.

Gritting her teeth, she hissed out a breath and shifted her weight from one booted foot to the other. Maybe instead of killing their pain in the ass leader, she should kidnap and torture him a little. It would be so much more satisfying than simply granting him a quick death. After all the hell he’d put her through, she figured she owed him a little pain.

Quinn liked having options, so maybe…

It depended on how magnanimous she was feeling.

A lone figure walking up the sidewalk caught her attention and she straightened up. She’d recognize that long-legged gait anywhere. Tall with a slim, athletic build and slicked-back brown hair, Braxton Graves stopped in front of the parking garage, hands on his hips, and studied it.

She hated when he slicked his hair back like that, preferring the soft curls he kept hidden more often than not.

For a shocked moment, she thought he saw her, but then he disappeared into the shadows, stealthily moving around the three-story structure, no doubt planning to sneak in through the back and sweep each floor like the good little operator he was. He’d always played by the rules and should’ve been a fucking Boy Scout.

Feeling the urge for a little cat and mousery, Quinn stood up, dusted her hands off on the back of her black leather pants and grinned. If it was just Braxton then why the hell not?

It had been a long time since she’d had some fun with him.

◆◆◆

Braxton stepped through the parking garage’s back entrance, gun tucked close to his body as he surveyed the area for anyone suspicious. But it was eerily quiet. Several dim light bulbs illuminated the place and the first floor was packed with parked cars. Most likely tenants from nearby apartment buildings who paid monthly rent, he surmised. Parking in the city sucked and they probably paid a fortune.

Creeping forward between parked cars, he scanned the surrounding area. Silent as a tomb. He briefly wondered if he was in the wrong spot. But, no. The message had said 222 Elm Street. Somebody was playing with him, and he wanted to know who.

He spotted the elevator, noting there were three levels. So far, the ground floor seemed quiet enough, so maybe whoever had messaged him was on the second or third floor. As he considered his options, a sound snagged his attention. Spinning, he lifted his weapon, sweeping it past cars, searching for the source.

It sounded like someone had kicked a rock.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and some weird sixth sense made him pause. He was beginning to feel like the proverbial mouse and had the distinct impression a cat lurked in the nearby shadows. And, goddammit, he hated games.

“Who’s there?” he called out. Silence. “You texted me. If you aren’t going to reveal yourself, I’m outta here.”

A stone came flying from the right and pinged off his boot. Brax turned his attention in the direction it came from and stalked forward. A shadow darted between cars, and he took off running after it.

When he reached the spot where he’d caught sight of the shadow, he instantly froze. The sultry scent of jasmine filled his nose. Unbidden images of flaming red hair and sage green eyes assaulted him. Only one woman smelled like honey-dipped jasmine.

Quinn.

Mind reeling, totally confused, Brax lifted his Glock, squinting into the gloom ahead. It couldn’t be her.

Could it?

Determined to find out, he hurried forward, staying low, not making a target of himself. When he reached the end of the row of cars, he paused to assess his position. Another rock skipped across the pavement and stopped less than a foot in front of him. It had come from the left this time and he pivoted.

On high alert, he dropped down to the ground and peered beneath the parked vehicles. His gaze scanned the gloom and caught on a pair of slim boots as the wearer bolted from the spot. His little game player was making his or her way through the maze of cars across the aisle, moving deeper into the garage. Almost as though she were trying to lure him somewhere.

Too smart to fall for that shit, he backed up and started circling around the other way, planning to meet her from the other side. Because, yeah, his gut screamed it was a woman toying with him. And while he had his suspicions it was one particular woman, he couldn’t say it with any certainty. Yet. But he was going to find out.

◆◆◆

Where the hell are you? Quinn wondered, tightening her fist around the rock. With a frown, she dropped down and searched for Braxton’s large, booted feet. Dammit, he’d stopped following her. Suddenly, she no longer felt like the predator.

She was on the other side of the garage, near the first laser tripwire, but Braxton was a ghost. He’d just pulled a disappearing act. She huffed out a sigh and hunkered down out of sight. Maybe he’d guessed it was a trap and snuck out.

Or, maybe he was now hunting her.

A chill moved down her spine. A moment after the ominous thought hit her, a muffled pop filled the air. A bullet tore past her face, skimming her cheek, and she rolled sideways with a muffled curse.

That sonofabitch just shot at her!

Fuming, she popped up and ran, making sure to stay low and out of range. If he wanted a gun fight, she’d give him one. Pulling her Glock 19 from its holster, she moved behind an SUV, lifted her weapon and fired in his general vicinity.

Her gut told her to move, and good thing. A second later, a bullet slammed into the SUV’s windshield, shattering it into a spiderweb of cracks. That was too close. Where was he? How had he gotten such a good shot?

An icy trickle of dread slithered through her body. All this time she’d been low, staying on the ground. But that shot had come from a higher place.

Her gaze wandered up and she saw him, standing on the roof of a car, body behind a pole, using it as cover. They momentarily locked gazes before he jumped off the vehicle and raced toward her.

Spinning around, Quinn bolted. Even from that distance, she could still picture those silver-gray eyes of his. Sometimes they’d reminded her of shards of ice, other times, they’d resembled liquid mercury. More specifically, they hit that melting point whenever he’d been balls-deep inside of her.

God, she hated that he was the best sex she’d ever had. But it was a fact, and denying it wouldn’t change the insane number of orgasms he’d given her or the needy sounds only he could make come out of her throat.

Damn him and his magical cock. She should’ve cut it off when she’d had the chance.

Even though things had ended terribly between them, some nights she still missed him. Missed those beautifully serious eyes and the way they crinkled when he smiled. And even though she could take care of herself, sometimes it still felt nice to be wrapped in a big, warm, protective pair of muscled arms.

Biting back a frustrated growl, she threw herself behind another SUV and realized it was hers. Once again, it was suspiciously quiet. If he was moving around to try and trap her again, to catch her off guard from behind, then that meant one very big thing. He’d step right into the path of the tripwire. The whole back corner of the garage would blow up, triggering more explosions, and Braxton Graves would be dead. Exactly what she wanted.

A knot formed in her stomach. It’s what you want, Q, she tried to convince herself.

Wasn’t it?

Even though she should be getting the fuck out of there as fast as humanly possible, she hesitated. A memory of Brax saving her when she’d almost died triggered a moment of conscience. Guilt swept through her. She owed him. Even if he didn’t remember—and he probably did because the man had a memory like an elephant—she did.

“Fuck me.” Even though it usually ended up getting her in trouble, she’d always had a warped sense of loyalty and believed in paying back a debt. She couldn’t let him walk into the trap. She had to save him.

Then he’d be fair game.

Yanking her keys out of her leather jacket pocket, she slid into the unlocked Ford Explorer and started the engine. Brax would hear it and come after her, exactly like she wanted him to so she could draw him away from the tripwire.

Hitting the gas, she swerved out of the parking spot, determined to cut him off. Sure, she’d probably have to hit him to do it, but he was tough. He’d bounce right off the car and then try to follow her when she left through the nearest exit.

Then her debt would be paid and all bets were off.

◆◆◆

The roar of a car’s engine filled the air and Brax paused mid-step. He was approaching the rear corner of the garage, planning to sneak around his target, but hesitated. He hadn’t seen anyone else enter the garage so it must be her.

Was she done playing and now planning to escape?

Over his dead body.

Racing out from between two parked cars, he skidded to a halt out in the open. A Ford Explorer peeled around the corner and came barreling straight at him. His reflexes were fast, but the SUV was faster.

There wasn’t enough time to jump out of the way. Right before the vehicle hit him, he hopped up, slamming against the hood, and looked through the windshield at the driver.

Time seemed to freeze as familiar sage green eyes met his. Quinn.

A second later, she slammed on the brakes. He lost his grip, rolled off the hood and landed hard on his shoulder. Lying on the ground, at eye level with a glowing green light, he frowned. It was a tripwire, and he’d almost crossed it.

Nice try, Quinn.

Scrambling up, he jogged away from the wire. The Explorer stopped at the exit, as though waiting for him. Or maybe she wanted to see him get blown to smithereens. At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised.

He was surprised, however, when a loud beep filled the air, signaling his fuck-up. Looking down, Brax saw a second tripwire cleverly concealed in the shadows. And he’d just crossed it.

Fuck .

An explosive detonated frighteningly close, singing his right side, as he launched himself over the concrete wall, flying through the air and landing in an unceremonious heap in the bushes.

Explosion after explosion rocked the structure behind him as Brax shoved through prickly branches. Standing up on wobbly legs, he moved farther away from the burning garage. The Explorer peeled away down the street, disappearing from sight.

Releasing a shaky breath, he looked down at his burned right hand. He knew he was lucky to be alive. That had been far too close. Turning back around, he watched the orange and red flames lick upward, glowing against the black sky. Inside the garage, another explosion ricocheted off the walls.

Cradling his burned hand, Braxton cursed his ex-wife.

Quinn Graves was going down.