Chapter Twenty-Three

Braxton “Pharaoh” Graves

T he team was back in San Francisco, safe and sound. For the most part, anyway. Zaitsev sat locked up in one of the empty apartments, the smallest one located the farthest away from the rest of their living quarters. Brax much preferred to keep him in a holding cell off-site, but that wasn’t currently an option. At least he wasn’t with The Agency or the Bratva any longer, so that was a plus.

Sitting on a stool, his back against the island, Brax watched his team laughing, joking and celebrating, but he couldn’t get into the spirit. Even though he was damn happy for Saint and Mia, he wouldn’t be doing any rejoicing until they’d destroyed The Agency once and for all.

Saint wasn’t wasting any time moving on from his ordeal. He’d proposed to Mia already, and as soon as the shenanigans the team was currently engrossed in played out, they were getting married. For a guy who had claimed he didn’t do serious relationships, Saint sure had started whistling a different tune. Despite the complete one-eighty, Brax could see how much the man had changed since meeting Mia. He smiled now, without a trace of irony or sarcasm. It took a little getting used to, to be honest.

Women always claimed they didn’t want to change a man, but they inevitably tried or did. Granted, Mia was changing Saint for the better by smoothing out his rough edges, but still. Those of the female persuasion were all the same, and he’d discovered he was better off alone.

Did it get lonely sometimes? Sure. But he’d been a fucking Delta Force commander, so hard things didn’t intimidate him. Yeah, celibacy sucked, but even when he’d been sexually active, none of those women had been as good as—

He shut the dangerous thought down fast. No. He refused to think about that lying, conniving, traitorous succubus. Lifting his glass, he took a thoughtful sip of the top-shelf whiskey, mulling over their next step and how they would use the captive chemist to cripple The Agency.

“Where is my fiancée?” Saint growled, prowling around the room.

“You have to pay the ransom!” Inda declared.

“C’mon, Saint, play along. They’re your traditions!” Ryland laughed, slapping the other man on the back.

“You idiots don’t know anything about Russian wedding traditions,” he stated, but he was smiling and all the growl was merely for show.

Zane read from a sheet of paper he’d printed off the internet. “It says you need to pay a ransom for the bride. That means you have to offer us money or jewelry.”

“I’ll accept cash, too,” Ryland added with a cheeky grin.

Saint scoffed. Then he walked past where Brax sat and opened a cabinet. “How about some expensive vodka instead?”

“That’ll work,” Harper chimed in. “As long as we have something sweet to add to it.”

“I’ll grab the Midori,” River offered.

“Ooh, delish!” Inda turned to Lucas, sending him a sultry smile. Brax knew exactly what that look meant.

It meant she wanted a ring on her finger, too. Like Harper, Aubrey, River and now Mia had. That’s all women ever wanted. And some would go to any lengths to get it, he thought sourly.

“Are there any special wedding traditions you would want to do?” Inda asked Lucas, innocently batting her lashes.

Predictable. Brax shook his head.

“Why, yes, Onca. I’m a big believer in a very long, sex-filled honeymoon.”

She slapped his arm. “I bet you are!”

The hacker grabbed her, reeled her in and kissed her.

Saint cracked open the bottle and poured a glass for Brax first. “This is much better than that,” he stated, nodding to the whiskey. “But we’re celebrating, so here’s to being double-fisted all night.”

He clinked his glass against Brax’s and wandered back over to the party as Aubrey called for Mia, who came out of a nearby apartment.

“Your man has fulfilled his ransom,” River declared, raising her glass. “To Saint and Mia! It may have been a short engagement, but that’s how we do it around here.”

Congratulations filled the air.

Not long after, a Russian Orthodox priest in full liturgical vestments showed up at the door, courtesy of Zane. Brax wasn’t sure how he’d managed to pull it off in such a short amount of time, but there he was, ready to marry the happy couple.

The ceremony, spoken in both Russian and English, turned out better than Brax could’ve imagined. Even so, he didn’t believe in marriage. Not anymore. He’d taken one disastrous trip down the aisle and had regretted it ever since.

He had no idea whether or not his teammates’ marriages would last. He wished them all nothing but the best. At the same time, his jaded side knew better. Incredible sex, undying love, endless promises made in the throes of passion inevitably faded. Eventually, people’s true colors came out.

Once Saint and Mia exchanged their vows, they placed plain platinum bands on each other’s right ring fingers, which was the Russian tradition. The priest declared them husband and wife—God, help them—and they exchanged a long kiss. Then the priest made a quick exit as the party erupted.

Braxton wished he could shrug off his funk and let loose. God, he felt like a crabby old man. As much as he wanted to go and hide in his quarters, he was their leader and it was important for him to be there, to show solidarity. However, he planned to sneak away at the first opportunity that presented itself.

“I am the official ‘Tamada’,” Zane announced.

“Dude, you spend too much time on the internet,” Ryland said.

“What’s a Tamato?” Gray asked.

“Not tomato, Tamada,” Zane corrected, and they all laughed. “The designated master of ceremonies. And the first item on the agenda is a toast for the new couple.”

“Cuz we haven’t done any of those yet,” Harper added with a hiccup.

Zane lifted his glass of vodka—at some point they’d opened a second bottle—and everyone followed suit.

“Okay, please make do with my shaky Russian,” Zane said and smirked.

“You’ve got this,” Saint encouraged him. “Besides, no one understands but me and River.”

“True! Okay, you guys remember what to do?” Zane asked, and there were nods all around. “ Za-Molodykh ! For the newlyweds!”

“ Gor’ko !” Everyone shouted.

Saint burst out laughing then turned to his bride. “They just protested that the wine—er, vodka—is bitter. To sweeten it, we need to kiss for as long as possible.”

“I think that can be arranged,” she murmured.

“And if they don’t kiss long enough, we can demand they do it again,” Zane added mischievously.

Saint caught Mia’s lips in a heated kiss and, yeah, they didn’t need to demand anything. The kiss lasted far longer than anything Brax had ever seen. With a chuckle, he wandered back over to the island, set the vodka down and picked up the whiskey again. It was his drink of choice and went down in a smooth burn that he liked to savor.

Once he refilled his glass, he found a comfortable chair at the edge of the action and watched the party from afar. River’s furry feline made a beeline for him, jumped up and perched on the arm of the chair. The cat always seemed to find him. Brax absently stroked a hand down Neo’s back, eliciting loud purrs. It had been a long time since he’d had a pet and he’d forgotten the comfort they could provide.

Maybe one day. The cat began curling his claws into the chair’s fabric and Brax sighed. He’d definitely get a dog.

Zane kept the group highly entertained with jokes and games, and everyone offered toast after toast. They brought the food out not long after and dug into a feast Inda had prepared. The girls had even baked a wedding cake. Considering how tipsy everyone was, it was a good thing. They needed some food to soak up all the alcohol.

They deserve this, though , Brax thought. After months of fighting The Agency, his team needed to let some steam off and have a good time. There were still unanswered questions—like why the hell his name was on the list Zane and River had decrypted—but Brax knew they’d figure everything out. They didn’t have an option.

His phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket, checking the screen. Unknown. Curious, he opened the message: I have intel for you.

Frowning, he sat up straighter. The message on his personal phone—a number no one else but his team should have—caught his attention.

He texted back: Who is this?

Three little bubbles appeared. Disappeared.

“C’mon,” he whispered. Brax hated games, and whoever this person was, he or she was playing a dangerous one. Just as he was about to set the phone down, it buzzed again. He stabbed the screen and opened the message: 222 Elm Street.

That was it. Just a nearby address. Brax considered his options: take a teammate with him and go check it out. Or, ignore the message.

His gaze wandered over to his drunken crew. Zane was attempting to speak Russian, clearly blitzed, River hanging around his neck and correcting him. She was fluent. No-go there. Inda and Lucas were feeding each other wedding cake. Well, mostly smashing it in each other’s faces then licking it off one another. He couldn’t bother the groom, who seemed to have disappeared with his new bride anyway. Same for Ryland and Harper, who were always the first to head back to their apartment. Gray seemed like the obvious choice until Brax saw him on his hands and knees, acting like a horse, and Aubrey sitting on his back yelling, “Giddyup!”

Brax shook his head. Everyone was in fucking love and three sheets to the wind.

“I’d be better off bringing you,” he murmured to Neo.

Pushing up out of the chair, he swallowed back the rest of his whiskey and set the glass down. Then he went to grab his Glock. Most likely the lead was bullshit, nothing more than a hoax. But Brax was thorough—in every aspect of his life—so he decided to check it out. Besides, he needed some fresh air to clear his head.

◆◆◆

After 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.

And 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, 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. No one else was in there this late, 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.