Target

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Wade

“How did it go?” my father asked. I could see his reflection in the window.

I took one last look of the bustling streets of downtown Charlotte before facing him. “It was different from the usual.” Risky was more like it. If anyone had seen me, my cover would’ve easily been blown. I had a face that was known across the country.

My father sat down in the seat across from my desk. The years had finally caught up to him. He desperately needed a break, and now that he’d handed Chandler Enterprises over to me and retired from the FBI, it was within his grasp. The only problem was making him accept it. “I see that. I’m glad you succeeded. Your brother headed back to Wyoming this morning.”

I nodded. “I know. He’s taking a well-deserved vacation.”

“Which is what you need to be doing. You were gone a lot longer than expected.”

That I had been. I’d needed time to breathe before coming back home. Clenching my teeth, I glanced down at my papers. “I needed some time to think,” I answered. Nothing helped the rage inside me. Usually, I could let off some steam with a quick f**k, but that hadn’t helped this time. I was still on edge.

His brows furrowed. “About what?”

I closed my eyes. “That I’m one f****d up individual. The more I hunt, the less satisfied I become.” Opening my eyes, I stared at him. “They need to suffer, to feel the worst pain imaginable. And when I can’t deliver a full punishment, I feel . . . disgruntled. Restless.”

He nodded. “That they do, son. But time’s usually not on our side. We have no choice but to do it quick. Not unless you’re Preston.”

“No shit.” Preston Hale was one of the most skilled assassins on our team. He was known for doling out painful punishments before he killed. And if I wasn’t so easily recognizable, it’d be simpler. “I wanted to make Grady and his men suffer, but I didn’t get the chance. After the mission was over, I didn’t feel fulfilled. I had all this anger inside of me and I couldn’t let it out.”

My family lived double lives, and sometimes, it took longer to transition back. If my friends and co-workers knew what my brothers and I were, they’d run far and fast. We were killers by trade, but during the day, I was Wade Chandler, owner of Chandler Enterprises, one of the most prestigious investment firms in the country.

Releasing a heavy sigh, I sat down. “Now that I’m back, we need to get down to business. Anything happen while I was gone?”

He shook his head. “Not really. However, I do have some companies I want you to look at. I set my notes on your desk this morning.” He nodded toward the stack of papers and I looked at them, coming across a sheet with Ian’s writing on it.

“What’s this?”

He shrugged. “Some record label your brother’s interested in. You know how Ian is. He loves his music. But I’m leaning more toward the sports arena. The owner of the Carolina Cougars is looking to sell. Might not be a bad idea to get the company involved with the local NFL team.”

I had to agree. The Carolina Cougars were one of the best teams around. “I’ll look into it,” I told him.

He stood and straightened his tie. “Sounds good, son. I’ll let you get back to work. If you need me, I’ll be around.”

I leaned back in my chair as my father walked out. It felt good to be home, back to normalcy. For how long? I didn’t know. Most of the hunts I went on were local, but there were times when the Circle of Justice needed my expertise. I was the best long-range shooter in the group.

The intercom beeped and Mrs. Marshall’s voice came over the speaker. “Mr. Chandler?” “Yes,” I replied.

“You have a call on line three.”

My focus shifted to the phone and I sat up straight. “Did you say line three?” Out of all the phone calls I could receive, I wasn’t expecting to hear a line three call for a long time.

“Yes, sir. Line three.”

Indeed, the button for line three blinked ominously. “Thanks, I’ll get it in a second.”

I stared at the blinking light for what felt like hours. Why the hell would I be getting another call so soon? Line three was protected by the government for official business. If they were calling, that meant there was another top-secret mission. Usually, for everyone in the group, we had a mutual list of criminals we could hunt down and kill. Any of us could get rid of them; however, there were special missions that sometimes required a specific individual.

With the presidential elections at a close, tensions were high, and I was the one who dealt with all political issues.

Taking a deep breath, I picked up the phone. “Chandler.”

“Good morning.” It was Peter Johnson, one of the leaders of the Circle of Justice. My father was the founder of the group, but now that he was retired, the FBI had appointed Johnson to handle all mission assignments.

“I wish I could say the same,” I replied.

“Sounds like the Fairchild case took a toll on you.”

“Why are you calling, Peter?”

He sighed, and I knew it wasn’t good. “We have a problem. I thought we’d get it handled on our own, but it’s gotten worse. We need you.”

“Who does it involve this time?”

“The POTUS,” he answered, voice tired.