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SCARLET

F rom my luggage, I grab the box full of sterile disposable scalpels and go to the bathroom counter. I take out one of the blades and insert it into the stainless-steel handle. Then, I lift my shirt and on an exhale, slide the sharp tool to make two marks on the skin of my lower back, just beneath all the others.

The lines go from white to red as blood fills them and forms tiny rivulets that roll down toward my waist.

Sergio Ramos and Jorge Ruiz.

Two more deaths added to my list. Two more sins. Two more scars.

The cuts sting. They always do. But the hardest part comes after, when I have to lift my gaze to the mirror and search my eyes for a soul. Is it still there? Some days it’s hard to tell.

Today is one of those days.

It’s Gunn. He’s thrown me off my mojo. I’m confused. Disorientated.

Taking out a criminal has never been an issue for me. Taking out one of the men on Gideon’s list even less. Yet with Sergio I hesitated. I doubted. I asked fucking questions.

His wife was murdered, he sought revenge. He worried about his little dog. Now I’m worried about him too, and I never worry!

Fucking Gunn. I’m certain my encounter with him has me like this.

“Get a grip,” I mumble to myself.

But it’s not just him. Oh no. These strange thoughts that have been like a wrench in my very focused brain can be traced back to a single event. A single person.

I twist slightly to get a better look at another scar, this one on my side where the skin is more sensitive.

This scar is thicker, made so because it’s not just one line, but many. And yet there can never be enough.

With the scalpel still in hand, I make another mark over that one, a new reminder of what I did. This time, looking in the mirror again becomes impossible. All I’ll see is a monster, anyway.

My phone buzzes, thankfully distracting me from the dark path my thoughts were about to take a trip on.

Gideon: 839 Status.

The text comes in with a code we use to prove it is us. He sends a random number, and I reply with the same in reverse.

Me: 938 Job complete.

Gideon: All of it?

My neck tenses.

Me: It will be done.

It can’t be a coincidence that Gunn was on Bourbon Street at the same time I was. He was searching for me.

But if he’d known where I’m staying, he wouldn’t have followed me. He would have killed me in my room. That means, he must have been stalking the streets, waiting for me to make an appearance. It’s a small enough town that the odds were in his favor.

Smart man.

Smart me too, because I’m about to take a page from his playbook.

If he found me , I can find him too.

With a newly formulated plan, I shower and redress in a blue, short sleeve turtle neck and black leggings. Then I’m out the door heading for the place on Bourbon Street where I first saw him. If he found me there once, there’s a possibility he’ll return.

There’s a gated alley on the side of one of the buildings. I push the iron door and shut it behind me after I step into the dark space. From here, I’m well concealed but still have a good view of everyone passing.

And I wait.

Just as predicted, not one hour later, I see him. It’s easy to spot him as he has several inches over everyone around him. He’s walking down the sidewalk, fully alert, his gaze darting from side to side. Probably on the hunt for me.

I sink deeper into the shadows as he nears. When he passes and is a safe distance away, I jut out into the crowd and trail him.

He goes all the way down Bourbon Street, pausing a few times to look around, forcing me to hide behind strangers.

We move like that all the way down to Bienville Street, just one block from where I’m staying. Shit. It’s a miracle he didn’t get to me sooner.

Just like the place I’m staying, he goes in the door of an old mansion turned guesthouse.

And I smile. “Gotcha!”

After a quick search where I spot only a few random cameras located at the front door, I move around the inn as I scan all the windows for evidence of movement. It gets tricky when I have to climb an iron fence covered in thorny vines, but it’s the only way to get a good view of all the rooms without having to go through the reception and I can’t risk them having their own version of Miss Sherry.

The back of the building has a nice courtyard with an oversized fountain that must be original to the property, and a small in-ground hot tub that is definitely not.

Validating my assessment that there aren’t cameras everywhere, is a couple in the middle of an intense make out session, maybe even more, but it’s hard to tell with all the bubbles. They probably assume that given the hour, they have all the privacy in the world to do whatever they want.

Gross. Anyone else that uses the Jacuzzi tomorrow will be bathing in their juices. I think of all the public pools I’ve been in and cringe.

They don’t notice me as I go past them, too absorbed in their tryst, their sloshing sounds covering my footsteps.

A light in one of the second-floor rooms turns on. I press myself against the wall as a large shadowy figure appears at the French doors of the balcony. The curtains move aside only slightly, but even through the sliver of a view I can tell it’s Gunn before he disappears back into the room.

Giving the couple one last glance to make sure they’re still busy, I easily climb one of the many oak trees encroaching on the buildings and jump onto the balcony.

I listen intently for any sound before I peer inside. Through the sheer panels, I can easily see the huge room. Football is playing on the flat screen TV set on an antique dresser. Across from that, on the queen wrought iron bed is an open suitcase with clothes set all around it, as if he’s in the middle of packing.

Is he leaving New Orleans?

I consider texting Gideon the possibility when beyond the bed I spot the light and steam emanating from the bathroom.

He’s showering.

My heart skips a beat as the unheeded image of Gunn Sinclair in all his naked glory barges into my brain. Unheeded, but certainly not unwelcome.

“Such a shame,” I mumble to myself as I work the flimsy lock and step inside. Either he needs a lesson in security measures, or he thinks he’s that good at protecting himself.

Or maybe he’s expecting you…

This could be a trap. I’d certainly never stay in a place like this without setting up my own security. Then again, the only thing I have going at La Maison Rouge is Miss Sherry.

Cautiously, I go the bathroom door that’s been left ajar and peer inside. Through the foggy mirror, I can see him showering in the glass enclosed space, and it’s a clear enough view that it has my salivary glands working overtime.

I can literally feel my pupils dilate as my eyes follow the movement of his hands over his broad chest, the way his muscles flex as he scrubs his dark, wet skin, and spreads soapy suds only for them to drip down his abs.

He turns just as I lower my gaze to catch a glimpse of what he’s packing, but instead get a view of his ass. I’m not disappointed though, because it’s the kind of ass I could stare at for a long time.

And he has Venus Dimples. Of course he would. A grin tugs my lips to one side as I take in the deep indents on his lower back.

You want to lick those too, don’t you? my little she-devil asks and I nod in response.

When the mirror becomes too foggy to see through, I curse silently. However, it’s for the best. I have work to do and drooling over my target isn’t it.

But damn, what a pretty target he is.