“Take him!” Chuck’s gaze swept over Feng Zhannuo from head to toe. “Adam thinks I don’t know about his thing for men? I’ve seen you before.” He leaned in, a sly grin curling his lips. “You’re his little plaything. You must know the combination to his safe. The bastard owed me hundreds of thousands and died before paying up. Damn it!”

The smile hardened into something cold. The muzzle of his gun pressed up under Feng Zhannuo’s chin. “When we get back, you open that safe for me and maybe you walk out alive. Otherwise, you’re fish food.”

His men didn’t question it—one grabbed Feng Zhannuo by the collar. This level of threat barely registered to him. There was no need to ruin the scene yet; what he wanted to see was how Feston would handle it—if his hunch was right…

“Let him go.”

The words cut through the air. The gangsters froze and turned. The other man—who’d been so cooperative—had lowered his hands and tilted his head toward them. “I said let him go. You, all of you.”

“Who the hell is this?” Chuck had already noticed Feston. Dressed like some office professional in a tailored suit, he didn’t scream “cop” at first glance. But Chuck wasn’t stupid—there was something about the way the man spoke that made him wary. His gaze slid toward the cuffs on Feng Zhannuo’s wrists.

Some cops just radiated “cop” no matter what they wore or said—easy to spot. Feston wasn’t the obvious type. Maybe it was the polished, almost corporate air he carried—more like a boardroom executive than a street cop chasing punks.

Just as Chuck was about to have his men confirm Feston’s identity, Feng Zhannuo looked right at him, a sly smile flickering in those icy-blue eyes. He lifted his cuffed wrists.
“He’s FBI.”

The metal gleamed under the harsh fluorescent light. That was all the proof they needed.

“Shit! Kill him!”

Guns swung toward Feston. His expression didn’t change. His eyes sharpened into something unreadable. Forget questioning the Ghost—right now, he was in the kill zone. The trap he’d set could just as easily become his grave.

“Don’t do this, Ian…” Feston sighed suddenly. Chuck’s gaze flicked between the two men. The FBI agent didn’t even glance at the barrels aimed at him. “Don’t be difficult with me now, okay?” His eyes were on Feng Zhannuo.

He didn’t deny being FBI, nor did he confirm it. But the line, delivered with weary intimacy, was enough to seed doubt. Who would imagine an FBI agent speaking to a suspect like that? Even Feng Zhannuo had to admit—it was clever. More effective than outright denial.

Chuck narrowed his eyes. “What are you two, exactly?”

Feston’s gaze swept the guns surrounding them. “You all saw it—he’s trying to slip away from me. He’s the most cunning prey I’ve ever hunted. I thought I had him, but he always surprises me.”

The slow cadence, the loaded look—different listeners would draw different conclusions. Chuck’s crew all looked down at the cuffs again. Everyone knew those could have… other uses.

“I never thought I’d hear you say something like that, Kaida,” Feng Zhannuo said with a faint chuckle. “Very interesting way to save yourself.”

“You forced my hand,” Feston replied, a trace of a smile breaking his rock-solid face. Feng Zhannuo suspected that whatever happened tonight, Feston had planned for it.
“You think I’ll let you have your way?”

“Doesn’t look like it’ll be that easy.” Feston moved toward him, guns tracking his every step.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?!” one of the men barked.

Then came the heat of proximity, the hard press of lips, the friction of tongues sparking like flint.

A kiss.

Feng Zhannuo instantly understood what Feston was doing.

“I’m not letting you go,” Feston whispered, the warning clear. In the stillness of the ER—broken only by the low murmur of armed men—the words carried. They could be taken more than one way, and Chuck, faced with this scene, couldn’t help but believe there was something between them.

“Boss?” one of the men asked, gesturing if they should be pulled apart. Chuck slapped him. “Watch. If he’s really a cop, we drop him.”

The act would have to continue. Even if Feng Zhannuo shouted Feston’s identity now, the fallout would splash on him too. He didn’t fear numbers, but killing without a contract was unnecessary risk. A flashy killer never lasted long.

Maybe this was Feston’s “return gift”—like the time in Bob’s motel room, only with their roles reversed. Both times, circumstance had forced them into the same corner.

Cuffed hands looped around Feston’s neck. With Feng Zhannuo’s cooperation, the kiss deepened—unavoidably recalling that heated foreplay scene he’d witnessed earlier. Normally, with a gun in his hand, Feng Zhannuo was the picture of control. Now, the body’s natural reactions were impossible to hide.

Feston’s hand slid deliberately over the place where that reaction was most obvious. Feng Zhannuo sucked in a breath. What was worse—Feston’s expression didn’t change. His eyes flicked past him, gauging whether Chuck was buying it.

Feng Zhannuo gave a cold smile and bit down on his neck. He knew Feston’s weak spot—had confirmed it through observation—and now the heat there told him he was right. The grip at his waist tightened; those deep eyes darkened with the shadow of want.

Fortunately, they both reacted to men—otherwise Chuck would have seen through it instantly.

“Enough. Take him too!” Chuck barked, satisfied for now. “Check his ID. We’ll ask questions later.”

They’d still be searched. Feng Zhannuo braced to slip away in the chaos—handcuffs were easy to ditch—but to his surprise, Chuck’s men found no badge on Feston, only two guns.

“Load ’em up.” Chuck’s suspicion evaporated. The two were shoved toward a truck idling in the alley behind the clinic.

They weren’t kids—they knew how to control themselves. In the dim truck bed, it was as if nothing had happened.

“When did you do it? Smooth work,” Feng Zhannuo asked as the door slammed. He’d seen Feston flash a badge earlier.

“When all eyes were on you,” Feston replied. Facing the wall, he’d tossed it under the bed. “Why didn’t you keep trying to out me? Figure it wouldn’t work?”

“Isn’t this more fun? An FBI agent and a hitman…” The truck hadn’t even started when someone came in to bind their wrists and ankles. Feng Zhannuo paused until the man stepped away. “Better to have you as an opponent than deal with these clowns. They even forgot to gag us.”

The cuffs were swapped for rope. Smart move—a paperclip could open handcuffs, but leaving a hostage’s mouth free could be trouble.

Feston didn’t answer, though his look made it clear he didn’t buy the excuse. Feng Zhannuo watched the darkness outside. “Even if they found out who you were, they’d just be digging their own graves. I’m betting you’ve already planned for that. Numbers don’t mean much if they’re outmatched. I’d rather side with the one most likely to win. How’s that answer?”

“Was that a compliment?” Feston’s brow lifted.

“You tell me.” The half-smile came with a glint that was trouble in the half-light.

“You’re a smart man, Ghost.”

Night buzzed with neon far away, but here in the darkened alley, Feng Zhannuo licked his lips with a crooked grin. “You’re a hell of a kisser, Kaida.”

The truck’s air went taut again. For all the earlier performance, both knew the truth—they were on opposite sides. Peace now didn’t mean a gun wouldn’t be pointed at the other in the next moment.

One by one, Chuck’s men filed out of the clinic. He climbed into the cab with the others, leaving a few guards in back. Two more wounded men were hauled in, the cramped space filling with the stench of blood and antiseptic.

Out front, old Dr. John stood frozen in the doorway, watching the truck roll away. An FBI agent had just been taken—where was he supposed to call for help?