Forced Assassin (17 page)

“I know that,” she said, flashing him a blazing look, “but I have to know I tried everything. If I don’t, I’ll beat myself up with more regrets than I already have.”

“All right, but he’ll tell you things…things I should have told you by now.”

“Then let him tell me. Let
him
have the burden of having to explain.”

Gritting his teeth to ward off the wave of emotion rising inside him, Bishop stood and led her to the office. He thought of everything he hadn’t told her and, as he dialled, imagined how Huntington would give the information. Blunt. To the point. Harsh.

“Yes, Bishop? Are you done with your little talk?”

“Uh, no. I didn’t get that far yet.”

“Putting it off, are we?”

“No, I went to explain the facts but—”

“Give me that damn phone,” Fallan said. She held out her hand, cheeks red, mouth pursed.

“Miss Jones would like to hear it from you,” Bishop said, clutching the receiver tight to his ear.

“Very well. Put her on.”

Bishop pressed the speakerphone button. “Go ahead.” He nodded at Fallan.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she said to the phone, leaning over it with her hands on the desk. “I mean, I have a situation here I didn’t expect to be in, and now I’m in it I don’t want to get out. I don’t care about the bollocks that got me here, understand? I don’t give a shit what you lot get up to, how you earn your wages. I just want to be able to see Bishop.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Miss Jones,” Huntington said.

“Why the fuck not?” she yelled.

Huntington cleared his throat. “Do you value your life, Miss Jones?”

“Of course I bloody do,” she snapped, launching off the desk to pace. “What kind of stupid question is that?” She paused, then said, “Oh, was that a
threat?
”

“Yes. If you value your life—and Bishop’s—you’ll return home and keep everything you’ve learned to yourself.”

“Oh,” she said, some of the bluster gone from her voice. “Are you saying that if I don’t return to my usual life and forget about Bishop he’ll be in danger from the people who employ him? The people who he works to protect? Fucking charming.” She narrowed her eyes and bared her teeth. “Answer me!”

“Yes, that is correct, Miss Jones.”

She stared at Bishop, eyes filling, throat bobbing. “Then you have my silence.”

“I thought I might. You will be watched, Miss Jones. Any contact with Bishop is strictly prohibited. Any information you have learned from this mission is not to be repeated to anyone. If we find out you’ve broken this agreement—”

“Yes, I understand. I’ll be terminated, or whatever the hell you like to call it to make yourself feel better.”

“Are you aware about the other women, Miss Jones?”

“What about them?” She widened her eyes at Bishop and held her hands up in a what-the-fuck gesture.

“They’re all dead.”

Bishop watched the colour drain from her face. She staggered towards the chair behind the desk and flopped into it.

“Why?” she asked quietly.

“They talked.”

“Shit.”

“Yes, quite. So you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good. Prepare yourself to leave the location.”

The call was severed, much like Bishop’s tie to Fallan would be in an hour or so.

He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t bear to see the tears fall, but he heard her sobs.

The worst sound of his goddamn, shitty little life.

Chapter Fourteen

Bishop pulled up outside Fallan’s house. His nerves pinged more than they did when he was on a mission. His heart beat erratically, and he stared across at her in the van’s passenger seat, wishing with everything he had in him that things could be different. They couldn’t—he had to say goodbye—but a few more minutes in her company wouldn’t hurt.

“You can take the blindfold off now,” he said, failing to keep his voice steady.

She bent her head then sat still, as though delaying the inevitable. He understood how she felt completely. If she was going through what he was, her heart was being twisted and her emotions had turned sour, scoring her insides, their path reaching her soul with spiteful accuracy. By fuck, this hurt more than he’d imagined, and a lump formed in his throat. Damned if he would cry, though.

That could come later, after he’d swallowed the last drop from a bottle of whisky.

She reached up a shaking hand and drew the blindfold off, turning to him with glistening eyes and a downturned, quivering mouth. He wanted to kiss it all away—this horror, this miasma of gut-wrenching feelings that threatened to overwhelm them both—but he had a job to conclude, lives to save. His and Fallan’s.

“So this is it, then?” she said, the words so quiet they were barely there. “This is how it ends. We say goodbye in a van. I get out, don’t look back, and have to continue with my life as though none of this ever happened.”

He nodded. “Something like that.”

“I hate this,” she whispered, one tear spilling, reaching her jaw line then dripping off onto a grey T-shirt from the basement wardrobe.

“Me too.”

“And it feels awkward, like I don’t know you. Like we never—”

“I know. Perhaps it’s better this way. Perhaps we ought to just cut ties quickly and pretend we never met.”

“Maybe.” She clamped her lips closed, but they quivered some more, and it was clear she was struggling to keep them still.

“Fallan, I—”

“It’s okay.” She waved at him dismissively. “Shit happens.” She smoothed down her hair. “Story of my fucking life. I should be used to it by now.” She attempted a wobbly smile but it looked more like a grimace. “Still, I’d rather this than him
terminating
you. At least we can still dream. I’ll think of you, you’ll think of me, and we’ll get a few smiles out of it. Memories will fade and all that rubbish. Time heals. We’ll move on.”

“We will.”
I don’t want to.

“So!” she said on an exhale, smiling over-brightly. “Give me that last kiss and I’ll be gone. Mission complete. Secrets are safe.”

“Not here,” he said. “I have to see you inside.”

“Ah, make sure nothing weird has been planted in my house, that it? Make sure Waterman or Frankie Lash didn’t leave me any nasty surprises.”

He nodded. “Better to be safe than sorry.”

“Oh, I’m already damn well sorry.” She yanked at the door handle and left the van, her movements jerky, shoulders a rigid, straight line.

He admired her strength, her determination to see this through with dignity. She closed her door and walked around to his, and waited there on the pavement, a magnolia bush and blackthorn tree behind her. He took in that sight for a moment, her framed by foliage darkened by the night, her face white and pinched, hands by her sides, clenching in and out of fists. She stared through the window at him, and he wondered what was going through her mind. Was she imprinting his image there as he was with her? Was she battling with a lump in her throat so big it almost cut off her air supply? Was she thinking
I wish, I wish, I wish…
?

He couldn’t
think
anymore so got out of the van and locked it, then led the way to her house. An envelope had been wedged between the house and an empty terracotta plant pot, and he stooped to pick it up. Opened it. Read the contents. Reached up to the eaves in the porch overhang and found a set of keys.

He turned to look at her behind him. “Your locks have been changed.”

“Okay,” she said, lifting her chin.

He unlocked the door and went inside, holding one finger to his lips and miming that he wanted her to stand beside the closed door and wait. He switched on the lights as he went, checking every room, behind and under furniture, looking for planted bugs and finding several. He left them in place—they were for her own good.

Back in the hallway, he said, “To guarantee your silence, your place has been bugged.”

She stood straighter. “The bugs aren’t needed. I won’t be telling anyone
anything
.”

“I know that, but Huntington—”

“Is a prick who has to be in control of everything.” She sighed. “Yes, I understand why, understand it all, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No. Me neither.” He couldn’t look at her, so focused his attention on a small window beside the front door. A tall blue vase held a variety of wooden swirls and fake flowers, and either side of that two crystal keys sat on intricately carved bases.

She laughed bitterly. “I bought those thinking that one day I’d have that, you know? Two keys to my home and life instead of just mine. Turns out I do…but then again I don’t.” She reached out and picked one up. “Here, take it.”

He accepted the gift, the crystal cold on his palm, and smiled just as bitterly as she’d laughed. Crystal was apt. Unfeeling. Hard. “Thank you,” he managed and slipped it into his pocket.

He moved closer to her, lifting his arm to settle one finger beneath her chin. He ducked his head, touching his mouth to hers, dipping his tongue inside.

She tasted of broken dreams.

Tears blinding him, he drew away from her and opened the door. With his back to her, he said, “Your money is on the kitchen table.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“I’ll never forget you, Fallan.
Never
.”

He walked down the path, wanting to turn around, wanting to crush her to him and smell her scent, feel her heart thumping, wipe away the tears he knew were there because her sobs punctuated his every step. To tell her he’d take care of her from the outside, that he’d make sure she never came to any harm. That loving her from afar was all he could give. That he wished her well in the arms of another man, in another life filled with nothing but happiness.

But he didn’t.

Fallan watched him leave. She stood and let him go, knowing in her heart if she went after him Huntington would kill him. New tears wouldn’t fall till much later. She walked through her house and noted nothing had changed in her absence. It still smelt clean and every item had a place to sit. The scent of vanilla hung in the air from the polish she liked to use.

Polish? She was thinking of a type of cleaner at a time like this?

It felt as though her heart had just been ripped out of her chest and squashed, and she was thinking about stupid fucking shit that didn’t have any importance in the scheme of things.

She thought about her time with Bishop, and the anger at her situation overrode common sense. Fallan lashed out. She tore down pictures from walls and smashed ornaments. No surface and nothing was safe from her pain. He’d left her without a fight. Yes, she was fully aware of why he’d let her go, but it still stung like hell. She could never have him and it hurt more than anything in the world. With her mother she’d had the chance to say goodbye properly. She’d been ready for the loss of her parents, but not Bishop. She’d had the most amazing days spent in his company, in his arms, and now she had nothing.

Time would come and go and the memories would fade to be nothing more than a passing whisper. But could she live knowing Bishop was the love of her life and she’d never see him again?

Why was the world being unfair to her once again?

She stared at the chaos around her, caused by her own hands. There would be no magical cure for her broken heart. With tears streaming down her face, she went into the kitchen and gathered a dustpan and brush along with the vacuum cleaner. For the next hour she poured her heart and soul into cleaning. She picked through the pictures of her parents along with ones of her as she’d grown up, careful to not cut her fingers on the shards of glass.

Once the mess was cleaned and the broken glass placed in a bag for recycling she went back into her kitchen and put the kettle on. She sat at the table and saw a thick white envelope resting on the surface. Fallan reached out and grabbed it, tearing it open. Inside was the ten grand she’d been promised but also a debit card. Frowning, she pulled all the contents out. She pushed the money away, wanting nothing to do with the stuff, realising how crazy that was when she’d done all this for that very money in the first place. She’d rather be with Bishop than have the money.

The debit card didn’t make any sense and with it came a note. Before she opened and read its contents, she made herself a strong coffee and did something she’d never done before—she added a huge amount of brandy to her cup. The cheap stuff, but it would still give her the desired effect. Right now she needed the numbness cheap booze could supply. Instead of putting the bottle away, she placed it next to the money and flipped open the letter.

Dear Fallan,

I’ve left ten thousand pounds on the table. I know writing it all out seems very formal, but you’re a devil for keeping quiet when I’m talking so at least this way I get to say what I have to. As I write this you’re sleeping in the bed in the basement apartment. You look so beautiful. I’ve never felt like this before in my life and, as you can probably tell, I’ve never written a proper letter to a woman either. I’m useless at both—having feelings, writing.

So, here’s the gist of it, things you probably know by now. Huntington has demanded I leave you otherwise there will be a threat to your life and mine. I think we know I couldn’t kill you even if I was told to, but I wouldn’t put it past the arsehole to make me be the one to do it if I broke my promise to stay away. At the point of writing this I haven’t told you how I feel and I guess I’m doing this so you’ll know what you mean to me if something happens to me. The truth is, Fallan Jones, checkout girl at Asda, you own my heart. I’m completely, absolutely in love with you.

It will grieve me more than anything leaving you. I’ve sorted some things out for you. In this world I want nothing more than to know you’re happy, so your house is paid in full along with all of your other debts. You can take the money and do what you want. I’ve also set you up an account so you can live well and do whatever you want without financial worry.

This is my way of taking care of you the best way I know how. I love you, my darling Fallan, and know for the rest of my life my heart will be only yours.