Forced Assassin (18 page)

Bishop.

P.S. Please don’t bin the card or the money. The PIN is 8572. You deserve something good in this life. Please let me be the one responsible for giving it to you.

She sobbed. Long and hard. Body-jerking and harsh. She ignored the coffee and went straight for the bottle of brandy. The bitter taste and acrid burn did nothing to stop the tears falling even more. She wanted to be brave and throw everything away. The money, the card and demand for the house to be unpaid. Another swig from the bottle and she reread the letter. Bishop loved her and she loved him. Why couldn’t they be together?

Fallan understood why but the reasoning behind it seemed so fucked up and stupid. She had nothing waiting in the future for her. If Fallan Jones walked off the face of the earth, the only people who’d care would be the government because of the possible tax earning on the money she left behind. Bishop’s money.

She thought about her time with him. At the initial meeting he’d been so masculine, taking charge like that. She’d been scared and excited. Bishop was a gorgeous man and she’d responded to that.

When had her feelings gone from being simply lust to love? She couldn’t remember the exact moment. Was it during sex? They’d had so much of it in the short time they’d known each other but she wouldn’t have had it any other way. Bishop had cared for her and learnt every detail he could from his little computer.

She’d shocked him several times, though. Fallan smiled as she recalled how she’d surprised him when she’d taken him in her mouth. The way she’d turned into his submissive. All of the new memories she’d created for him. She took the brandy bottle and walked upstairs to her room. The double bed was a welcome sight and she flopped down face first, some of the brandy spilling out and wetting her and the bed. Moaning, she rolled over and looked at the light above the bed.

The perv, Huntington, was probably watching her or listening.

“See, you bastard, I’ve done nothing and I’ve got nowhere to go—no one to tell this shit to!” she shouted up at the light. She threw some of the brandy and laughed at herself when it splashed all over her instead. There was no one to enjoy her pity party with. Only some weirdo government official on the other end of an intrusive camera.

It wasn’t fair. Love was supposed to conquer everything and she had nothing to conquer anymore. The only reason she couldn’t be with Bishop was because of his job description. She had fuck all left—no parent, siblings, and nothing to hold her back from going for what she wanted.

But what did she want?

Fallan ran downstairs, swiping her face, then opened her front door. She gazed out at the dark street and glanced around, checking for signs of people watching her home. Her body clock was out of whack. She was pleased she lived in a detached house otherwise the neighbours would have called out about the disturbance earlier.

No more what ifs. No more wallowing in self-pity. She refused to go through this life only ever knowing what love could be like if they’d only had the chance to make a good go of it. She wanted Bishop and no one was going to tell her she couldn’t have him. Where there was a will there was a way.

She returned to her bedroom, packed a bag and thought about a plan that had formed from nowhere. Huntington had said Bishop was at risk if she was a citizen in his life, someone who might give up agency secrets, tire of him constantly being away on assignment. If Bishop couldn’t be with her then maybe, just maybe, there was another way.

She hated being told what to do. Hated the thought of not being allowed to spend her life with Bishop. Determined to get what she wanted, she picked up the phone and made a call that would change everything.

Chapter Fifteen

Six months later

Bishop’s career was all he had left, and making sure he did everything to the letter was the only way he could keep Fallan safe. During the first month after they’d parted, while working he’d remained focused on the mission—it had included killing someone—but when he’d had time to himself he’d filled it with thoughts of her. She visited him in his dreams, her scent wafting around him, her smile sad, her whispered endearments mirroring his feelings for her. Once, when he’d woken in a sweat and called out her name, he’d entertained the thought that they were connected, that she was reaching out to him through thoughts and dreams, but that was just wishful thinking. Shit like that couldn’t happen. Didn’t happen. It helped him to cope, though, and, as mad as it sounded, if he imagined her aching for him like he did for her, life wasn’t so bad.

Maybe in the next one they’d get to be together.

Huntington gave him monthly reports on her, and the days in between them dragged. He lived for when he’d get an update, and, although he should want her to be happy, when he was told she appeared to be living but not
living
, that she had dark circles beneath her eyes and rarely smiled, he felt a guilty twinge of satisfaction. It was natural not to want her finding solace with someone else, yet he’d berated himself too many times to count that he was supposed to love her, so having her happy should be the top of his wish list.

It wasn’t, and he hated himself for it.

His last job had been a tough one. Now it was over, he had two weeks of downtime in which to indulge himself. With a set of headphones on, he rested on his sofa, feet propped on the arm, and let the harmonies lull him into that place where he wasn’t awake or asleep. Where he was in limbo.

Fallan danced, her smile bright, arms lifted to take him into a comforting embrace. He saw every detail of her as though she really stood before him, and for a few seconds he believed he was there with her. A change in the music’s tempo brought him out of his dream state and she disappeared, leaving him feeling as he had on the night he’d taken her back home.

Bereft. Alone. Broken.

Eyes closed, he reached into his pocket, feeling for the crystal key. He pulled it out then enclosed his fist around it. Did she do the same with the other one, or did it still sit on the windowsill beside her front door? Holding the key brought him closer to her, as though it had been infused with her essence—another of his imaginings. He’d become a romantic sap since their parting—dreaming, wishing, hoping that things could have been different. If those he’d killed only knew how he really felt inside…

A sudden and sharp longing gripped him—one where he wanted to hear her voice, to see her. It was time. He knew he shouldn’t, knew he pushed the boundaries if he met with her, but what harm could it do when he’d ensured every avenue had been covered? Six months was a long time to have kept away, and Huntington had admitted he’d relaxed the rigid surveillance on her now. She’d proven she wasn’t going to reveal any secrets, he’d said.

Bishop thought back to two weeks after he’d last seen her. How he’d changed into inconspicuous clothing—jeans, white T-shirt, tan leather jacket and a pair of black hiking boots. In his bathroom, he’d applied a thick blond moustache and goatee, a wig, then popped in dark green contacts.

His heart thumping wildly, he slapped a red baseball cap on and left his place, getting into his new, unremarkable, light blue Renault. He drove to the supermarket Fallan worked at, knowing he shouldn’t, knowing that area of the city was out of bounds, but failing to see how Huntington could have both him and Fallan watched constantly and justify the expense.

He parked and sat for a good ten minutes staring at the store, imagining her inside. Would she be stacking shelves or working the till? Would she even be in the main shop? She’d told him that last day she sometimes worked in the rear warehouse or up in the offices, wherever she was needed. The thought of coming this far and not seeing her almost made Bishop start the engine and get the fuck back home.

Almost.

He got out of the car and headed to the main store doors, taking a basket from the stack just inside, then covertly glanced at the row of tills, seeing a couple of black-haired workers—none of them Fallan. Like any other customer, he started at one end of the shop with the intent of going down every aisle and picking up a few supplies. He was doing nothing wrong—just grocery shopping, right?

Yeah, you just tell yourself that, man.

He paced the aisles twice just in case he’d missed her the first time. He couldn’t imagine he would have—he’d know her anywhere—but she was nowhere in sight. Maybe she was sick. Maybe she didn’t work every day. Dejected, but knowing it was probably for the best, he’d bought a bottle of whisky and returned home.

The drink he swigged did nothing to deaden the ache inside him—it never did. About to pour a second, a touch of the devil invaded him. Before he could talk himself out of it, he’d gone to the cupboard under the stairs and taken out a pay-as-you-go mobile. He decided to put a plan into action for down the line, when things got too much and he had to see her, couldn’t take being without her a second longer.

In the kitchen, he inserted the battery and SIM, plugged it into the mains and dialled the number of an office-letting company, thumb hovering over the connect call button.

I shouldn’t be doing this. Not here. Think it through properly.

He placed the phone on the worktop and went back into the living room while it charged. Three hours passed—hours he’d spent pacing, telling himself making contact with her was insane, could cost them both their lives. The need to hear her overshadowed everything else, though, and he took the phone off charge and went back out in his car again. He parked in a nondescript street on the outskirts of the city then walked—and kept walking—until he was far enough away from his vehicle that if Huntington had a tracker on it he wouldn’t connect the phone call with the car’s location.

Sitting on a park bench, he called a letting company and arranged to view an office…

He’d met with the realtor, paid a year’s rent in advance under the name of David Wilkins, and had gone about setting up a business that for all intents and purposes was a solicitor’s. With his know-how, he’d faked transactions and clients. The business thrived without him ever having to set foot in the place or do a speck of work. On paper, it looked to be what he’d intended.

Now, with the burning need to finally put his plan into action, disguised with a prosthetic face, he went inside the building, pulled keys from his pocket and entered the office space he’d rented. Sitting on a chair behind an empty desk, he dialled Fallan’s number on the landline. His heart raced, he felt sick and very nearly cut the call. This was wrong, so dangerously wrong, but if he could just hear her…

“Hello?” she said.

He melted at the sound of her beautiful tone. “Miss Jones?” He lowered his voice, adopted a different accent. Scottish. “I’m calling on behalf of Wilkins Solicitors. My name is David Wilkins and I’d like to set up a meeting with you in regards to your late parents.”

“Oh. Right. What is this about?”

The pain in her voice made him feel an arsehole, but when she knew why he’d done it she’d understand.

“It’s come to light you’re due some inheritance, but there are a few details I need from you before I can release the money. Would it be possible to set up a meeting in, say, half an hour?”

“What,
today?
” she asked, sounding incredulous.

“If that’s possible, yes.”

“Where is your office, and how do I know you’re not just some crazy bastard?”

Bishop held back laughter. God, he’d missed her. “You’ll find our office in the
Yellow Pages
, if you’d like to check, but we’re in Dentham Street. Been in business for five months.”

“Um, okay… Half an hour, you say?”

“Yes, if that’s at all possible.”
Please come. Please…

“All right.” She sounded sceptical, dragging the last word out. “Answer me this. What are my parents’ names?”

He gave them.

“And their dates of birth?”

He gave them.

“The places they were born?”

He gave them.

“Okay, Mr Wilkins, was it? I’ll see you in half an hour then.”

Bishop paced in front of the desk for the whole half an hour. He had the sudden need to visit the toilet—what he was doing was against every rule—but, fuck, he’d waited long enough. He went over everything in his mind. Six months had passed. The solicitor business was a good cover. If Huntington or some other agent had listened to his call to Fallan, they could do some digging and find nothing untoward. Her parents were dead—there was no reason why an inheritance shouldn’t be due. No reason why a few visits to this office weren’t in order. Bishop hadn’t thought beyond that, hadn’t made plans for how they could meet after the time when his supposed business of giving her the inheritance was complete. He hoped together they would come up with something that would keep them safe.

The sound of the outer building door opening on squeaking hinges had him jumping and smoothing down his suit. Sweat dampened his palms, and he took a few deep breaths to calm his nerves. What if she’d got over him? What if seeing him again hurt her more than keeping away? What if he’d royally fucked up? He’d have to take it as it came, get a feel during the meeting. He didn’t have to tell her right away he was Bishop—his disguise and voice would keep his real identity safe.

A knock sounded on his office door, and he quickly went over to the desk and yanked open a drawer. He took out some papers and scattered them on the desk, then grabbed a laptop and placed it in the centre, lifting the screen and switching it on. As the chime for Windows began, he cleared his throat and walked to the door.

She’s here. Jesus fuck, she’s here.

He swung open the door.

“Hello, Bishop.” Huntington stared at his agent.

Oh, Bishop was good, could very well have pulled this scam off, but one thing had let him down. He’d switched his pay-as-you-go phone on in his residence all those months ago, setting off alarms on Huntington’s surveillance equipment. When a call had finally been made on it—even in another location—following the trail had been a breeze. Huntington could only assume Bishop had been blinded by his need to contact Miss Jones again and hadn’t realised his mistake. Still, he’d realise it now.