CAUGHT: A Hitman Romance (3 page)

Nike

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” my ever so observant friend comments when I walk into the kitchen.

I cast her a weak smile, trying to look less distraught. It never works with her, though.

“Tough day,” I lie.

“Oh?” She asks, turning back to the stove. Amanda is an excellent cook. While I am capable of feeding myself with somewhat healthy food here and there, always having to force myself to cook something that requires more than one pot, she effortlessly throws in ingredients and spices and creates amazing dishes.

“I thought your deadline was still miles away,” she adds. “How come it’s been rough today? Isn’t this one of the slow stretches right now?”

Damn. I’m such a bad liar, and I tend to forget how well Amanda listens every time I tell her even the most mundane stories from work.

“Oh, not really stress like that,” I try to explain, sitting down at the kitchen table behind her. I know she wouldn’t want my help for cooking, and if there is something to do for me, it’ll most likely be something that needs to be chopped and she’ll just place it in front of me along with the order.

“Just bad moods, people fighting. And I’m tired, haven’t slept well,” I continue my lies.

“I see,” she states, without looking at me.

She said she’s just making pasta, but there are three pots on the stove, a big one and two smaller ones. She is boiling water in the big one while throwing in chopped up onions in another. The third doesn’t seem to be in use yet.

“What are you making?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject.

“Pasta,” she repeats. “With a carbonara variation. Kind of deciding on the spot here.”

Almost everything Amanda cooks is a variation of something else. Sometimes, I wish I could be as creative as she is with her cooking, and her work, too. While I just polish the work of others, she’s someone who writes new pieces and can make up a story of her own. I don’t think I could ever do that, neither in cooking nor in my work.

“Hey, I heard today that you guys are involved in that Connor fundraiser this weekend,” Amanda says, casting me a quick glance over the shoulder.

I’m startled. “Yeah, how did you know?”

She grins at me. “Darling, I know everything.”

I tilt my head in question.

“Boss told me about it,” she explains. When Amanda says boss, she isn’t talking about her actual boss, but about another journalist from her big social circle. She’s had flings with him on and off, a strong and domineering guy whose decisiveness and commanding behavior she craves on one side, but deems too much once she has gotten another taste of it. “He has an invite and asked me to be his plus one.”

“Plus one?” I muse. “It’s not a wedding.”

She rolls her eyes and throws her straightened long brown hair back over her shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

“Sure,” I say, winking at her. I’m pretty sure that she likes boss more than she is willing to admit.

“Did you get an invite?” she asks. “I mean, I know it’s probably not—”

“Actually, I did,” I say. “I don’t know why, but Mr. Campbell let me know that I was—and I quote—‘free to join.’”

Her eyes widen with excitement. “Awesome! We can go together!”

“I thought you’re going with your boss?” I say, casting her a naughty grin.

“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. What a great opportunity, though! Free drinks and so much networking! You know who’s going to be there?”

“No,” I say, even though I’m sure it’s just a rhetorical question.

“Everyone!” Amanda beams, proving my assumption right. “Make sure you pack your business cards!”

“Sure,” I say. Somehow, the thought of networking never entered my mind, even though I know how important these things are, especially in the publishing industry, where there are so few jobs for so many hopeful candidates.

“What are you going to wear?” Amanda asks next.

I smile at her. “I might need your help with that.”

“Oh, you do!” She agrees. “And you better look nice that night. There are not only business connections to be made, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

She turns around to me, winking. “Lots of suitable bachelors, too.”

I raise my eyebrows at her. “Need I remind you that you’re going with boss? I don’t think he’d like to see you flirting with others in his presence.”

“Not me, silly!” Amanda says. “I’m pretty set for now.”

A chuckle from my side causes her to pause and cast me a warning look.

“You on the other hand,” she says, raising her voice like a scolding mother. “You really need to get out there! I’m tired of watching you mope around all weekend. And that weird habit of sitting around on rooftops at night is really starting to scare me.”

The mentioning of my rooftop pastime sends a cold sting through my heart. The melody, the muffled sound of that one shot. The certainty that someone died that night. I watched a man kill another, and was chased by him afterward. I wish there was a way for me to believe that all of this never happened…

“Are you okay?” Amanda asks, her question underlaid with laughter. “Dear God, I had no idea how much the idea of having to flirt with someone scares you!”

I wave her off, and try to dismiss the dark memories by joining her laughter.

“You know it’s not as easy for everybody as it is for you,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.

“Darling, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy,” she says, stirring the content in the smaller pot. “But you need to get out of your comfort zone.”

“What a cliché thing to say,” I interject.

“Maybe,” she admits. “But you know that I am right.”

Of course, I do. I let out a deep sigh, silently wishing that having to flirt with strange men would actually be my biggest concern right now.

“Yes, I know,” I say. “You’re right.”

A triumphant smile appears on Amanda’s face.

“You know what,” she says. “I will make it a little easier for you.”

I cast her a quizzical look.

“The next time you see someone you like and you don’t do anything about it,” she begins to explain. “You will have to clean the apartment all by yourself for an entire month.”

“Why would I agree to that?” I reply, shaking my head.

“Because I will clean the apartment for an entire month if you do make a move,” she says, beaming at me as if she just solved all of the world’s troubles. “Really, it’s a win-win for you if you find the courage to approach someone, don’t you think?”

I regard her with a raised eyebrow, expressing doubts.

However, I like the idea. If anything, Amanda’s little challenge will keep me busy and distracted, delaying any thoughts about the scary encounter I had during what will most likely turn out to be my last visit on that rooftop.

“Okay,” I agree. “It sounds like I will get more out of this deal than you, so how could I say no.”

I wink at her and Amanda laughs.

“We need to set a time limit, though,” she argues. “You’ll have to approach someone within the next two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” I ask. “You know I don’t run around through bars every other night like—”

“Like me?” she interrupts, throwing me an offended look.

“That’s not what I was going to s—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Amanda says. “Like I said, that fundraiser will be a gold mine!”

“Business contacts? I don’t think so…”

“Not them,” she objects. “But there are going to be journalists and patrons, too.”

“Patrons?”

“Yes,” she says, winking at me. “Wealthy guys who invest, but are not professionally involved in publishing at all.
They
are the ones you should look out for.”

“Great,” I sigh. “A bunch of old dudes with money. How sexy.”

Amanda shakes her head. “Oh no, not all of them are old! I did some research—”

“Of course you did.”

She ignores my little comment and continues: “Some of them are the sons of aforementioned ‘old dudes’ and others are completely new to this, young CEOs and managers who are still on their way up with their companies. The fundraiser is supposed to attract young innovators, did you forget?”

I shake my head.

Amanda drains the pasta and turns off the stove, stirring the sauce she made one last time before announcing that dinner is ready.

“Let’s eat,” she suggests. “And after that we’ll look for something for you to wear to that fundraiser.”

She regards me with a mischievous smile and winks at me. “It will be an important event for you, young lady.”

Of course, she has no idea how right she is with that.

Mars

Tonight provides another glimpse into my new life. The life I have been working and fighting for during the past few months. A life that does not ask for me to take out another life to make it through.

For years I have been told that this is all I am good for.

Killing. A talent they called it. “You have the eyes and aim for it—and the heart,” big Joseph used to say. The words are bitter to me since he is gone.  I know it was supposed to be a compliment, and as a young boy, I felt flattered, especially because they came from him. The big boss.

I fucking miss him.

There is a time and place for everything, and killing has lost its appeal to me, to say the least. I hate being reduced to this one quality, this one skill that can only be used for taking out another person’s life.

Empathy may be foreign to me, but I wasn’t born like this; I was made this way. It serves as useful for a well paid job, but the job itself drains my soul of what little light is left in it. I hate it with a passion.

So, like anybody who tries to get out of one career to create another, I took the necessary steps to bring a significant change to my life. The only difference is that it is not as easy for me as it would be for the average company worker.

The event of tonight reminds me of how far I have made it. If only I could relish the feeling without worrying about a certain wild haired girl, whose eyes have seen what no living soul has seen before—and who is still out there. It doesn’t seem like she has talked yet, at least not to the police. So far, the hit seems to be as clean as any other. But of course, I can never be sure as long as this girl is still alive.

I have no idea where to look for her, not a single lead that could tell me where to start. She may live in the area, she may even work for one of the brothels around there, though I highly doubt that she does.

I have nothing to go on, and it drives me crazy. She saw me and she escaped, because I was too much of a sissy to pull the trigger when I could have. The thought alone causes me to clench my fist with anger.

I manage to forget about her when I walk into the venue and take the glass of champagne that is offered to me upon entry. The way my life started out, I couldn’t even see myself as being the one who is handing out drinks at nights like this. Being one of the guests would have been out of the question.

Yet here I am.

I stride through the wide French door that leads into the main area of the event, knowing that I belong just as much as anybody else. 

The venue is gigantic, a lot bigger than I expected. The ostentatious decoration is in white and gold, with dull white curtains lining the floor length windows. The room is filled with bar tables, wrapped in thick clothes and with flower arrangements on them that should have been much smaller.  

Small groups of people gather around each table, snacking on delicate finger food and sipping their champagne. I don’t see any familiar faces at first. That is not a surprise, considering my role in all of this. It’s a fundraiser for a wide-ranging library project for underprivileged children who don’t have access to better education. I act as a patron for the project, adding my name to the long list of contributors who get a building or certain campaigns within the project named after them.

It helps the reputation of my company and puts me among those who are to be respected, because it is well known how much money is flowing into this project. It shows that I am one of the big players. Besides, altruism is always good for business. People don’t have to know the real reason for my investment in this specific project.

“Mars!” I hear a familiar voice behind me. “Joe Mars, you here!”

I turn around and see Donald, a guy my age whose startup company I supported as an angel investor. I never built a business of my own, but my understanding of the market does make it easy for me to multiply my assets by investing in the right stocks and the ideas of others. It has paid out well for me so far—and it was my ticket out. Out of the mob, out of that soul draining deed that made me rich in the first place.

“Donald,” I reciprocate his greeting. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight!”

“Right back at ya,” he says, while shaking my hand in his usual business manner, strong and determined, but friendly.

“Supporting another good cause, are ya?” he asks, smiling at me as if I really was just like him. A good guy, an innocent guy. Someone who doesn’t have the heart to kill, but to help.

It’s the kind of smile I would like to see more of, even though I know that the smile is not fit for a man like me.

“It’s called smart investing,” I correct him. “Good causes don’t multiply your money.”

“How does this make you money?” he asks, gesturing around the room with one hand. “It’s not like this project will generate any income that you could have a share of.”

“It will wear my name,” I say. “And that will draw in new clients. Publishing houses are suffering from the current development, and I bet there are more smart guys like you running around here, who know a few ways of turning things to their advantage. I’d like to be part of that.”

All of that is true, but only part of the reason for me to get involved in this endeavor. Donald is one of the last people who need to know about it, though.

We engage in the usual small talk. I catch up on his most recent developments, both business and private, even though the latter doesn’t interest me. But I know that it’s an essential part of a business relationship such as ours. And if there is anything I need more than anything else, it’s new friends, a good reputation and trust from those I want to work and flourish with.

There are toasts and speeches, a revealing of the project’s logo, mentioning of most of the patron’s names—some of them prefer to stay anonymous—during which I earn myself a little round of applause and the undivided attention of most attendees for a few moments, and drinks, a lot of them.

I don’t drink a lot, never have. In the business I have been involved in for the past nine years, it was essential for me to stay sober and keep a clear mind at all times. Alcohol is a regular companion at the mob’s hangout, but I always stayed clear of it as much as I could. There were two ways of handling these situations: you either become a strong drinker, who can put up with more than others and have them lie under the table long before you do while drinking the same amounts, or you can abstain from it as much as possible without making a big deal about it. I don’t think any of my former associates ever noticed how little I was joining their constant drinking.

While I only finish the first glass of champagne out of courtesy before switching to orange juice—that could just as well be a mimosa in the eyes of others—the rest of the guests seem to have an eager interest in indulging as much as possible from the open bar. Faces around me are turning red and most people I start a conversation with soon start to slur.

Perfect conditions to make a few new friends and educe a few things from them they wouldn’t tell me otherwise.

I am turning my back to a little group of journalists who I have very little interest in, when my eyes fall on her.

Time comes to an immediate halt. Sounds around me are muffled and my vision darkens around the corners, forming a vertigo tunnel—leading to her.

A narrow-shouldered girl with a head that seems too big for her body, but mostly because it is surrounded by a thick, wavy mane of dark blond hair.

It’s her. The girl from the rooftop.

And she is looking at me.

Her surprisingly dark eyes are on me, wide open as they were when we encountered each other that fateful night. But it’s not fear that I am reading in her expression.

She turns away before I can determine what emotion her face was displaying when she looked at me. My eyes are still on her while she talks to another girl next to her. The way they interact suggests that they are rather close and familiar with each other. The other girl sports black hair, straight and with straight bangs covering her forehead, giving her a look that could not be more different from that of her friend with the lion mane next to her.

They are whispering to each other in a secretive and familiar manner, and it looks like the black haired girl is trying to calm her friend down. She glances over to me for a split second, while the girl with the mane has her back turned to me as if she was trying to hide.

Shit. Did she recognize me? If these girls are as close as they seem to be, she might have told her friend about that frightening incident from two weeks ago. I bet she has.

This is him, this is him,
she might have said just now. It would explain the look in her friend’s eyes and the fact that she glanced over to me while they were whispering excitedly.

However, there was no worry or fright in her friend’s eyes either. They both might be trying to hide it, because they don’t want to let me know that I have been discovered.

I narrow my eyes as I stare over to them, unsure what to do. What if they decide to call the police right here on the spot? So, far neither of them has reached for her phone, but as soon as they do, I am out of here. It’s the only option that comes to mind.

Everything I have built would be destroyed. New life? Forget about that. Prison for life is all that awaits me if that girl turns me in.

Running is my only option. I am prepared for that to happen; everything is in place to give me the best chance of escaping imprisonment. Money stored away, a new identity waiting, travel routes and documents in place. I had to be prepared, but I hoped to never have to use any of it.

Tonight, I might have to.

I cannot let her out of my sight for even a second. I am not going to let her make that call and get me arrested right here, surrounded by what was supposed to be my new life.

I take another sip of my orange juice and try to give a nonchalant impression as I continue to observe the chattering girls.

She is a pretty one, I have to admit. Killing her won’t be easy, if I even still get a chance to do so. She is wearing a navy blue lace pencil dress and her hair is decorated with two pins on each side. It is wavy and wild, but more tamed than it was that night on the roof. I like the contrast of her dark eyes with her rather light hair and the pale skin. If circumstances were any different, I would chose her for a night to fuck that damn darkness away that haunts me after every hit. The night I was caught by her on the roof was the first time I didn’t go out to look for a woman as I usually do after every job done.

As I continue to watch her, noticing that she seems in a hurry to finish her drink while talking to her chatty friend, I find myself wanting her.

What a twisted notion—to fuck her before I kill her.

My cock twitches at the thought, inadvertently rising to attention.

She turns around and looks at me, still with those big, dark eyes, and now I can see fright in them. But it’s not the same kind of horror she displayed that night. It is more of a nervous worry.

I ignore the choking lump in my throat when she hands her empty glass over to her friend and approaches me with stiff but determined steps.