Prior Bad Acts (A Cain/Harper Thriller Book 2)

felt the warmth of his departing life ooze over his hands. Other times it was the Al-Qaeda bomb maker who earned Cain’s blade up through his diaphragm and into his heart for dispatching three Marines with his roadside devices. Or one of the other two dozen sanctioned missions he had completed.
Sometimes an unsanctioned mission reared up. Like the three Mexicans, the ones who had killed his parents in Tyler and fled, thinking the border and the cartel they worked for would protect them. He and Harper tracked the trio to Juarez, dead of night, in and out, no shadow of their visit left behind. Only the three corpses.
Tonight? The Taliban scumbag who stood sentry while a pair of his compadres raped a young woman, her screams and cries still jangling in his head. Cain and the other assigned operatives—Seals, Marines, and Harper as the CIA controller—had completed their mission, the silent elimination of an enemy asset, and were hunkered down in a basement, waiting to hump it to the desert extraction site. But, the sounds of the girl’s misery and fear had frayed his nerves to the point that sitting by was no longer an option. Harper had been there—the night of their reunion after a fifteen-year separation—and had helped. Without hesitation.
Their actions were unsanctioned, no permission granted, or sought. Risky move. Could have crashed both their careers. Turned out that was a moot concern.
Harper caught the sentry’s attention. Cain over-powered and bled him through a deft puncture of his femoral artery, clutching him tightly, hand over his mouth, feeling his struggles wane as his vital energy faded. He and Harper then introduced the two rapists to their virgins. The girl scurried to freedom. If there was such a thing in that desert hellhole.
“You were there,” Cain said. No other words needed.
Harper nodded.
“Want some tea?” she asked.
“Couldn’t hurt.”
They sat at the kitchen table. Cain placed the stress balls on the surface, settling them against the metal napkin holder. He cradled the warm cup, took a sip. The chamomile infused his nerves, softening the invading images.
“We need a job,” Harper said.
He looked at her over his cup.
“Idleness makes you fret,” Harper continued. “Drags up your demons.”
That was true. They had had a month to unwind from their last job. Cain could do a week, even two, but a month? Too much downtime allowed the past to dig in its claws. Pull him from bed to the window where he watched the sleeping city, and fought internal battles.
It wasn’t guilt. He never allowed that to enter the equation. Each of his sanctioned missions had been righteous. On point. A problem that he could best resolve. Even if they were off the books. Way off. No written orders, no records. It’s the way it had to be.
And the others? The ones since he and Harper left military service behind? The three who had killed his parents? Never guilt over that one.
No, it wasn’t guilt. It was simply images. A series of pictograms, movies no one should have to store in their memory banks. His were filled with such.
“You’re right,” Cain said. He stood. “Want some more?”
“I’m good.”
He refilled his cup. His cell chimed. From the living room coffee table where he had left it. Caller ID read “Milner.”
Well, they wanted a job.

CHAPTER 2
8 HOURS EARLIER
The gun appeared from nowhere, materializing at the end of an unsteady arm, the black hole of its muzzle searching for a target. Then the flash-bang of sudden, remorseless violence. The shock momentarily locking the scene like a still-life.
Who keeps a gun stuffed between sofa cushions?
For Dalton Southwell the answer was simple. A punk-ass little shit is who. A punk-ass like Tommy Finley, jacked up on his own stash. Wired to the point of implosion, leaving him no way to make a smart move. A desperate one, sure. It didn’t save him and didn’t save his family. Not that anything could have. Their shared fate had been sealed the moment Dalton arrived in town.
Everything had been so smooth. Exactly as Dalton had set it up. He had choreographed every move that his brother Dennie and Jessie Parker, a member of his crew, would make. His sources indicated that there would be four people inside: Tommy the punk, along with his father, mother, and sister. Dalton had hammered into their heads that they were to flank him so that they would have clean lines of fire if needed, and that they were to remain silent, leaving the talking to him. That’s how it went down. He had been in total control, right up until he wasn’t.
His knock on the door had been answered by the father. John, if Dalton remembered correctly. If not, so what? He didn’t really give two shits.
The curious look on the father’s face as he swung open the front door and asked what Dalton wanted was quickly replaced by shock when Dalton’s Glock pressed against his chest.
Gathering the family in the den, Tommy, his sister, and his mother on the sofa, the father in a wing-backed chair at one end of the coffee table. Some stupid sitcom played on the big screen along the far wall. Dalton ended it with a single round spit from his silenced weapon.
That got their undivided attention, Tommy flinching, his mother covering her open mouth with one hand, only partially smothering her gasp. His father’s face paled, his breathing quick and raspy, head swiveling, obviously seeking a way out, a way to defend his family. The father asked again what the three men who leveled guns in his direction wanted.
“You want to tell him who I am?” Dalton asked Tommy.
Tommy’s gaze danced quickly to his father and then back to Dalton but he said nothing. As if his throat was clogged. Probably was. Dalton offered a half-smile.
“Then allow me to enlighten your family,” Dalton said. “Bring them up to date on your recent activities.”
The mother and sister stared with big eyes as he dumped the bad news on them. That he