A/N: Enjoy.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

How to Deal, Motherfucker

I put the phone down and close my eyes in frustration. Why'd he have to go there?

I know who he is, and now he knows me. He knows what and who I'm here for, and it's only a matter of time before one of us destroys the other. I intend to be be the survivor. I must survive. I've been too far to fall into oblivion here.

It's time to bait the trap, and see what kind of trophy I can catch—not that I'd mount his head. I doubt I'd find a taxidermist who'd be down for that.

I go into town, making a quick stop at a boutique on Main Street for something reasonably more feminine than the boots and jeans I'm sporting. Maybe Emmett doesn't give a shit about those kinds of things, but I need him off his game and falling into mine. Forty-five minutes and a black dress and red heels later, I'm walking to where I know he'll be.

I've been around here enough to know exactly where he goes, what he does, and even what time he grabs the paper for his morning shit. He's predictable, and while I'm probably too critical of him—I mean, he's a Squid, not CIA—I can't help but feel like he should take better care to not be so goddamn obvious. Jesus. I hope he's not like this in the field. He's bound to get himself blown to bits.

See. I fucking care too much. He's supposed to be a pawn, and here I am, queening him like a fucking chess piece. I might have made a mistake in allowing him as close as I did, but the realization is too little, too late; unstoppable.

There isn't any fixing this; there's only … Well, I'll deal with that if I have to.

I'm not a bad person, I swear. I've only ever murdered one person, and he deserved it. I appointed myself judge, jury, and executioner in Royce's trial by bullet. Everyone else—the assassinations, the sabotage—those were ordered strikes. They don't count: Unofficial rules of governments.

And I don't want to add to the murder ticker by having to take out someone that really doesn't deserve it. Hell, I don't want to ever have to add to it again. This is why I wish people would mind their own goddamn business and not ask for my file or maybe not talk to Katie Couric about doing a fucking interview about their shithole ex-husband.

Why do I have to think for the masses? Really, it's exhausting.

When I open the door of the bar, I become someone else. This is what I'm good at. Make believe and lies have filled my life since I was eighteen—three years after Dad died in Turkey, and the government had been my pseudo parent before taking me under its wing and turning me into a killing machine. Their killing machine. A weapon, secretly perfect in the most unexpected ways.

Emmett, per his nightly routine when he's in town, is playing pool and drinking a Guinness at the last of three pool tables. His muscles flex in that shirt the way my stomach is rippling at the distant memory of his touch from all those months ago. I wanted him as much then as I do now, and he knew just what I needed, even if I didn't.

He calls his shot, and I can hear him from across the bar—that loud, thunderous, and strangely obnoxious but perfect bass.

"Walker. Black Label. Neat," I tell the bartender as I slap a twenty down, not taking my eyes off Emmett as he whoops and laughs boisterously as he lands his shot. The burn of whiskey is appropriate for tonight. It burns me like I burn for him; the way I'll burn him up if I must.

Whiskey, ingested. Emmett in my crosshairs. Here we go.

xxxxxxxx

A/N: It's about to go down, folks. Hold onto your panties.