DECEIT (B723) - Hazel Grace (the reader ebook .txt) 📗

a thumbs-up as he promptly descends the rest of the way. The familiarity of the adrenaline rush that always pumps through my veins accompanies me as Mills and I press our backs against the wall.

And at the exact moment, we retrieve our guns.

Mills inches closer to the edge of the wall, peering over to see what's going on in the family room while I stare at the opposite side of the gray drywall on the other side.

In a wooden frame is Wade's reason for living—Reagan, their son, Huck, and the man himself. The life I always wanted for my best friend and second half-ass boss.

I’ve been so busy with B723 shit that I’m barely in the office with him anymore. I’m more emotional support when he’s about to lose his mind, but everything he has, he deserves.

We’ve been through hell and back together. His wife's survival hangs in the balance, and I know he's blaming himself for the situation.

That he was relying on me to make this go away, and I failed him. I told him the coast was clear, that Holden was dead, that they could come home from Italy.

I put Marty in this position too.

He gave up the love of his life, Stormi, so that she could live safely and not in the world—our world—that we walk through dangerously every day.

Today, it was all me.

I didn't dig enough.

I didn't keep sifting through documents and phone records—a complete rookie move.

A gunshot suddenly rings out, startling both Mills and I, as he tugs on my hand to pull me down with him.

Blocking me with his body, we listen for another one, another scream, another hint of anything from our loved ones.

"Did you just fucking shoot?" I yell-whisper into the phone.

"No," he deadpans with zero emotion. "Marty was hit.”

My face must give it away because the color of Mills's drains. I see the happy-go-lucky part of him seep through his frame as he waits for me to confirm what we're both dreading.

"That blonde chick is fucking insane," Wade whispers sharply in my ear. "She has a gun to her chin."

Stormi.

"We need to move. Marty is going to lose his shit over his girl.” Mills doesn't wait, steadily moving down the stairs, but when I begin, Wade stops me with his next words.

"Just in case you didn't hear it the first time...I love you," Marty says. "With every fucking thing I got. It's not much, but it's me. You make me want to come out of the shadows and bask in the sun with you. You create a sense of peace that I want to drown in. I want you always."

My jaw clenches in anguish as Marty confesses his love to Stormi. Tears prick the back of my eyes because he's not supposed to be here—none of them are.

Guilt rattles my body because Marty is saying goodbye.

The strong, stubborn, keeps-his-feelings-to-himself Marty believes he's thoroughly fucked in the next room.

"I'm moving to the other side," Mills whispers at my side. He grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. "Em."

I crane my head to peer at him, hitting his chest first before trailing up to his perfectly cut jawline peppered in light stubble, those gray eyes that mirror storms, and his slight wide nose. Mills replicates a model turned killer.

Something that doesn't happen.

But Mills did precisely that right before my eyes.

"We're gonna get them out," he tells me with confidence. "All of them." I can only bob my head in agreement because as much as I trust Mills with my life, it doesn't haul us out of this predicament.

"I'm going on the other side—" He jerks his head to it. "—that way, we both have room for a shot."

"Emmy, I think that blonde is going to shoot herself in like twenty seconds here," Wade says in my ear.

Fuck.

Mills glimpses around the wall, and I believe I hear him mutter shit under his breath.

With one long step, he slides back over to me. "Marty is encouraging Stormi to shoot him, the stupid fucker."

"When you hear a gunshot," I tell Wade. "Take out Eli. You got one fucking shot, don't miss."

Wade scoffs, and I move, taking a possessive stance behind Mills, knowing that if the dudes with their backs to us come this way, he turns into my number one mission to protect.

Slowly peeking around Mills, I see two linebacker dudes, one standing behind Reagan in her chair, the other at Marty's back.

Then I see bluish-blonde hair—Stormi dyed it with me weeks ago for a change—step into my view.

With a pistol to her chin.

What in the actual fuck is she doing?

"Move that fucking gun right the fuck now." Marty steps forward, and the man behind him orders to stop before pulling out his pistol and shooting Marty in the back of the leg.

He falls to the ground, and the moment Mills and I pull back on our hammers, the sound will only give us a second to act on making our mark.

"Fuck that," Marty snaps loudly. "I'm telling you, woman...do not touch that trigger."

Mills raises up a hand, holding up four fingers in a silent countdown. We know the drill the moment he gets to one is our opportunity to act.

"Stormi!"

"Remember what I said," I say into the phone to Wade. "We're counting down to three, you hear a shot, you take yours."

"Done," he deadpans.

Mills's three fingers turn into two.

"I got the one behind Marty," I recite to Mills.

"Stormi," Marty imparts again with defeat in his tone. I extend my arms, hands positioned over the handle of my gun. "Don't...please, baby."

One finger.

"You'll always be the best thing that ever happened to me."

I cock the hammer back on my Glock through Stormi's words, her goodbye, and yank on the trigger. The sound combines with Mills's as a second shot rings out in the house.

The rustling of bodies fall to the floor.

One, two, three.

Mindlessly, I step around Mills and locate Marty on his knees. Then Stormi, staring down at a body on the hardwood floors.

A black suit runs out