Crowed (Team Zero #2) by Rina Kent

“Where’s Charlotte?” she demands.

“Char-what?”

“My dog!”

She must be talking about the furball that almost bit my toes off. Like dog, like owner.

“If you’ve done anything to her....” She leaves the sentence hanging as if that should relay the threat.

As if she could threaten me.

“What will you do?” I barge into her personal space until her breath hitches. “Continue what you started with my finger?”

She stares up at me with those mesmerising eyes, and I simply can’t look away. It’s like being caught in a web of my own making. A monster I just released from its cage.

That monster happens to be in the shape of the most beautiful and intriguing woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.

A whine interrupts the moment. Eloise shakes her head and runs to the source of the sound — downstairs, where I locked the dog in a cupboard.

I can’t tear my gaze from the gentle sway of Eloise’s hips or the way that thin gown glues to her waist. The fabric hunches up, revealing sublime, tall legs.

“Go upstairs!” She throws over her shoulders as she descends the stairs, the wood creaking with each step. “Don’t show yourself on this floor again.”

The best way to have me do something is to tell me not to do it.

I know a few things about trouble. I’ve had countless during my career. The last one was being shot.

But this woman?

This tiny, mighty thing? I have a hunch she’ll be the worst trouble I’ve ever gotten myself into.



*****



I settle in a room right above the rocky cliff of the sea. Surprisingly, the constant hits of the waves against the shore aren’t as annoying as I thought they’d be. It’s also a good location, security wise. If anyone attempts to climb the cliff, they’d need a lot of time – and luck to escape the crashing waves.

Due to dust, not so much light filters through the windows’ glass. I pull the dark brown blinders on, too. Risk of snipers. Although it’d be hard to find a good position on those thin branches. The trees would be near impossible to climb while carrying sniper gear.

Whoever built this mansion surely chose a top-notch secured place.

Still, I need to scurry the surrounding forest and plant a few traps. With the injury, I need all the help I can get to remain alive.

I remove my shirt and check on the wound beneath the gauze. It doesn’t burn as much as before. This level of pain is barely noticeable to the likes of me.

A different type of pain, however, is digging its way to my head. Soon, I’ll be worse than a paralysed person, so I need to do this fast.

After throwing my T-shirt on the chair, I sit on the bed and dial Paul. He was my contact when I came to France. His only job was to get me into the country, and therefore, he had no idea about my mission. However, I’m hoping he has some clue about the traitor.

Voicemail.

Again.

Fuck.

I’ll have to visit him in the slums. If he has anything to do with this, I’ll bestow him with the Joker card.

The card is Team Zero’s tradition. Whenever one of us wants to play with a target, they’d place a Joker card on said target. Whoever retrieves the card is the winner and gets to play with the target whichever way they like.

If Paul is involved with the traitor, I’ll glue a fucking card to his forehead.

A throb starts at the back of my head and shoots to the front with a crippling force. I groan, gritting my teeth. I use the antique bedpost to stagger to my feet.

Lying around always makes the symptoms worse.

A gutting pain snaps in my chest, and it’s a lot a worse than being shot. Or attacked by a fucking axe.

I jerk back against something wooden. Drawers open at the force of my fall. Pictures and books scatter on the ground.

Unable to stop the pain, I follow them. My body splays on the hard wooden flooring, covered by a thin carpet. Sweat drips from my forehead, and a full body shake takes hold of me.

My fingers spasm. This is bad. It could mean a seizure is about to follow.

My blurry, disoriented vision falls on the duffel bag. On Omega. My salvation and my fucking damnation. One shot and all this will be over. No more suffering on a daily basis.

I’m dying anyway, so who cares if Omega does it or an enemy’s bullet?

But then, the thoughts that stopped me from taking the shots this entire month stab my head.

One shot and I’ll be a mindless machine, only designed to kill.

One shot and I will start forgetting who the fuck I am in my blind search for blood.

One shot and I will become the type of person who only felt alive when taking lives.

Not anymore.

I hold my head, focusing on the washed-out carpet. It takes every particle of energy to drag my body into a sitting position, back against the bed. This is a better alternative than lying down.

A few more minutes and the symptoms will be gone. At least the seizure will. The pain is a lot less intense than when I first stopped taking the shots. Besides, the bullet wound is meddling with my pain receptors. This is worse than it’s supposed to be.

My gaze falls on the scattered pictures on the floor. My lips part. The excruciating pain almost filters to the background.

Almost.

A child version of Nurse Betty — or Eloise, or whatever the fuck her name is — holds an older man’s hand and smiles big at the camera. The man isn’t her grandfather. Oh. Abso-fucking-lutely not.