Nicky's POV 

"Nicky, Nicky, Nicky," He tsks. He sticks a hand under my chin and lifts my head up until my gaze is level with his. He lets out another over exaggerated sigh. "Why must you make this so difficult?"

I spit in his face for good measure.

He lets out another sigh as if this whole exchange is boring him and wipes his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

Once upon a time, I would have called him my friend. He would have been there for me and he would've had my back. And I would have done the same for him. Now, I'd just be content to stab him in the back or throw him in front of a moving bus.

I'm not usually a violent person. I swear.

He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it into the corner of the room and immediately fear begins to spread through me. He gives me a look and I make sure to continue on with my death glare, making sure the fear doesn't show on my face.

I'm pretty sure I'm at least mildly successful in this, as he visibly flinches under my harsh gaze.

Of course, next thing I know my head is snapping to the side and there's a sharp stinging across my cheek. I suck in a breath and take a second to school my face back into the glare it was before as I turn back to him. He doesn't waste a second though, and his fist makes contact with the side of my head and for a second my vision goes black and my glasses are knocked off my face.

His next strike connects with my jaw and I taste blood in my mouth as I accidentally bite down on my tongue. He strikes again and this time my lip is split open and I begin to gag on the blood in my mouth. I spit it out on the floor just moments before his boot comes in contact with my side. I begin to feel like I can't breathe and begin wheezing, trying to catch my breath.

I let out a gasp as my eyes fly open. The dream coming to an abrupt end. But it was more than a dream. It was a memory.

I try to catch my breath and push myself up into a seated position. Immediately I let out a groan as a pounding starts in my head and pain shoots through my body.

My hand goes to my head, poking at what I'm assuming is a bandage. I wince as I press down too hard, a pain shooting through my skull and making me want to knock myself out so it stops.

As I look around, trying to figure out where I am, I spot my glasses on the coffee table next to me. I reach my arm out grab them and then immediately curse as a burning pain shoots through my body once again. I bite my tongue to keep from crying out and blink my eyes to try and stop the tears of pain.

"Idiot," I hear a voice say, but my head is too fuzzy from pain to identify that voice. "Stay down before you do any more damage to yourself."

I look at the tall blurry figure walking toward me. "Ryder?" I question and then wince as my voice comes out hoarse.

He walks toward me and picks my glasses up off the table. "Guess again," He says as he slides the glasses over my eyes.

My breath catches in my throat and my heart starts beating fast, panic beginning to flood through me. "John," I whisper.

He glances at me briefly before he starts messing with the bandage covering mostly my shoulder, but part of my chest.

"What happened?" I ask quietly. "Where's Ryder?"

His gaze meets mine once again. "Your FBI friend left," He says as he goes back to messing with the bandage, unwrapping it and pulling it away. "As for what happened," I wince as his fingers poke at the wound in my shoulder. "You got shot. I thought that was pretty obvious."

I'm not sure I want to know the answer to my next question, but I know I have to ask anyway. "By who?"

He looks up at me once again as he starts rewrapping the wound in my shoulder. "Me."

"Then why am I not dead?" I ask him.

The look he gives me is deadly. "Because you got in the way. I wasn't aiming for you." His eyes narrow further. "I missed."

"Why did you aim at Ryder first instead of me?"

"Because I don't like law enforcement showing up at my door."

"I bet shooting them goes over really well."

His fingers dig into the wound in my shoulder and I bite back a curse. "Keep talking," He says.

I suddenly remember what he said about Ryder. "He left?" I question.

John doesn't look up from finishing rewrapping my wound. "Yes. You went down. Hit your head." He just barely gestures to the bandage on my head. "I shot at him. He shot back. And then he took off."

I stare at my hands in my lap, my mind racing over his words. My thoughts flying to Ryder. To fact that he's gone. And likely not coming back. I shouldn't be so upset about that-and not just because I currently have bigger problems-because I knew this would happen. I knew there was no way I would be able to keep hiding. And yet, no manner of mental pep talk is able to prepare me for the fact that Ryder's gone.

I frown as I think over John's words. "How do you know he's FBI?" I ask him.

He looks at me. "You work in my line of work long enough, you learn to distinguish exactly what type of law enforcement you run into. I'm sure you can pick out law enforcement same as me."

Oh, I could, but I couldn't pick out exactly what kind of law enforcement they were. John doesn't seem to have that problem.

It's silent as he finishes wrapping my wound. I'm the one to break it. "Your wife's not here, is she?"

John's gaze snaps up to mine, his fingers digging into my shoulder again. Harder this time. I just barely keep myself from crying out in pain.

"What makes you think that?" He asks me, his grip on my shoulder tightening and I feel like my arm's being ripped off.

"Considering I threatened her the last time we spoke, I'm surprised I'm still alive. Of course, if she were here right now, you wouldn't take the chance of me being able to do anything, you'd have left me to bleed out. I'm assuming she's not here since I'm still alive."

"No, she's not," John says simply. He points to my shoulder. "It's a flesh wound. You'll live. For now. If it had gone another inch to your right it would have severed your carotid artery, and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

I groan as I lie back down on the couch I've been placed on. "It hurts like hell," I mutter.

"I can name several things that hurt much worse," John says absently. "A gunshot's nothing, you should be used to it."

"Used to it?" I question in disbelief.

He looks up from the phone in his hands to me. "Haven't you ever been shot before?"

"Considering I make a habit of avoiding pissing people with guns off . . . I'm going to go with no."

John shrugs. "I figured someone would have realized what an utter bitch you are and shoot you."

I know I'm totally pushing it. I don't need to be told. "Is that why you shot me?"

John's cold dead eyes look back into mine. "If I was shooting you purposely, I'd aim for the head."

"Why haven't you?"

He narrows his eyes at me, yet there's curiosity in his gaze. "Why would Sarah send you to me?"

"Curiosity killed the cat."

John pulls a gun from the waistband of his jeans and loads it, aiming at me. "I find I'm done talking to you." My heart stops. "Do you have a preference on where you'd like to be buried? Construction site? Dissolved in acid perhaps?"

"If you didn't kill me when you had the chance, you're not going to do it now," I reply quickly, false confidence in my tone.

"If you're trying to appeal to my human side, don't bother. I don't have one."

I hold my hands up in front of me as if they'll shield me from a bullet. "Sarah suggested you could help me."

"Could. Doesn't mean I will. And I can't decide which of the two are more out of your mind. Her-for sending you to me. Or you-for actually coming here."

I can answer that question for him. The answer is me. Definitely me.

"Ah-" I start, only to get cut off as the gun in his hands goes off. I can practically feel the bullet as it passes by my head and embeds itself into the couch. My heart's beating a mile a minute and my breathing is erratic as panic ices its way through my veins.

And yet, I know shouldn't say it, but I do. I just can't keep my mouth shut. I blame it on the panic. "How do you intend to explain the bullet hole in the couch to your wife? Or are you just going to replace the couch?"

"You have about ten seconds to say something-anything to keep me from shooting you. Keep in mind, it must be something useful to me. You start spewing nonsense and I'm going to start filling you with holes. Ten. Nine."

"You're counting awfully fast."

"Eight. Seven."

"I'm sorry?"

"Six. Five. Four."

"I really need your help."

"Three. Two."

"Please!"

"One." The gun's aimed right between my eyes.

"Sarah's dead!" I shout, my hands covering my head as I curl up into a fetal position.

I wait one second. Two. Ten. Before I finally peek at him through my fingers. The gun's still in his hand but it's at his side now.

I can't read his expression since this guy basically invented the term, poker face, so I can't be sure what he's thinking. Mostly though, I'm relieved he hasn't killed me yet.

"John?" I question when he remains quiet. His eyes watch me, but he stays quiet. "You had to have seen the news," I say quietly, staring at my hands in my lap.

"I did," He confirms and then says nothing else.

"It was Volkov," I say, watching his face for some kind of reaction. There isn't one. Not that I'm completely expecting one.

Instead, he aims the gun at me again.

I find I'm annoyed more than scared this time. "Don't you have feelings?"

His expression remains blank. "I do," He says flatly. "And you can't imagine the utter happiness I shall feel while I'm disposing of your body."

"Fine," I say as I cross my arms over my chest, wincing as I do so. "Fire away. I hope you sleep better at night knowing my ghost is going to haunt you for all eternity."

John rolls his eyes. "Believe me, I won't lose a wink of sleep for killing you." His finger tightens on the trigger.

"Of course," I start in a conversational tone. "it would appear that the FBI knows where I am."

"You think that scares me?"

I shake my head. "No. No, I don't. But, seeing as how they'll likely be back to come get me-even if it is to put me in a jail cell-it would shine an awful lot of suspicion on you if I were to mysteriously disappear right after an FBI agent witnessed you shoot me."

I'm lying through my teeth and praying he's not going to call my bluff.

He narrows his eyes in a threatening way, but at least he hasn't shot me again . . . yet.

I blow out a long sigh. "Look," I start softly. "I don't know why Sarah thought it was a good idea for me to come to you, but she did. I don't why she thought you'd help me, and now I'll never know-"

John cut me off. "Don't bet on that."

"Bet on what? You helping me? I'm not betting on it," I tell him. "At least, I'm not betting on you helping out of the kindness of your cold, dead, black heart."

John raises his eyebrows and a look of amusement crosses over his face. "Cold, dead, black heart huh?" His tone filled with humor.

I stare at him. "Why does that amuse you?" I ask. "You kill innocent people."

He waves me off. "I kill whoever I'm paid to kill. Innocent or guilty, it doesn't matter to me." He stares at me. "And what amuses me is that you think you're so much better than me."

He takes a step toward me. "I didn't think I needed to remind you that you have just as much blood on your hands as I do."

I glare at him. "I've never killed anyone."

He shrugs. "But who was it who gave me the names every time I was hired by your gang to take someone out?" He asks me, taking another step in my direction. "Who was it that gave me the codes to get into the buildings? Who turned off the security cameras? Who was the reason I was able to get all those jobs done?"

I stare at him as he talks. His words hit their mark every time. There's a lump in my throat and I feel like I can't breathe as he keeps talking. As he keeps pointing out everything I did. I can feel the tears form in my eyes but I refuse to let them fall.

"I never killed anyone," I repeat quietly.

He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. "Not directly." He tilts his head to the side as he studies me. "But then, they wouldn't be dead if you hadn't given me their names."

He leans in close to me. "So next time you want to go on about my cold, dead, black heart, you should look in a mirror. Because you have just as much blood on your hands as I do, and that much blood is not just going to wash out in the sink."

I put my head down and go back to staring at my hands in my lap. His words echoing in my head and I feel myself breaking apart inside because he's right.

"You may have spent your time hiding behind your computer screen, but that doesn't make you any less guilty," John says as he starts walking away. "You're one of the bad guys, Nicolette. Don't forget it."

I glare at his retreating form. I shake my head and stare at my hands. "How could I forget?" I whisper quietly to myself.

My thoughts go to Ryder. Go to his face when he heard my name. Replay him aiming his gun at me.

I don't need a reminder that I'm one of the bad guys. Not when I keep replaying what happened with Ryder.

Not when I keep seeing his face as he aimed his gun at me . . . That is the only reminder I'll ever need.

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