Death of an Assassin (Saint Roch City Book 1) (28 page)

The gun clicks back off. Angela gives a shaky, almost sobbing sigh. “No. I couldn’t pay them, either.”

“So why are you still alive?”

“I gave them that club from the news,” Angela says.

“The one that burned down?” The shitty assassin laughs. “How did you give them their own club?”

“It wasn’t theirs!” Angela’s moving back up to the tantrum mode I first heard her in. “My family owns this city. They own the East, the West, the North, and the South. They probably even own you, and you don’t even know it. We owned the land that club sat on. They were paying us for the pleasure. I gave them the deed for the club, and that Han guy was more than happy with the arrangement.”

“So what is it you need from your brother?” the dark girl says. I can hear her boots on the hardwood floor and a sliding chair, likely scratching gouges in the floor.

“A deed. For a specific property. And he knows which one. If you can get the information from him, I will double what I owe you.”

“And if I don’t?” It sounds like less self-doubt and more of a threat.

“Then you get nothing. And you might as well shoot me, because my backer will do worse.”

My competition starts walking. “Just point me in his direction. I’ll find your precious piece of paper. Does he have―” She walks out of the door and deadpans as she sees me. Our eyes meet, and the world may as well be just us.

My gun is raised. Has been for the last few minutes while their dick-measuring went on. And now it’s pointed right at her face. No loading necessary. No cocking. No hesitation.

“Wait―” she manages to say before I move. This girl is sloppy. She screwed up the life of someone I care about. Maybe even love. A bullet in the head is what she would get in a fair and just world.

But if she wanted fair and just, she should’ve gone to Tim. I drop my hand and fire twice into her gut, blood spraying out from her stomach as she topples backward. My vest and pants are soaked with her life as she hits the wooden doorframe hard with a shriek before collapsing to the floor with muffled protest. I swing around the corner and fire a round into the wall where Angela was standing, but she dashes out another door and disappears into the depths of the house.

I consider giving chase, but this is not a maze I know. As inept as she is, she’s on her home ground. And I know she’s armed with at least one gun.

I turn around and slip back into the living room, moving quietly.

“Fuck you…” the girl groans from the floor, twisting in agony at the lead swirling about her stomach right now, her insides less recognizable than a Picasso.

“You’ll have a slow and painful death with those,” I mutter as I pass her. “If you’re lucky, you’ll be reincarnated as someone who knows better than to fuck with me.” I put another round into her knee, willing to give up my position for the pleasure of hearing the bitch scream in fresh pain. I leave her writhing in the living room and move to the rest of the house, careful to check each doorway before I dash through, my gun now four rounds lighter. I’m saving the other six.

I stalk out of the living room, through the wide atrium with the ebony staircase leading upstairs, curling with ornate patterns carved into the wood of the banister and each individual step. It must’ve been hard growing up a Donahue. Apart from the vague sounds coming from the failed assassin in the other room, the house is silent. Angela might be an incompetent, but she knows to keep silent now. If she’s even still in the house.

Pistol raised high, aiming up the stairs, I move past them, slinking around the kitchen and a bathroom. I recognize the door ahead of me, and it’s only through some hope that Angela would behave as I would that I open it and look down. The darkness of the basement leads away from the foundations of the house, likely extending beneath the front yard.

Now it’s all memory. I can’t find a light switch on the wall. Not even a pull cord ahead of me. Cautious but confident, I descend the stairs. On each step, I dip my foot into the darkness of the next, waiting to find the concrete floor. My only chance is that Angela has since had the bodies of the slaughtered bodyguards removed. I know if I trip over a single one of them, my chances of escape are slim. But there’s no smell. And bodies have a distinct odor when they’ve been sitting around for too long.

When I finally reach bottom, I step lightly, feeling my way along. Even though the door I want is on my right, I have to feel along the left wall to keep my gun up and pointed at the darkness. Every moment that I’m not moving forward, I’m pausing and listening. It’s one thing to have another hitwoman get the drop on me, or an Asian gang, or a psychopath vigilante. It’s a very different matter to let some twenty-something, plush girl put a round in me.

When I reach the corner, I try to remember how far down the room is. The room that I spent some unknown amount of hours being punched. Kicked. Cut. Because if I were Angela, that’s where I would keep him.

My slow steps eventually bring me far enough that I hear a noise that is not mine. And it’s not in the hallway. In the absolute darkness of the basement, I move to my right, feeling along the drywall until I find the bullet holes. My fingers just about fit through them. My hand slides until I find the doorframe. The door. The knob.

Locked.

Fuck that.

I brace myself against the far wall and give the door a strong kick right about where the knob should be holding it.

BAM.

The noise cracks like a gunshot as the door rockets open, slamming back on its hinges and hanging open. I still can’t see, but it’s enough to feel the opening ahead of me as I shuffle in.

A grunt. A groan. A heavy breath.

“Why are you doing this?” a raspy voice speaks. “Please, Angie… talk to me.”

I rush forward only to slam into a piece of furniture, a table jams its corner into my gut, and I lurch over and wince, slamming my gun down on its top. “Shit,” I curse through gritted teeth.

“What…? Layla?” the voice says.

Thomas.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I mutter, my breath coming back to me.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice sounds cracked. Weak. Beaten. I’ve been in his place. Having your family turn on you. Someone you love look you in the eye to let you know that they want to end your life. I don’t blame him.

Once I get my bearings, I reach out. “Where are you?”

He fumbles and I hear wood creaking. “Here. The corner.”

My hands extended out, I find a wall and follow it until I stumble over something. This time it’s soft. And warm. And tied to a chair.

“Found me,” he says dully.

I reach down and feel his face, eyes swollen and cheeks warm. He fidgets, forgetting he’s tied. I lean down and let my touch wander over his body, checking for glaring injuries in the dark.

“You have to get out of here. Not that I don’t appreciate the pat down…”

I scowl into the darkness. When I don’t find any crippling wounds to his body, I lean down, my hands moving back up to his chest. His shoulders. His neck. His chin. His cheeks. My lips find his, and though I can taste blood and he’s far too weak to really return the affection, I feel life coming back to me. Gratitude. And complete hatred for so many.

“Stay still.” I pull out my knife, and with some hesitation, seek out the ropes binding him to the chair and cut them with very small movements so as not to stab the poor guy.

“What are you doing here?” he asks again, this time sounding angry.

“It’s called a rescue, idiot. You’re in trouble, someone comes and bails you out.”

Thomas pulls his hands free and reaches out for me, fumbling until he finds my wrist.

“That’s what I did when I tried to save you. And you got shot then, remember?”

I pull him to me using my own ensnared arm and I say, in my own angry-enough tone, “Yeah. I made it through that, too. Now let’s get
you
the hell out of here.”

And all too suddenly, I can see him, only an inch or so away from my face. We both blink at the blinding light now shining over us both, standing awkwardly in the room where he met the real me. The floor is still stained with blood and splinters of wood and plaster, though free of dead bodies. For the moment.

Because once the fluorescent lighting stops flickering, so do our eyes, and we spot her. Standing in the doorway with a six shooter pointed at him. Or me. Wavering back and forth. Angela Donahue.

“Why couldn’t you just tell me where the hell it is, Tommy?” she asks through her teeth, stifling a sob. “All you had to do is tell me where the deed is and none of this had to happen.”

“None of what?” Thomas shoots back. “You going fucking insane? Killing Mom and Dad?”

“Oh, like they didn’t deserve it? You, their perfect little boy, got to be completely shielded from their garbage. Sent you off to college, didn’t they?”

My hand feels empty, and I see my gun on the table, too far away for me to leap and get it, and my knife won’t be enough to kill her if I throw it. Barely even distract her before she’d be able to squeeze off enough rounds to kill one of us.

“Don’t you put that on them. You could barely get through high school, Angie.”

“Shut up!” she screams, decidedly pointing the gun at him. “Do you even know? The shit they did? That they
let
happen?” She steps forward, the gun shaking in her hand, but never pointing far from Thomas’s face.

“Angie. Just… put the gun down. It doesn’t have to be this way.” His placidity makes it clear to me, but maybe not her. He’s not too worried about his own life. He breathes normally; his eyes are focused on her. He’s ready to die. He’s fighting for her life now. Because if she pulls the trigger, he knows I’ll be able to kill her before the gun can even chamber another round.

Angie nods frantically. “You’re right. It doesn’t. You worked with Dad last summer. You know where he kept all of his important documents. Now where is it?” She’s shrieking now, and her finger inches toward the trigger.

“Angie, I don’t know. I already told you where he kept the deeds. You already went there and got them all. It should have been in there.”

“You’re lying. I know you are. You lie just like Dad did. Just like Mom. Just like Andrew.”

Thomas holds his hands out slowly. “Calm down, Angie. Come on. We can talk this out. What’d they lie about?”

“About
him
! About what he did!
It’s the Donahue name we’ll ruin
!” The last words not her own.

“Who?” Thomas asks, genuine concern on his face.

“Where’s the deed, Thomas? All he wants is the deed, and he’ll let me keep the rest. Everything will be mine, and Dad can’t take it away. He can’t tell me what to do. I decide now.” She steps closer, bringing the barrel of the gun inches from his forehead. “I decide who lives, and who dies.
Me
.”

I refuse to move. Feeling like a fly on the wall and terrified at the finality of losing him. And what I’ll do to her if that happens. A gut shot wouldn’t be near enough.

“What did Dad do, Angie? Come on, we’ve always been able to talk. What’d he do?”

Angie’s hand shakes, the gun wobbling over his forehead. “Okay, fine. If you won’t tell me to save your life…” She moves the pistol away from him. And points it at me.

“Angie, don’t.”

“No. Screw you, Thomas. You know where it is, and you don’t want to tell me. You’re just like them.” She sidles over next to me but stands just out of reach. The gun is pointed at my right eye, and while I’m sure a shot to the chest might be survivable by my kind with our somewhat improved healing, I’m certain a bullet in my brain would not be a dust-yourself-off injury.

“Angie, please. She has nothing to do with this.”

But she looks at me now. “Did he say anything? When he died?”

I keep my lips tight. There’s no point in talking to her. Instead, Thomas talks.

“Who?”

She laughs, a pathetic and deluded thing. “Our dear cousin. He was in line behind you, you know. To inherit everything. It wasn’t me. Dad didn’t give a shit about me. I bet he begged for his life before you killed him, right?”

Her eyes have the crazed look of a man dying of thirst, desperate for the one drink that will sustain them just a little longer.

If I die, she still has Thomas, who she’ll keep here until he tells her what he clearly does not know. I consider my options, the best way to kill her to make sure that even when she finishes me, I take her with me.

“Did he beg?” she screams.

Get her close.

I shake my head. And gamble. “No. He didn’t. He stumbled into traffic and died on impact. He was too drunk. Between all the drinks we had… and the sex…”

She flinches. Nerve: hit.

I go on, making it up as I go. “When I lured him out of the club, I couldn’t figure out how to kill him. So I had to buy time. He took me behind the club and he held me down.” I hold out my wrists, like I’m testifying. “And he took me right there… next to the dumpster… His last words were, ‘Oh God, yes…’“

Her eyes water over as she nods. “He got what he deserved then…”

I shake my head. “No, he didn’t. Because I wanted him. I let him have me because I wanted him just as bad…” I sigh. A slow blink later and I see the fury on her face. “You didn’t want him, did you? I can’t imagine why. He was amazing. Did he wrap his hands on your throat, too?” He seemed the type.

She marches toward me and puts the gun against my skull, the barrel pressing tight. “Shut up. You. Shut. Up.” The gun presses harder and jabs against my skull. I have to back up until I’m against the wall. “I never wanted him. He was sick. He was disgusting. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t breathe. And then Dad found out and he didn’t…”

“He didn’t understand why you couldn’t take it like a big girl?” I pout. “Poor Angie.”

My knife moves up, ready to glide effortlessly into her neck. Sever the carotid and let her bleed out here in the basement before she can even think of hurting her brother anymore. She’ll pull the trigger and paint the wall with my brains in her death throes.

And I’m okay with that.