Viper: A Hitman Romance (11 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

RYKER

Jessica Roan is right where she needs to be when I leave the Federal Building behind, with the flash drive in my pocket. 

She gets out, hands me the keys, and I sit right in the drivers seat.

It's good to be me.  To have freedom burning a hole right in my pocket. 

I'm hours away from a multi-million dollar payday, from a new life, and finally having a chance to be a part of my daughter's life.  To watch her grow, to be the father and the man that she deserves.

My Jag purrs.  Fuck, I practically purr as well.

I roll the windows down, press my foot to the gas, and let the beast roar. 

Life is fucking grand.

And at my side: Jessica Fucking Roan.  Smart, determined, and beautiful.  I owe her my freedom.

"Where to?" she asks. 

Her hair is fluttering in the wind and she's got a smile on her face.  She can feel the enthusiasm that must be radiating from me.

I'm
happy
.  And it's not the passing happiness that comes with fucking a hot piece of ass I've picked up at a bar, or the thrill that comes with nailing a perfect shot at 1,500 meters.  I'm talking about the happiness and purse sense of glorious accomplishment that comes after working for something for fucking years of your life, and finally realizing it.

My whole, new life, is ahead of me.  It's resting in my calloused, bloodstained hands.  And it feels
good
.

"You tell me.  Where's home?" I say.

And if I wasn't so blind in my own exhilaration, I would see the flutter of disappointment on her face.

"Culver City."

I take her home. 

It's a little duplex not far off of Washington Boulevard.  She takes her time getting out.

"Hey, Jessica," I say, and she stops, halfway out of the car, one leg dangling on the sidewalk. 

Her eyes are big, bright bulbs of excitement and expectation. 

"Yes, Ryker?"

"Thank you.  For everything.  You are an incredible woman, and every bit of success tonight I owe to you," I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.  Hours from now, I'll be collecting my payday, starting a new life, and it's all because of her.  "We might not ever see each other again, but I don't want you to ever forget the fact that you've changed my life — and Kylie's life — for the better."

Jessica leans back into the car and kisses me. 

Her lips turn the exhilaration I'm feeling from my freedom into complete and total euphoria.  Heat surges through my body and I'm breathless.

"I won't forget you, Ryker," she whispers into my ear.

Then, she's gone.  I'm watching her walk up the sidewalk to her duplex, her pretty face continually looking over her shoulder back at me, and I can't but feel that a little bit of Mickey Shaughnessy's famous Irish luck must've rubbed off on me at some point.

To cross paths with a woman like her?  Even if just for a few days?  That's a score that's better than finding a pot of gold at the end of the fucking rainbow.

My work phone is out and my fingers dance a fucking tango across the screen as I reach out to Michael Drax. 
Mission accomplished.  Where is the drop point?

The reply comes back right away, and it's just an address for a home in the Hollywood Hills.  It's got to be Michael Drax's home.

It's a thirty minute drive and I make it in fifteen, blasting down empty streets and putting my car to work. 

There's a wrought-iron gate out front, with a guard-post complete with a heavily-armed and bored-looking guard.  The man waves me through and I drive up the very long driveway and park my car right out front of the house's grand entryway.  I count at least three guards, heavily armed with AR-15's, patrolling the grounds on my drive up.

Drax's home is a monument to money, the kind of wealth that only the upper crust of the top one-percent wield. 

His study, which is where I'm directed to by his butler once I enter the carved-wood double-doors of his home, is filled with paintings.  Which, knowing Drax, they all must be originals.  I see at least two Picasso's.

Michael Drax is alone at a desk at the far end of the cavernous study, sitting at a simple wooden desk with a laptop.  He beckons me closer the second I enter the room.

"Mr. Blackwood, so good to see you.  And thank you for being prompt.  I really appreciate you not keeping me waiting.  I hate waiting."  His voice is pure slime.  I can practically feel it oozing over me, covering me with filth.

I can't wait to be done with people like him.  I can't wait to be out of this business.

I cross the room and slump into the high-backed antique leather chair opposite his desk. 

"Yeah.  I'm a professional, remember."

I take the drive out of my pocket with a flourish and let it dance across my knuckles.  It's a grade-school magic trick my daughter taught me a year back.

"And I trust there were no problems?"  Drax doesn't look the slightest bit amused.

I shake my head.  "No.  I wouldn't be sitting here if there were.  Now, let's talk about payment."

He nods, then stands up.  "Walk with me, Ryker."

I put the drive back in my pocket.  He leads me at a slow walk from this study and into a long hallway.  It's lined with paintings and hunting trophies and other expensive trinkets. 

"What's this all about?" I ask.

I'm getting impatient.  I want my fucking freedom.  If I shut my eyes, I can see the sunrise over the Atlantic.  I can practically
taste
the salt spray.  I'm tired of being jerked around.

"You know, I had my doubts about you."

"You
hired me, remember?  You sought me out."

Drax nods.  "I did.  You were the best available.  But that doesn't mean I don't research my employees.  And it doesn't mean I don't keep an eye on them."

This drive is burning a hole in my pocket.  "I was aware.  For future reference, that's not the best way to treat your hired guns."

He gives me a sideways look.  It's amused.

"Ryker Blackwood, it is absolutely the
best
way to treat my hires.  I need to be absolutely sure they'll accomplish everything that's required of them."

I'm getting a sinking feeling with every step further we take.  Twice now, I've had to deliberately slow down and fall back in line behind Drax because my nerves are pushing me forward.

"I did your mission.  I put up with your surveillance.  Now it's your turn to hold up your end of the bargain."

We pass a tiger, stuffed and standing in a predatory pose on a pedestal.  I cannot shake the feeling that his is turning into Burma all over again.  I want
out
.

"Of course."

"So…" I say, doing my best to prompt him for a goddamned explanation.

"We're going to get your money.  You don't think I'd keep ten million in bearer bonds in my study, do you?"

We leave the tiger behind.  Drax leads me into a small library.  He approaches one shelf, slides his hand along the side of it, pulls a hidden catch, and the shelf comes out from the wall, revealing a door. 

I follow.

Inside, it's plain and sparse, with white walls and a tile floor.  There's a metal table, a few chairs, and several safes and file cabinets.  On the wall are a few paintings that are either too valuable for him to hang on the walls or, most likely, still too 'hot' from being stolen for him to display.

He opens one of the safes and pulls out a stack of thick embossed certificates.  Setting them on the table, he runs his thumb over the stack, takes out three and sets them to the side.  The rest, he slides across the table towards me.

"There you are.  I went to some expense to find these, you know."

"Thanks."  I nod to the few he set aside.  "They give you a bulk deal?  Or are you trying to shortchange me?"

Drax gives me a wan smile.

"No, Mr. Blackwood.  Those would have been yours.  Provided I thought you fit for performing a few 'extras' associated with this job."

My internal radar tells me Burma is just a few blips away.  "What do you mean?"

"It doesn't matter, Mr. Blackwood.  You're free; you're done with all this.  You can wash your hands and walk away."

My gun's in my hands before I realize it.  I aim it right at this fucker's smug face.  "
Tell me
."

His eyes barely flicker.  "You're a professional, so think about it.  Do you really believe I would leave any loose ends?"

I cock the hammer of my gun.  "It was supposed just be a kidnapping and a break-in.  You said nothing about killing her."

That sick smile of Michael Drax's gets a little wider.  "That's your part, yes.  But, what does it even matter to you?  Your job is done, so take the money and
leave
."

I waver.  Freedom is staring me right in the face.  It's everything I've been working towards for all these years. 
So why the fuck do I feel so guilty?

He picks up on my hesitation.

"Are you really going to throw it all away for her?"

I've known Jessica Roan for three days.  That's it.  I should take my money and get the hell out of here.

"What's wrong, Viper?  You've killed countless people; men, women, young, old, but you can't just take your money and walk away?" there's venom just dripping from Drax's words.  He's taunting me.  "There's nothing you can do.  Your job is over.  So take your money and
get the fuck out of my house
."

I put my gun away.  As much as I hate to admit it, he's right.

And I'm done with this business, after all.  I can put the Viper to rest.  I'm not that man anymore.  And even though they feel like they way a thousand pounds each, these bearer bonds are my ticket to freedom. 

I'm free.  So why do I feel so sick about it?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

JESSICA

The first thing I do when I get home is call Connor. 

He's ok, he left the hospital yesterday and is staying with a friend in Westwood.  I give him a confused, rambling explanation for where I've been these last few days, which makes him concerned as all hell.  I don't know if he believes everything I'm saying — it sounds ridiculous to me even though I
lived
it — and I don't give him all the details, only the most basic rundown.

By the time I hang up, he's on his way.

Now that everything is over, I'm finally able to process just what happened and how I feel about it all.  While I was in the thick of it, I couldn't stop to think.  I had to do what I could just to make it through.  This wasn't just about me surviving, it was also for Connor.  He's going to need every bit of my support these next few months.

But now, all of my forensic training is taking over.  And I'm analyzing all the evidence

Fifteen minutes later, he's at my door with two bottles of wine.

And I still don't know how I feel.

"Sounds like you've had quite the weekend, sis."

I hug him as soon as he's inside.

"It's so good to see you.  You have no idea.  These last couple days, they've just been so…"

Words fail me.  I pour wine instead.  All the way to the top of the two glasses I've taken down from the cupboard.

"What really happened, Jessica?"

I stare at Connor intently over the edge of my glass, looking for just how to describe the complete whirlwind that was the last few days.

"I was kidnapped."

"You're kidding."

I shake my head.  "No.  He had a gun, Connor.  Several."

Including a very large one between his legs.  One that I love to make shoot.

"For real?"

I nod.

At first, it looks like he doesn't believe me.  But he knows I'm not the joking type.  It's not in my blood.  It's why I'm so good at my job.

Connor hugs me again.  "I'm so sorry, Jess.  Sit down.  Talk to me.  And, seriously, all this wine is now yours…  Drink as much as you need."

Which is awfully sweet of him.  I know it's the cheap stuff from
Trader Joe's
, but I appreciate the gesture.

"Thanks," I say.  Then, I sigh.  One of those deep, shaky sighs.

Processing
hurts
.

"I was out at the
Egyptian Queen
— that bar I told you about — and I met him there.  His name is Ryker.  And we hit it off.  I told him about why I was so stressed, and then he sang to me…"

Connor gets this look on his face like I've just told him the Easter Bunny is real.  "He
sang
to you?"

I nod.  "Yeah. 
Feeling Good
by Nina Simone.  Or Michael Buble.  I don't know how it works with those old songs.  But it was nice…"

"So far this isn't sounding like much of a kidnapping, sis."

"Shut it, Connor.  He pulled a gun on me later.  In the parking lot, while we were…"

I cough.  I see no need to tell my brother
all
the details.

"Sis, it's ok.  I'm in college now.  You can tell me you made out with a guy."

"He kissed me.  That's
it,
" I say, indignantly.  I am definitely not going to tell my younger brother about how far we got, or how much I wanted it,
wanted him
.

"Again, this doesn't sound like a kidnapping.  How drunk were you?"

I play-slap him on the shoulder.  I keep it to just a light tap.  Because I know my younger brother's sense of humor; if I smack him any harder, he'll bring up the cancer and throw me for the biggest guilt trip on earth.

"I wasn't that drunk!  But even if I was, could you blame me?  It's not like it's been a good week."

Just thinking about the bomb that was Connor's diagnosis makes the cheap wine go down easier. 

Connor just shrugs, but I know it's affecting him too, even though he won't show it.  He always does what he thinks will make things easier for me… like, pretending that Stage III Colon cancer is no big deal.  It's hard being someone's only family, the only one they can count on.  Sometimes the worrying gets to be too much.

Sighing, I go on.  "He pulled a gun on me, then, and took me back to his house.  Cuffed me, and kept me there…"

"Did he…?"  Connor's question is clear, even though he doesn't finish his sentence.

I finish my wine first, fill myself another glass.  "No.  He didn't hurt me."

"At all?  You can tell me, sis.  It's ok if something happened.  You're the victim, here."

I shake my head.  "No.  He didn't do anything.  Just kept me locked up until it was time for me to do what he needed me to do."

"Which was?"

"Help him break into the FBI offices."

Connor lets out a long, low whistle.  "Damn."

I nod.

"Did it work?  Or are you free because he got picked up by some FBI guys?"

"He let me go.  About an hour ago.  He drove me home."

"He just let you go?  He must be crazy."

I raise an eyebrow.  "Why?"

"You're still alive."

"What do you mean?"

Connor sighs.  "Jess, I don't want to be a downer, but you saw this guys face.  You helped him pull off a major, major crime, and he just lets you walk away?  Unless every kidnapping story or movie out there is wrong, you should be dead now.  These type of guys don't just leave loose ends laying around.  It's a huge risk.  So why are you just sitting here with me drinking wine?"

It's quiet for a minute.  That question is one of many that's rattling around in my head and my heart.  Along with: what do I do now?  How do I move on with my life?  How do I forget about Ryker?  How can he just leave me?

"I met his daughter, too.  Her name's Kylie." 

Connor blinks and it's the most audible blink in the history of mankind.

"You
what
?"

"I met his daughter.  We were staking out the FBI and his daughter called, and he took me along.  She lives out in the suburbs.  I went to her talent show earlier, too."

"Jesus, Jessica.  We have to get you out of here."  Connor's on his feet so fast the wine sloshes out of his cup.

"Why?"

"Why?  Because it's not safe for you here.  You don't just meet your kidnapper's daughter and get away with it."

I stand up too, almost knocking my chair over in the process.  "Connor, calm down.  It's ok.  He said I'd be safe."

"So?"

"I trust him…" and then, I do that blabbering thing again.  "I care about him."

Connor's stunned speechless.  His mouth moves, open and shut, open and shut.

"You what?"

"I care about him.  He only did what he had to do for his family.  I
get
that, Connor.  I'd do the same.  He's a good guy…"

"Jessica, he's a
killer
.  And he kidnapped you at fucking gunpoint.  I don't care what you think you're not safe here.  Even if he doesn't come back to hurt you, whoever he's working for will think you're a liability."

I shake my head.  "I'm not leaving."

I'm about to say more, but there's a knock at the door.  Three quick raps.

We turn and stare at the door, speechless.

"Get back," Connor says. 

He takes he second unopened bottle of wine in hand and holds it like a club.

Slowly, Connor approaches the door.

"Who is it?" he calls out.  His voice has dropped a notch and I can tell he's trying to sound more mainly than the young college-boy that he is.

The voice on the other side of the door is one I don't recognize.

"Just your new neighbor, lad.  Finished moving in an hour ago.  Wanted to say hello and drop off a nice fifth of good ol' catholic Jameson."

His accent is Irish, thick, and smoky.

Connor looks to me, questioning.  I shrug.

He motions for me to get back further.  And I step out of the kitchen and into the living room.  I can still see the front door from where I'm standing, still watch as Connor approaches the door with wine bottle held high like a club.

I'm tense.  It's hard to breathe.

"One second," Connor calls out.

The door opens.

"Hey, lad, here ya go.  A bottle of the good stuff," the voice says.

A paper bag comes through the window, the kind that every liquor store puts their bottles in.

Connor's shoulders relax.

"Thanks," he says, doing his best to play it off.  He laughs nervously.

Connor turns to me and smiles, and I feel tense knot that my stomach had tied itself into start to release itself.

Connor moves to shut the door.

It stops.  The strangers plants his foot firmly in the way.

"Sorry about this, lad," the voice says again.  "But a job's a job." 

The door flies inward, propelled by a sturdy leather boot.

I scream.

"Run, Jessica," Connor yells as he raises the wine bottle to strike.

The stranger moves with the kind of precision that comes with years of practice.  He ducks Connor's clumsy swing and buries his gloved fist right in my brother's face.  I can hear the bone-breaking
crunch
from here.  Connor's head snaps sideways and a little 'oh' escapes his lips, along with an arc of saliva.

The stranger doesn't stop. 

In the next second, his leg lashes out in a kick, catching Connor right in the chest and sending him falling backwards.  He hits the kitchen table. 

Wine and glasses crash to the floor and shatter into a thousand pieces.

"Stop it!"  I scream.

I feel paralyzed, helpless.

The stranger stands over my brother.  He's older, and an expression of regret sits on his heavily-creased face. 

"Truly sorry," he says, drawing a gun from inside his leather jacket.

Boom
.

There's no silencer. 

I hear every decibel of the explosive pop.  I feel it in my bones. 

A heavy drop of blood, thrown clear by the gunshot, lands square on my cheek.

I crumple.  I'm a pathetic little ball on the floor, arms clutching my knees to my chest, and sobs ripping my throat to pieces.

Thudding footsteps approach from the kitchen.

"I know you're Ryker's gal.  Normally, that'd put you off limits.  But there's a three million dollar bullet in this gun and it has your name on it."

I'm numb. 

My life is over.

I can feel my soul separating from my body already.  It's like I'm looking down on myself, kneeling before this weathered killer, ready to die.

I barely hear the gunshot.