Forced Assassin (7 page)

And he’d have let her get away if her life wasn’t in danger, albeit with a sense of regret because he’d found a woman who was on the same level as him in the bedroom. Her life
was
in danger, too, he’d be a fool to think otherwise. With Waterman involved in the holiday scam, using Freddie fucking Lash as his man who doled out the threats, she didn’t stand a chance. If they got hold of her now she’d disappear for good, just one more unsolved missing persons case the police scratched their heads over.

He stepped out of the shower and dried off, returning to the bedroom with his stomach in knots in case he found the bed empty. Last thing he needed was to deal with her demanding he let her leave, or, worse, seeing her arse hanging out of the window as she scrambled to go home.

Despite his fears, Fallan was still there, hair splayed over the pillow, mouth slightly open, eyes flickering with REM. As relief poured through him, he wondered what she was dreaming about, whether he featured in the scenario going on inside her sleepy head, then chastised himself for being the soft bastard he once was. Why should he suddenly care what she saw? Why did it matter whether he was the star of her night-time imaginings?

He didn’t know why he cared but he did. She’d intrigued him in the hotel dining room, intrigued him more with her lies in the bathroom, and well and truly hooked him with her about-face thereafter. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly that had gripped him, though. She was nice to look at, no doubt about it, and he liked the way she gave as good as she got while being fucked—loved her greediness in ensuring she got satisfaction—but there was something he couldn’t define that drew her to him.

He needed to watch himself. She had the ability to slip under his skin and stay there, a constant itch he needed to scratch if he allowed it. He’d be better off letting his boss, Huntington, take her over, let him keep her safe until this crap was sorted out, but…

He couldn’t do it. Huntington would claim her as one of his women, fucking her every which way until he tired of her. She didn’t deserve that, even if she did have a healthy sexual appetite. Allowing some hulking government toady to paw her, a pot-bellied, slack-lipped wanker with a penchant for kink, wasn’t ideal. Bishop shrugged. Who was he to decide what she did and whom she slept with? For all he knew, now that the promised money may not be forthcoming from Waterman, Fallan might choose to get paid for sex by Huntington. She needed cash, and desperate times called for desperate measures.

Bishop was startled to find his stomach churning at the prospect of her in another man’s arms.

What the fuck?

Besides, she couldn’t go to Huntington. Bishop wanted to know more about her. Not some shit in a file that told him whether she was a criminal or not. No, he wanted to know about her likes and dislikes, what she enjoyed and what she didn’t, and whether her arsehole was as tight around his cock as it had been on his fingers.

She hadn’t fooled him with that. Her cunt had spasmed harder when he’d introduced his fingers to her arse. She’d been lying again when she’d made out she’d have to know him better before he breached that hole with his cock. No matter. He’d get to know her better, know her for longer, then he’d see what her excuse would be when he asked her if she’d like his to be the first dick that penetrated her puckered barrier.

What the hell is wrong with you, man?

He rasped a hand over his chin, the sound of stubble somewhat obscene in the virtual silence. Fallan had him at sixes and sevens, acting differently than he had with other women. He didn’t usually get so aggressive, didn’t usually speak to them as though they were nothing, yet this woman inspired him to do just that. And it didn’t seem like she minded either. From what he’d gathered so far, she was open to a bit of filthy talk, a bit of ordering about. A bit of degradation.

She suited him down to the ground.

Fuck.

He turned from her, cock stirring once again, and checked the window locks. After the imagery of her naked arse going out of an open window, he needed to be sure the place was secure. He didn’t want her leaving…and not just because of her safety, either.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing a woman had affected him like this again. He’d always been in control in the past, had always known one-night stands were the way to go since—

He wasn’t going to think about the past, damn it!

Bishop slipped on a pair of jeans then headed for the living room, forcing Fallan from his thoughts with great difficulty. The sight of the phone on his desk helped erase her, though. He had a report call to make—one that would have his boss in a thunderous temper if his previous reactions to shit like this were any indication. He dialled and waited for Huntington to pick up, pulled out of either a call girl or an alcohol-induced sleep. His boss liked the whisky and wasn’t averse to sinking a fair few before he retired at night.

“What do you want?” Huntington asked, going on with, “I saw you’d accessed the files. What woman are you fucking now when you’re supposed to be working?”

“I picked her up at the drop zone.” Bishop staved off a wave of irritation that threatened to consume him. Huntington was a prick who never failed to get on his last nerve.

“And you disturbed me to tell me something that could wait until morning? Or are you bored while you keep watch on her as she sleeps?”

“It couldn’t wait until morning, and I’m not watching her. She’s sleeping but the house is secure, as it always is.”

Huntington sighed, and Bishop imagined it was tainted by the scent of stale alcohol, pitied any woman his phone call had also awakened if she got a blast of his breath. He shivered and waited for a response.

“So what is it?” It sounded as though Huntington was sitting himself up.

“Waterman’s involved.”

“Fuck.”

“Indeed.”

“How so?” Huntington was fully alert now. His voice had lost that weary, condescending edge.

“He’s the one in charge of the drops. How he came by the information is anyone’s guess, but it’s him using blackmail to make those in the government bow down to him. He set up some elaborate scam, would you believe?”

“Yes, I do believe, which is why we sent our own men, you included, to intercept the packages. Go on.”

“He had the microchips with evidence of government foul play on them—it was him or one of his men who contacted someone in government about their existence. According to Miss Jones, he made up a competition, ensuring women won a short holiday break, and their instructions were to deliver the chips in velvet pouches to specific locations in each hotel. We knew someone was doing that, didn’t we? Just not him. After Miss Jones secreted the cargo—and she was promised thousands of pounds once she’d completed her task—I intercepted, as planned. Waterman sent another of his goons to collect—a double-cross, I assume. He probably intended to make out he knew nothing of it once news of the pick-up going wrong had come to light. We anticipated this. And I was seen taking the goods.”

“Wonderful. Do continue.”

“I had to take the female to my present location as I thought she may have been with Waterman, but it appears she’s innocent.”

“I saw her file myself and would be inclined to agree, but even files can be deceptive. Tampered with. What’s her reaction been like?”

Bishop thought of her reaction—but not the initial one Huntington meant. He tossed the image of her sitting on the bath edge with her legs open from his mind and rewound to see fury and incomprehension on her face when he’d approached her outside the hotel. “She’s either innocent or a bloody good actress.”

“Anything else?”

“I was followed from the hotel. Probably the man Waterman sent to collect.”

“Marvellous.” The word was full of disgust and sarcasm.

“I gave him the slip, but it won’t be long before they’re on the lookout for my licence plate.”

“They haven’t spotted it since you infiltrated his mob, so why the devil would they find you via your vehicle now?”

“I suppose…”

“New plates will solve it. Should have done that before. Bloody got sidetracked with other things.”

“Yes.”
Like shoving your cock into women
.

Bishop waited for further instruction. Huntington didn’t seem in a hurry to offer any—he did that often, just left the line open while he thought things out, leaving Bishop hanging on until he deigned to speak. While he listened to what he imagined was Huntington getting out of bed and walking downstairs to his alcohol cabinet—a nasty, tacky-looking globe where the top half opened to reveal even tackier crystal decanters—Bishop glanced at the monitors on a shelf above his desk. His cameras were trained on all areas of his property. The grounds were in darkness, nothing untoward going on, and he let out a breath of relief. He wasn’t afraid of what he’d have to do if someone did happen by—he was trained in armed combat and had no conscience with regard to sinking a bullet or knife into anyone who threatened to expose him or the government officials he was contracted with—but he had Fallan to consider now. She hadn’t seen a gun let alone handled one until she’d met him, and false bravado wasn’t enough to get her out of a tricky situation.

This location had been secure for years. It didn’t exist as far as any regular Joe was concerned. It wasn’t on any files other than governmental ones, and he didn’t receive any mail or deliveries. He picked up his post from a PO box and bought whatever he needed himself. His credit cards were at his other, civilian address, and the name on them was a far cry from any he’d used while working. He rarely went ‘home’, though. That place contained too many memories, too much of his past that he’d forced himself to forget.

After… Well, years ago, when…when things had gone wrong, he’d removed all photographs of… Removed things that reminded him of what he’d lost, what his job had made him lose, and vowed never to dwell on them again. Every so often
she
infiltrated his thoughts, but he quelled them, pushed the sight of her smiling face away because seeing her made him hurt.

He clenched his teeth, annoyed that he’d let her in again, if only for the briefest of moments. He’d failed her, put her in danger, and she hadn’t even been aware of it until it had been too late.

Until the bullet had ripped off the side of her face and ricocheted through her brain, taking her away from him. From that traumatic, absolutely hateful day, he’d vowed never to allow a woman into his life again. Never to let a woman be in the danger she had been in.

You can’t even bear to think of her name, can you?

No, he couldn’t. And wouldn’t. Ever.

Guilt rested heavily on his shoulders, a burden he’d carry to the grave. He worked twenty-four/seven, burying himself in his jobs so he didn’t have a second to pause and think. And now here he was, allowing another woman to get to him, making him want to know her in ways he shouldn’t. Was he ready to try again, was that it? Had years of one-night stands and abstinence in between trysts given him enough time to grieve? To forget? To forgive himself?

I’ll never forgive my fucking self.

“Uh, there’s been a development,” Huntington said, his razor-sharp tone hauling Bishop out of his thoughts and into the present.

“What is it?” Bishop’s heart rate increased, the familiarity of adrenaline surging through his veins erasing the last vestiges of thoughts from the past.

“Seems someone—Waterman’s crew, I suspect—has enlisted the
help
, shall we say, of a CCTV camera operator in the city. They’ve been for a little visit. Frankie Lash, to be precise.”

“Fuck.” Bishop hiked in a long breath, then let it out slowly. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“You do? So what’s your next course of action?”

“Get the fuck out of here before they work out where my vehicle could have headed after it was last captured on camera.”

“Good lad. The next location—you know the drill.”

“I do.”

“And take Miss Jones with you, blindfolded, of course.”

“Of course.” Bishop paused then asked, “The CCTV operator?”

“He has a new, bigger smile, so I’m told.”

“Shit.”

“He’s on his way to hospital. I’m sure they’ll stitch his cheeks up and send him on his way in no time. Whether he’s left alone after that isn’t our concern.”

“What? Are you shitting me? You’re going to let him go back to his usual life knowing Waterman and his wankers will go after him again?”

“We can’t take care of every casualty, Bishop.”

Bishop bit back a snide retort. He worked for a government where he always put himself in danger for its MPs, this time to prevent some sordid, sexual information being leaked to the press. He worked on behalf of men and women who weren’t prepared to make sure those who had been hurt when Bishop did his job—innocent civilians just going about their lives—were cared for in the event things went tits up. People drawn into messes they didn’t know they were in until it hit them in the face—messes created by the very MPs who professed to care for their constituents when they went live on TV while touring the country for their campaigns.

The whole lot of them made Bishop sick, and he came to the sudden realisation he wanted out.

“This is my last job,” he said, then gritted his teeth.

“I don’t think so,” Huntington said. “It’s so very easy for us to plant information. You know that as well as I do.”

And it’s so easy for me to gain a new identity and fuck off.

Huntington cleared his throat. “Stop being so dramatic and get on with it. By the sounds of things, it won’t be long before Waterman comes knocking on your door.”

Chapter Six

Waterman drummed his fingers on his desk blotter. “Sounds like a plan.”

“You coming with us?” Frankie asked, his expression showing hope, like some constantly kicked puppy wishing that just this once he’d be petted.

“I think I will, seeing as it’s that wanker we’re dealing with. I’d love to know what name he’s using for this job. Bet it’s something he’ll be dying to tell me when I have his nuts in a vice and he realises there’s no way out.”