Page 3 of Play Dirty

Madigan’s heart thundered, chest heaving, as he slid free of Akil and collapsed next to him. The covers were a choppy sea of white on the carpet below them, and there was a single pillow left on the mattress, which Madigan grabbed and thrust behind his head. Akil combed his fingers through the mess on his chest, lips quirking as he turned toward Madigan and sucked them clean. “Sexy,” Madi murmured drowsily. Despite feeling like he’d run a goddamn marathon, he wanted to do it all over again. And soon.

After a gauging glance, he reached between Akil’s legs and removed the condom, knotting it before tossing it on the bedside table and sprawling again. “Where in Pakistan are you from?”

He caught the flash of surprise before Akil schooled his expression and trailed the tip of his finger from the corner of Madigan’s eye to his jaw, again careful to avoid his throat. “You’re good.”

“Mmm.” Madigan flashed a leonine smile. “I’ve seen lots of Asia and the Middle East. Army, remember?”

“Karachi. My family is still there.” Akil rolled onto his back and smoothed a hand over the sheen of sweat on his chest. “Where is home for you?”

“Michigan.” Madigan fed him the lie smoothly.

“Ahhh. Wolverine State.” Akil lolled his head toward Madigan, a dark gleam in his eye. “I thought I detected a bit of predator in you.” Madigan’s gaze sharpened warily, but the smile the other man displayed was guileless. “You are direct, is all I mean, Smith.” Akil skimmed a touch down the length of Madigan’s arm.“Would you like me to go?”

Rolling onto his side, Madigan propped up on an elbow and drew his finger slowly along the inside of Akil’s thigh, watching the dark hairs stiffen. He caressed Akil’s sac, then stroked lightly up his soft cock. “I’m not done with you yet. Fifteen minutes, then I’m going to fuck you until you lapse into another language again. ”

“The American ego never gets old. It’s a good thing you’re so attractive,” Akil teased.

Twenty minutes later, Madigan had his cock buried in Akil’s ass, his knees pushed tight against his chest, and when that sharp string of foreign syllables spilled from his lips, their eyes caught for one bright second, and Madigan could tell Akil was fighting back laughter as much as he was.

* * *

Madigan frownedwhen he woke alone. Not at waking alone, but that he hadn’t stirred when Akil left. Rolling onto his back, he smoothed a hand down the covers and found them cool. A light sleeper by necessity and experience, Madigan considered whether Akil might have slipped something into his drink and then dismissed the thought. He’d have been more groggy. And, after all, the sex had been as phenomenal as it was strenuous.

Brushing off a vague sense of disappointment, he jumped from the bed and headed for the shower.

A half hour later, Madigan pulled a custom hard case from beneath his bed and took the elevator to the twelfth floor, his thoughts drifting again to Akil, which was unlike him. He slid his keycard into the door, accessing the room he’d reserved under a throwaway alias, took his case to the window, and flipped the latches on it. He could assemble the gun with his eyes closed or in his sleep. It was his pride and joy, a thing of deadly beauty that had never failed him the way humans often did, and the carbon fiber parts still threatened to give him a hard-on every time he gazed at it in its fully-assembled glory.

But he wasn’t looking at it in its full glory now.

The fucking magazine he’d loaded the day prior was missing. That was impossible, though. Madigan was hedonistic in many pursuits, but a soldier when it came to his job. He never deviated from his routine before a kill. He’d checked that everything was ready right before he left for the bar.

He pushed at the foam lining, pulled it back from the edges of the case with a curse, but it wasn’t there, either. Not a big deal. He had other magazines and ammo in his room, as well as another gun, but it irked him that he’d made such a simple misstep.

Back down the elevator and in his room, the larger problem emerged. Every single one of his magazines was missing, as well as the bullets. He didn’t have time to ponder the emerging picture of what had happened right then. The clock was ticking. With a growl, he yanked open his last resort, a hidden flap inside his suitcase, where he had a single magazine and a small box of ammo.

Madigan cursed all the way back to the twelfth floor.

A quick look through the scope trained on the window of the hotel a few hundred yards across the street showed the meeting underway. Madigan soothed himself that at least the intel had been good. He estimated he had a quarter of an hour, so all wasn’t lost, and thank fuck since he’d been laying the groundwork on this target for three solid months. He was more than ready to move on to the next job—though, his first stop would be to hunt down the man in his bed last night and kindly show him why it wasn’t smart to fuck with a man and his gun.

Madigan loaded the clip, made the adjustments on the gun, and fit the clip into the magazine, then checked the scope again and froze.

Where Sheikh Hamadi had been sitting moments ago with Madigan’s crosshairs overlaying his handsome face, there was now only a view of a ficus plant.

Madigan tweaked the scope, zooming out, and tried not to punch something at what he saw. Hamadi’s head was slumped at an awkward angle on his shoulder. The same went for the entourage of four men nearby. Madigan stared in disbelief. No bullet holes, no blood.

How the fuck had they died?

How the fuck had it happened so quickly unless there were a handful of men behind it?

Madigan slowly panned around the room but saw no sign of special ops, no sign of forced entry. No sign of anyone.

Then a flicker of movement caught his eye.

Madigan laid his finger lightly atop the trigger as he homed in on the man in the suit approaching the hotel window.

His blood ran cold for .2 seconds before boiling over in fury. Framed by the window, Akil cut the same elegant silhouette he had last night. His smirk was all the more infuriating in the light of day, especially when he pulled something from his pocket and pressed it to the window.

One of Madigan’s missing magazines.