Scorpion

I feel like a geriatric.

My neck hurts because I slept on it wrong. My back is aching because of an overly aggressive sneeze. To top it off, I have to wear sole inserts in my boot. If I thought gait training with the physio was demeaning, being told I have to wear the inserts as much as possible didn’t sit well with my psyche.

Mathijs wasn’t messing around with my rehab.

The physio comes over three times a week for an hour each time. I have a course of pain meds, and I’m expected to do the exercises three times a day as well. Honestly, my foot has never felt better. But I still haven’t gotten nearly as much sleep as I should have.

The grass squelches beneath my boots as I head toward the main house. Mathijs gave me a debrief of the full scope of my job description, the Exodus, and the current state of affairs within the counterfeit cash world. I don’t know what the fuck I’m getting into, but at this point, I don’t care.

After two and a half years, the monotony finally ends. I’m not spending my days looking forward to my next fight just so I can feel something. Now, every day will be slightly different.

Sure, I’ll probably get sick of being a babysitter, but it’s the only reason I’ve had to get out of bed.

A dollop of mud flies onto my cargo pants, and I groan as I pat it off. If I’m being completely transparent with myself, part of the nerves comes down to the fact that I haven’t been this dressed up in years, and there’s still the niggling feeling in my stomach that wants to impress him.

The late afternoon breeze sweeps through the air, and I shiver, zipping up the last few inches of my leather jacket. As per his highness’s advice, I left the gun in a safe because I’m getting my very own untraceable weapon.

I pause when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Frowning, I read the text from Amy.

Amy: I just got your recent payment. You really don’t have to keep sending me money, Zal. It’s been two years.

Me: Gaya would have wanted me to take care of you.

Gaya wouldn’t have wanted me to do a lot of the things I do now. Sending Amy money is my way of making up for it.

Locking my phone, I continue toward the main house.

A group of men in suits and earpieces mill around the SUVs parked out front. I can feel their eyes on me as I climb the steps into the main house.

It looks homier than I remember. There’s a lived-in feel about it that might convince a stranger that a whole family owns this house, not just one man. At least, it would appear domestic if there weren’t so many armed men stationed all around the place.

Mathijs enters the foyer a second after I do. There’s a subtle pinch between his brow, and an air of intimidation around him that I’ve never seen before.

Mathijs Halenbeek. Leader of the Halenbeek Empire. An Elder within the Exodus. This is the first time I’ve met this version of him, and I don’t know what to make of it. But I can’t help feeling some semblance of solace knowing that I’m not the only one whose skin had to turn into stone to make it through.

The one security guard stationed inside exits through the front door behind me. When the lock clicks shut, Mathijs’s mask disappears. He drags his heated gaze from the top of my head down to the soles of my feet. A sly grin shapes his lips, and I’m like a deer caught in headlights. What on earth am I meant to do in this kind of situation?

I’m meant to be his employee, paid to keep him safe. Blatantly checking me out has to be in violation of every single code of ethics employers are meant to adopt.

“Come with me.”

I square my shoulders. “Is that an order?”

“If that’s what you prefer.” He winks. “I recall you liked being told what to do.”

Red flushes my cheeks in an instant. I gape at the space he once occupied and curse internally before scrambling after him. Just like old times.

That’s an added stress I didn’t think would come with the job—getting flustered because my ex-boyfriend-turned-boss hit on me.

And brought up our old sex life.

My first hour isn’t getting off to a good start.

I clear my throat as I follow him into his office, which has barely changed. There’s still a giant stag head mounted on the wall, with two smaller ones on either side of it. He’s still using the same antique, green rug, and leather couch, and the grand table facing the middle of the room.

He stations himself by the long meeting table where a pool table once stood. Maps and various ledgers and stacks of cash are strewn across it, haphazard yet organized. I still once more when he rakes his gaze up and down my body.

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Sorry, I wasn’t given a uniform.” Was I meant to ask for one, or did I wrongly assume that it would just be handed to me?

“Good. Because you don’t have one.”

Right. I’m meant to blend in… I look at my combat boots, cargo pants, and leather bomber jacket. I most definitely do not fit in. I look like I’ve stepped straight out of a post apocalyptic video game.

“You’ve dressed beautifully.” His lips quirk into a childish grin as my skin burns under the weight of his compliment. “Although, you would look better without all of it.”

Lord, help me.

High school pickup lines.

I cross my arms, suddenly feeling like I’m seventeen years old, listening to every single horrific pickup line he managed to find online. “You’re going to get a sexual harassment lawsuit if you keep this up.”

“That’s why you’re a contractor. Can’t sue me then.” He taps his temple, signaling that he thought it through. “It would be unfortunate for my hired guns to unionize. The Halenbeek Enterprise HR team has enough on their plate as is.”

I roll my eyes, and for some reason, his smile turns beaming. The sight makes my chest squeeze. Mathijs has started wearing my defenses down far too quickly and it’s unsettling me. I’m not sure whether I’m turning into a stranger or into someone I’ve always known.

Before I can overthink the heavy shift in the air, he launches into explaining today’s excursion. “I’ve arranged to meet with an informant who has intel regarding Goldchild’s shop.” He points to a spot on the map. “It’s an abandoned factory out west in a commercial area. One of my men has scouted it and identified three possible locations for you to set up.” He taps three spots surrounding the factory. “You’ll be the eyes of this operation. If this is a setup, shoot to kill.”

My lips part, not because of what’s being asked of me, but because he’s the one telling me to pull the trigger. It’s hard to reconcile the fact that this is the same man who made pillow forts with me and memorized the recipe for microwave mug-brownies.

I swallow and nod. I admit, I’m looking forward to having a rifle back in my hands.

“The society I’m part of, the Exodus, has been up my ass. They wanted Goldchild’s head on a platter last week. I don’t care what needs to be done, I want him on a pike Vlad the Impaler–style.”

Right. Best I can do is shoot him.

I nod once more.

Sergei joins us a moment later to debrief me on the plans, including times, streets, and best- and worst-case scenarios. My head swims with information, but the familiarity of it all has my blood thrumming. It’s a heady mix of excitement and the anxiety of imminent death.

When the door shuts behind Sergei, I revert my attention to Mathijs, waiting for an order or some indication that we’re going to head out—or more specifically, I’m allowed to head out to scout the area first.

Unless… Am I meant to be playing personal bodyguard then get myself up on a roof? “Uh, am I riding with you?”

His eyes brighten. “Take out the with and it’s an enthusiastic yes.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Right.

I frown.

Mathijs reaches beneath the desk and throws a backpack toward me. I catch it midair. “What’s this?”

“Open it.”

He smirks all mischievously, and I narrow my eyes at him. Cautiously, I unzip the unassuming backpack and pull out the hard shell casing within.

“Code is four-nine-seven-two-six.”

I spin the dials and the latch clicks open. My eyes drift to him once more before I swallow whatever skepticism I have and open the lid, then unpack the contents.

My shoulders fall. God, I’m dramatic. I was a specialist sniper. I’ve been hired to be his sharpshooter. Of course he’s giving me a fucking rifle. Duh.

Even disassembled, the cool metal is a comforting presence in my hand. Like muscle memory, I spring into action, putting together the sniper like there’s someone holding up a timer and yelling at me to hustle.

I internally smile when the last part clicks into place.

I still got it.

Flipping the weapon over, I point it to the floor to inspect every detail of it, only to still at the serial number at the bottom. My lips part. “This is property of the US military.”

He shrugs, looking far too smug for his own good. “Perhaps.”

“How did you get this?”

“I’m resourceful.”

“It’s illegal for you to have this.”

“Darling, everything I do is illegal.” He winks. “You’ll find that it’s more fun that way.”

Shaking my head, I disassemble the weapon and return it to its case. Honestly, I expected nothing less. For some reason, I thought he’d be buying off gunrunners who do it all off the books. There’s poetic justice in pulling the finger at the government while using their guns to circulate counterfeits.

“There’s more.”

I pause just as I’m about to return the case into the bag. Sending him a questioning look, I inch the front zipper open. This motherfucker. I wave the Cheetos in the air and raise a questioning brow.

He grins like this is his best work. “In case you get hungry.”

The Capri Sun wobbles in my hand.

“It’s important that my staff stays hydrated.”

Fucking hell.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m a good employer.”

“Should I ask what Sergei has in his pack?”

“Zalak, you should know better than to ask what’s in a man’s bag.”

I scoff, packing everything back up. “Nothing particularly useful, usually.”

He chuckles. “It makes us feel important to have one.”

“When was the last time you wore a backpack?”

“I don’t need to feel important, when I already am it.”

I shake my head and shoulder the bag, leaving the room without getting dismissed first. In the military, I would get my ass kicked to Sunday and back if I did that. Here? What’s he going to do? Fire me? Somehow, I doubt that.

I run through a checklist of everything I need to do once I reach the meetup spot. Anxiety prickles up my spine, but for once, it’s the good type of nerves. Without fear, people who go into war zones don’t come out.

There’s a line of SUVs parked right in front of the house. One of the doors is open for Mathijs and—

Every cell in my body goes cold.

I didn’t think this through. Why the fuck didn’t I remember that these kinds of jobs involve that?

Sweat gathers down my spine and my heart rate triples its speed. I whip my head around like we’re seconds away from blowing up into a hundred parts. I haven’t been inside a car in over two years. Buses are fine. Trains are doable. A car? Especially a fucking SUV?

No.

No.

I can do it.

I’m not there anymore. TJ—

No. I have to focus. I need this job. I can’t afford to lose it.

Pain flares in my foot and the sound of scraping metal rings through my ears as I force myself to take a step forward. Images of TJ’s body flash before me. The fire. The shards of metal. The screaming. Gunshots.

I can’t do it.

I can’t—

“Zalak.”

I grab a fistful of the person’s clothes, ready to slam them onto the ground and pummel their head in.

“Zalak,” Mathijs whispers, a soft smile curving his lips like he’s oblivious to my state. The creases of concern around his eyes are a dead giveaway. He motions to the side of the house, making no move to get my hand off him as my lungs burn with my rapid breaths. “Your beast awaits.”

I follow the direction he’s pointing to—a sleek black motorcycle. He… he knows. Swallowing, I quickly extract my fingers and mutter a quick thanks. Fuck, I need to get my shit together. I can’t lose it on my first goddamn day. I’m here to do a job and prove I’m wholly competent for it. So far, I’ve proven that I’m anything but.

If I had this kind of reaction in the military, I would be suspended faster than I could line up a shot. Balling my fists, I focus on my surroundings—tallying up the guards, the exits, the clear skies, the lack of movement in the bushes.

I’m not there anymore. I repeat that mantra until I’m sick of it.

Safe isn’t a word I can use today. My foot seems to develop a sixth sense for incoming danger, because the pain alleviates with each step. Avoiding eye contact becomes a no-brainer once I have my helmet firmly in place, and I can pretend to know what I’m doing. Fake it until you make it.

Except in this case, faking it could mean someone dies. No pressure.

The motorbike rumbles to life beneath me, and I rev the engine before taking off toward the meeting point. The gates open before I even reach them, then I’m on the road. The exhilaration of zipping down the road can’t be replicated inside of a car. Nothing compares to the freedom of being outside a metal can.

I navigate onto the highway and off into the industrial area. As expected, it’s near deserted this late in the afternoon. No one in their right mind would be working at this time on a Sunday. There’s a slight chill in the air that sets me on edge. Everything is stiller, like the forest has quietened right before an oncoming attack.

Parking two blocks away from the spot, I slip my earpiece in and scout the area, taking inventory of every building, every movement, every conceivable thing that could pose a threat. Cars still drive past on the main road. I saw a homeless man pushing a trolley in the opposite direction, three blocks away.

There’s the occasional chatter coming from the device about their ETA. Otherwise, I tune it out because I reach the place where the meetup is going to happen. Five tall buildings circle the spot. It’s a sniper’s worst fucking nightmare.

Who the fuck chose to meet here? Five multistory buildings. Five. One looks like it might be an empty office building. One’s an abandoned factory, another is a car garage, and there are two big-ass sheds.

Too many blind spots.

I’m going to argue with Mathijs if he suggests meeting anyone here again.

If Sergei chose it, then he’s lost my respect.

I can’t protect Mathijs from shit at a place like this.

Grumbling beneath my breath, I pick the abandoned factory. It’s the tallest and the least likely to have any workers inside. There’s also a fire escape for me to speed down if there’s an emergency. Out of all the buildings, I figure that the sheds are the lesser threat when it comes to hidden snipers. And I can’t shoot at someone in the office building if I’m inside.

The rusted ladder creaks under my weight despite how hard I try to stay quiet. It has to be at least four stories high, and if the lack of dust on these handles are any indication, I’m not the only one who thinks this is a good place to set up for the view.

Empty beer bottles and broken glass litter the roof. I sidestep a bong and avoid the two needles to situate myself at the corner. It’s a shit spot, but at least I’ll have a clear view of the chosen meeting point, and a partially obstructed view of both ends of the street.

A helicopter passes in the distance, and I flinch. Momentarily thrown back to a place where sand crunches beneath my boots, and the blistering heat tears at my skin.

Clearing my head, I remove the backpack to assemble the rifle. The motion of getting ready for potential battle fills the hollow part of my soul. This, I know how to do. Clean a gun, put it together, shoot. I’m good at these things, and fuck if it doesn’t feel good to have a sniper in my hands again. As fucked up as it is, I’m hoping I get to pull the trigger.

I grab the binoculars and spend a couple minutes scanning the area, paying extra caution to the office building. None of the roofs or windows seem to have any snipers, but again, what do I fucking know? From this position, I won’t find out until they shoot.

Each movement catches my attention. Every sound makes me still. The four birds to the left perched along a windowsill, the candy wrapper floating along the street, the lone pigeon that sings every forty seconds.

If I had it my way, we would relocate or meet at a different time. But this is just how it’s going to be. And if Mathijs dies because he chose a shitty location, I’m going to kill him.

“All clear to enter,” I report to Sergei. Mathijs is ninety seconds out and two minutes late for the meet. “Green isn’t here,” I say Goldchild’s code name.

“Moving in.”

I don’t recognize whose voice that is, which isn’t surprising.

I settle onto the floor, attempting to get comfortable even though my knees are digging into the concrete. Supporting the rifle on the ledge and my shoulders, I peer down the lens and do another sweep of the area. Another downside to my spot is that there’s no way for me to conceal my position. On the other hand, all I need to do is drop down and I’m sheltered behind the cement walls. You win some, you lose some.

It feels wrong to do this without TJ. It feels wrong to do this alone in general, but especially without him. He had more experience than me, which made him the perfect spotter. The lack of shit talking makes this whole situation seem foreign. I say a silent prayer that his crazy ass is up there getting drunk and watching over me.

The thrum of engines grows louder with our team’s approach. They park opposite my chosen building and leave the three SUVs running.

Mathijs being Mathijs chooses that moment to break security protocol and step out of the vehicle to conduct his search of the surroundings. Most of the guards join him in surveying the area.

His head is perfectly centered down my scope. I could have made this shot when I was sixteen. What the fuck is everyone thinking? How the hell has he survived this long if he’s apparently got so many enemies.

“Return Edelhert to the vehicle.” Annoyance slips into my voice. No one has died under my protection, and I don’t intend to change that now.

The corners of every sniper’s dream target’s lips tip up like he’s heard me. He searches the buildings until his green eyes penetrate through the lens and has me momentarily disarmed. Age has done that man wonders. Mathijs winks just as one of the guards whispers in his ear—I assume it’s to politely tell him to get his ass into the car with the tinted, bulletproof windows.

Surprisingly, he complies. I don’t breathe any easier once he’s out of the kill zone, but being behind a rifle gives me a sick sense of calm. It’s like having my body evolve in a matter of seconds. Sights become clearer, sounds become louder, the breeze feels like a gust of wind. In this space, there’s nothing but me and the other end of the gun. Everything else ceases to exist.

This whole thing would be better if I had someone beside me. I’ve never been on watch without a spotter before. There’s no one to watch my six in case someone creeps up on me, or if there’s commotion where I can’t see. It doesn’t help that I have no idea how trained Mathijs’s guys are either.

Fuck.

I should have talked this through before we left. No one I’ve come across has struck me as shady, but it’s hard to tell. There are always scorpions hidden in the sand—literally. It’s the whole reason I got my name. I sat to readjust my boot while we were in the Middle East, and I almost died from one.

Tightening my hold around the rifle, I keep sweeping the area, going back to the SUV every few seconds to make sure he hasn’t moved position.

“Vehicle approaching south from Wilson Ave,” a voice comes through my earpiece.

I angle the gun in that direction and spot a single sedan heading our way. The men collectively stand taller and grip their weapons tighter.

“Weapons hot,” Sergei says.

The car’s plates have been conveniently removed, and it’s fully tinted so I can’t make out how many people are waiting in the car. It doesn’t smell like an ambush, but it takes one person to make a kill shot. Something feels off. If what they’re saying about Goldchild is true, he wouldn’t come here in a single car. There would be some level of muscle that would rival Mathijs’s.

“Give me reports.” Sergei’s voice sounds through my earpiece.

“I have eyes on a black sedan,” I say.

“North end is clear.”

“Western alley is clear.”

“East’s all clear.”

“Nothing suspicious on the main road.”

Something’s wrong.

Goldchild pulls up across from Mathijs’s car. It isn’t until someone steps out that one of our men opens the door for Mathijs.

Idiots. They’re meant to wait for an all clear first.

The barrel of my gun is trained on the newcomer, perfectly centered for a clean shot. I don’t recognize him from any of the pictures of known members that I was given last night. Hired muscle maybe? Or a random man from their organization?

A plain brown envelope sits in his hand, too thin to pose any kind of threat unless there’s a razor hidden in there. Or poison.

Wordlessly, he passes the envelope to one of our men before returning to his car to drive away. It isn’t until they’re revving down the street that the item is passed to Mathijs. Slowly, he opens it with his gloved hands, then unfolds the single sheet of paper.

He holds the letter up for me to see, and there, in black marker are three words:

FUCK YOU, CUNT.