Viper: A Hitman Romance (4 page)

"Open up."

No answer.

I kick that door down.

Just like I knew would happen, the room's empty, the window's open, and my hostage has a minute's head start on me.  Oh, and there's a thick wad of toilet paper plugging the drain in my sink, with water flooding out of it and onto the floor.

Fucking great
.

CHAPTER FOUR

JESSICA

I hit the ground and do my best to keep my knees bent and I think I stick the landing, but it still hurts like hell.  Being barefoot, handcuffed, and jumping from a second story window is not my idea of a good Friday night.  Maybe it was back in college, but I've gown up a bit since then.

The grass helps cushion my fall.  Just a bit, but it's better than nothing.

I start running.  I don't know which direction I'm going or where I'm heading, but I know that anywhere is better than here.  And if I can get somewhere public, maybe I can make it out of this alive.

I'm scared out of my mind, but doing my best to stay calm and focused.

Right now, I'm grateful that the Bureau gives basic training to everyone.  Even lab techs like me.

I'm two blocks away and it is still dead quiet.  Doors are locked, lights are out, everyone's asleep and I am totally alone.  Ahead, maybe a half mile, I can see the lights to a small strip of nightlife. 

There's a bar, maybe two, and I think I can even see a couple people milling about.  It's got to be at least 2 AM and most everything else is closed.  I just hope that whoever these guys are, they're not the type to try and take advantage of a woman who's all alone and wearing nothing but a pair of cuffs and a little black dress.

Either way, I have to take the risk.

In the quiet night air, I hear the sound of tires squealing.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
.

There goes my sense of calm.  He's after me.

My feet are pounding the pavement, but it's hard to run fast with bare feet and cuffed hands.

He's pulling up behind me now, and I know I'm not going to make it.  There's no way.  I'm not fast enough.

I scream. 

"Help".

Once.  Twice.  I scream so loud my throat hurts.

Then I dart into an alley.  Still screaming.

I'm loud when I want to be and the night is dead quiet.

My voice has to be carrying a long way.

Someone
has
to hear me.

I hear a car door slam.  Footsteps come up behind me.

I stumble over a trashcan.  It hurts. I think I broke a toe.  But I keep running.  And I keep screaming.

Those footsteps are right behind me.

A hand clamps over my mouth.

"Shut.  Up."

No nonsense.  His voice is deadly serious.

Even more serious is the gun I feel pressing against the side of my head.

It's cold like death.  It shocks me to alertness. 

It's fight or flight time, and, since I can't flee with him holding me, that just leaves fight.

I scream into his hand and then I stomp down on a foot.  Hard.

He needs me alive.  But I don't need him.  At all.

He swears something filthy, a rolling growl of profanity that makes me blush, but doesn't let me go.

His grip on my mouth hurts.  It's like he's trying to break my jaw or something.

"Calm down," he whispers.

But I'm not hearing it.

Adrenaline courses through my body.  I'm seeing in tunnel vision, and I feel like some cornered animal.  All I can think about is getting away from here.

I go limp for a second — it's a trick they taught us in basic training, it makes the target think you've given up, so they relax — then, I introduce my elbow to his crotch.

That does it. 

The air leaves his chest in one quick 'oomf' and he lets go.

I gasp.  Air fills my lungs, energy surges in my body.

Free again, I run back towards the entrance to the alley.  I scream again, too.

A shout in the distance answers me. 
Did they say 'shut up' or 'hold up'?

Either way, there's no time to think about it, because Ryker's got me again, hand over my mouth while the other practically slams me into the brick wall of a building.

It hurts.

"I told you: be quiet.  I am not fucking around here.  You will
not
like it if some idiot shows up and tries to play hero."

He jabs the gun into my back.  Hard.

I'm crying.  I can feel it.  The tears are streaming down my cheeks in hot salty rivulets and my chest hurts from the running.  I'm sobbing so fucking hard that my diaphragm feels like one big, painful knot in my throat.

But I don't hear any of this.

All I hear is the scuff of Ryker's shoes against the pavement, his hot breath in my ear, and the repeated
dingdingding
sound coming from his Jag, which is sitting near the entrance of the alley with the keys still in the ignition.

And then: "Hey, leave her alone."

That sound cuts off my crying.

I'm not alone
.

My whole body tenses.  I'm ready for action again.  Maybe I can make it out of here.

Ryker lets me go and turns to face the guy standing in the alley.  I turn too.

He's big.  Over six foot, flannel, beard, and a bit of a beer gut.  Not the sexiest guardian angel I've ever seen, but he looks like he can hold his own.

He comes further into the alley.  His fists are clenched.  He's ready for trouble.

"I said: leave her alone."

Ryker raises his gun.  Nonchalant.  This is just another day to him, and the gun is just another tool.

The guy stops.

"You chose the wrong time to be a hero.  Wrong night, wrong alley."

The guy is backing up now.

"Hey, man, I don't want any trouble.  C'mon, think about this…"

And Ryker looks like he's thinking about it.  He's deliberate, mechanical.  Every move he makes is calculated, and now he's reaching into his back pocket, pulling out a slim metal silencer which he slides over the muzzle of his pistol with a satisfying 'click'.

He's weighing this man's life and it doesn't amount to much.

I should know better than to get my hopes up. 
Never
let yourself do that.  Because, as soon as you start feeling hope, life will rip it away.  Just like it's done to me over and over again.

The tears are back, full force.  I just can't take it.

"You know I can't let you walk away from this, Mr. Hero," Ryker says.  His voice is ice cold.  His hands are steady. 

Meanwhile, the other guy has his hands up and he looks like I feel: weepy and hopeless and regretting every step in their life that took them to this moment.

"Please, man, I've got a wife…"  He begs.

Ryker looks to me.

I'm crying, begging, babbling.

I'm on my fucking knees.

"Sorry, Jessica.  But this is your fault," he says.

He aims.  Exhales.  A puff of air in the still night air.

He pulls the trigger.

I scream.

Bang
.

Blood.  Is.  Everywhere.

CHAPTER FIVE

RYKER

A split-second before I pull that trigger, Jessica gives me a look exactly like one I saw three years ago.

It's the look of someone who's lost too many people close to them, who's seen too many people die, and who just can't take it any more.

It's honest, raw, and pained beyond belief.

That look broke me then, and it breaks me now.

That look was why I resolved to get out of this business.

Bang
.

The bullet passes through Mr. Hero's shoulder and comes out the other side in a thick spray of crimson.  The blood splatters to the ground and starts steaming in the chill night air.

Smoke puffs out the end of my silencer.  The air is ripe with the smell of gunshot and the irony tang of blood.

It's gruesome, but Mr. Hero's taken a through-and-through.  He'll live, provided he doesn't try to do anything stupid, like piss me off further.

Life's hard. 

I'm harder. 

But I'm not heartless.

Mr. Hero slumps down to his knees, groaning.  He's got one hand over his wound, blood pooling through his fingers, and the most confused expression on his face.

Jessica's still behind me, still hunched over, trying to process what the fuck just happened.

I ignore her.  I only have eyes for Mr. Hero right now and my brain is running at a million miles a minute trying to figure out the best way to get out of this situation without killing anybody. 

It would be so much easier to kill him, even considering the inconvenience of dealing with the body.

One slip-up, and this'll be Burma all over again.

Minus the tiger.  I hope.

Grabbing Mr. Hero by the arms, I yank him to his feet and do my best to keep his blood off me and my suit.  He's moaning now.  It's pathetic, really — Mr. Hero never stood a chance.

Holding him still with one hand, I pat him down and pull his wallet out of his back pocket.

I open it.

"Mr. Thomas Abrams.  172 East 71st street, Ventura, California, Nine-Three-Zero-Zero-Nine.  Do you go by Tom or Thomas?"

He blinks. 

I slap him back to reality and out of whatever shock he was starting to slip into.  There's no time to fuck around here. 

I'm trying to be nice, Mr. Abrams.  Take the out I'm giving you.

But he's not responding.

I jam my thumb into the gunshot wound in his shoulder.  I twist it a bit.

Tom screams.  It's a muffled, pathetic little scream.  The poor guy is spent.

I can feel his heartbeat pulsing through the artery in his shoulder, a rapid
thump thump thump
as his whole body is working overdrive.  Blood is pumping from his wound all over my hands.  If that bullet took his shoulder a few millimeters higher, he'd be a dead man.  But I knew where I was aiming, and I don't miss.

Eyes wide, pupils dilating to all hell, he looks at me, begging and gasping for mercy.

I'm his god, now.  And he'd better not anger me, because my mercy's about run out.

"Answer me, you pathetic little piece of shit."

"Tom," he manages to garble.

I put his wallet in my pocket, then I pat Tom lightly on the face like the good little boy he is.

"Tom, tonight is your lucky night.  You get to live.  Provided you follow my simple instructions: tell no one what you saw here.  You can tell the cops you got robbed, or hit in a drive-by, or shot by a transvestite prostitute trying to rip you off.  I don't care.  Just as long as you keep what really happened to yourself.  But, if you don't, and if I even get a side-eyed glance from a cop, I will kill you.  I will kill your family.  And I will kill everyone you've ever been close to, from your first kiss all the way to the sorority girl who let you fuck her up the ass that one time your senior year of college.  Got it?"

The only words to leave his lips are a ragged cry of 'Please' and more pathetic sobs.

"Answer me, Tom."

I twist my thumb deeper into his wound and he blubbers like a child.  It's ruthless, but I'm an angry god, remember.

"Tell me we have an understanding, Tom."

He nods.

I can be very persuasive.

I shove him out of my way and he staggers, only avoiding falling because he manages to latch onto the brick wall of the alley.  He's clinging to it like an infant to his mother's tit, shaking and sobbing without any sense of restraint or dignity.  It's pathetic.

I turn to Jessica.  She's still got that look on her face and I do my best to soften my tone.  Which is a hard thing to do when you've just shot a man and you're feeling on top of the world because you hold his life in your hands.

"Get up, please.  We have to go."

She does. 

I offer her my arm for support, because I can see the jump from the second story window and running several blocks on pavement has not been kind to her bare feet, but she shakes me off and gets into the car, even managing to slam the door.  Tough girl.

I scan the alleyway for the shell casing and the bullet and pocket both.  Then, I turn to Mr. Hero.

"Tom, you wait a minute before leaving this alley, ok buddy?" I put as much sarcasm as I can into the word 'buddy'.   "You give us some time to get down the road.  Don't worry — you'll be OK when it's all said and done — I've taken a shot in the same place as you, and I healed up just fine."

Though I wasn't nearly as much of a pussy about it
, I add silently.

Tom nods and that's good enough for me.  I'm not sure he's really hearing me, what with the shock and the blood loss, but I don't have time to stick around and make sure.

This god doesn't give a shit about Tom.

The Jag roars back to life, then settles into a steady purr, and I get us the fuck out of there because we are too close to Burma right now. And there's no fucking way I'm repeating Burma.

I get Jessica back to the safehouse. 

She doesn't say a word the whole drive, and I like that, because right now, I am roiling inside.  I have too much riding on this mission and I just barely escaped a
Big Fucking Mistake
by the skin of my teeth.

Pulling on her cuffs like they're the leash on some disobedient puppy, I lead her inside.

Upstairs we go and I lock her back onto the bed frame.  Even pull on it a few times to make sure it's secure. 

"Go to sleep."  My voice sounds like a dog's bark.  It reminds me of a guy I used to work with, an ex gunnery sergeant who went AWOL after two tours in Iraq.  Even years out of the service, he still talked to you like you were some corn-fed, brainless little shit from the middle of nowhere Kansas.

I'm halfway to the door when Jessica finally speaks.

"Why didn't you kill him?"

I don't even stop.

"Because I didn't feel like dealing with a body."

"Either way… thanks."

What I don't say is that she disarmed me.  What I don't say is that she struck something within me that turned me from the machine I should be, that I train to be, to just an ordinary man.  Well, as ordinary as you can be with years of experience as a lethal killer and a gun in your hands.

Downstairs, I'm pacing. 

Sportscenter is on in the background. 

It's quiet outside. 

I down another glass of scotch and things have started to calm.

Why does Jessica have me so rattled?  Or is it even Jessica?  Is it because I'm so close to being done with this business… A fact which seems so unreal that I'm jumping at shadows because I'm too afraid to fuck things up?

My phone buzzes like an angry wasp in my pocket.

Speaking of fuckups.

It's another text from my omniscient asshole of a client.

Keep a better eye on her.  No more mistakes
.

Where the fuck does this guy get off?  How the fuck is this guy watching me?

My phone hurls across the room and smacks into the wall.  It doesn't break.  It's tough.  I've thrown it before.

Couch cushions sail through the air, tables spill over, and every book on my bookcase gets thrown to the floor in the hunt for just where the fuck Michael Drax's bug is.  Because that pale-faced asshole has eyes on me and I can't stand it. 

The search turns up nothing.

I double-check the lock on every door and window downstairs, then I slide the couch in front of the front door and head upstairs.  The first floor is a security risk, now.  At least upstairs, I'll have a little bit of warning if anyone busts in.

Besides, being alone is not that appealing right now.  I'm more than a little bit creeped out.

Jessica's asleep.

Her chest and her perky round tits rise and fall in a slow, steady rhythm.  It's distracting as all hell.  If I were a less professional man, I could have a lot of fun sliding that slinky dress up her legs, putting myself in between them, and finding out just how good this curvy twenty-something lab worker tastes.  I'm willing to bet pretty damn incredible. 

What happened back in that parking lot hours ago still gets my blood hot and my cock throbbing when I think about it.  Jessica knows how to kiss, and I'll bet that's not the only thing she knows how to do with those full lips of hers.

I shake my head and force those thoughts into the background.

She looks peaceful for once.  There's none of the stress and the pain of the last few hours reflecting back at me in her deep blue eyes. 

She deserves a break.

Not wanting to wake her, I crouch down, lean back against the wall, and make myself as comfortable as I can.  The floor's going to be my bed tonight.