Early Sins (Dangerous Games Book 0) (12 page)

Chapter Ten

The room was brightly lit when Camille woke up, and she had to flinch away from the sunlight, choosing to bury her head deeper into the pillow instead of facing the day. Facing the fact that the tenderness between her thighs was evidence of her bullshit, stupid, impulsive decision-making. More importantly, she didn’t want to face Smith.

Tyler, or Ryan, or whatever the fuck his name was, had been a poor replacement. She’d only fucked him in this room, in this bed, because she had hoped Smith would find them. It had nothing to do with the guy, with how he had looked, or how he had flirted with her at the bar and bought her a drink. He had been a means to an end.

‘And how did that end turn out for you?’
her mind taunted.

“Son of a bitch…” she grumbled, muttering further curses as she twisted in the sheets. She hadn’t even had the chance to come, and she had been blissfully close when she’d heard the key card in the door. It had sent her adrenaline through the roof to think of Smith finally looking at her, naked. Finally seeing her as someone other than the street kid he’d taken in. Someone sexual, someone worth kissing back, someone worth wanting. Then Tyler/Ryan had rolled them and she’d caught sight of Smith, stunned and staring. For a moment it had been sweet vengeance to see his expression, but then his voice had come back like a knife.

I don’t want you, C.

Those words had driven her out of this room, out of the hotel, and into the arms of the first asshole that had been interested and cute enough to entertain. So seeing Smith with his fucking feathers ruffled had been beautiful, until he’d terrified the guy and then literally thrown him out of the room.

Then he’d shouted at her, lectured her, and finally dropped Clinton’s name into her lap like a proverbial bomb, which was about the only thing he could have done to make her stay after his macho, alpha-male display. Other than kiss her… which was never going to happen.

Fuck.

Smith had found Clinton. Just thinking the name made her stomach ache, flashbacks to the miserable attempt she’d made on Joe Wilson tormenting her, causing a phantom twinge at the scar on her thigh.

“I know you’re awake, C. You should get up and have some breakfast.” Smith’s voice was even, and she peeked out from under the sheet, shielding her eyes against all the bright light. Laid out on the table were stacks of waffles, bacon, eggs, and hash browns. All of the
no-no foods
that Smith usually cautioned her against, but they made her empty belly growl.

Your body is a weapon, you should keep it honed, healthy, strong.

His voice. Always his voice in her head.

So what the fuck was this? Was he feeling guilty over the mess of the night before? Was this a cholesterol-laden olive branch?  Or was she just experiencing wishful-fucking-thinking again?

“Please tell me there’s coffee,” she grumbled, and he tapped his pencil on a carafe she hadn’t noticed towards the back of the table. Throwing back the covers she climbed out of bed and dropped into the chair opposite him to start making herself a cup. Smith, of course, was doing the god-damned-fucking crossword.

“So, I think we should -”

“We don’t need to talk.”

He gave her an odd look before he started speaking again, “I was going to say we should review the packet my associate sent me about Clinton, but if you’d rather climb back in bed until you’re in a better mood, feel free.” Smith’s eyes stayed on her for a second, and then he looked back to the crossword, silent. A moment later he was scratching out the letters to some answer, keeping his mind sharp while Camille’s was turning itself inside out searching for the right words to repair the damage she had done the night before.

Unfortunately, there was nothing helpful. Just a fucked up mix of embarrassment, a twist of shame, and a mess of anger that was aimed in too many directions.

“Is it him?” she asked.

“You tell me, C.” Smith laid his pencil down and pulled a few sheets of paper out of a FedEx envelope. The moment he handed them to her she had to stiffen her muscles to keep from knocking her chair over in her sudden urge to move, to get away from the face printed in black and white. It was him. Clinton.

Apparently, Clinton
Porter
.

The one that had liked to bring them little gifts before he did what he wanted. As if a soda, or a candy bar, could buy him out of his crimes like an indulgence to the old church. “That’s him.”

Camille wasn’t sure what she looked like, but there was no mistaking the flash of rage that passed over Smith’s face when she confirmed it. No matter what fucked up shit they did to each other, or said to each other, he
had
saved her from the streets, he
had
taught her to defend herself, and he
had
taught her how to kill. The right way. The smart way. Whether or not he wanted her the way she wanted him seemed suddenly small by comparison.

“No one’s going to pay us for this job, Smith.”

“This is about cleaning your slate. It’s not about the money.” He lifted his coffee and took a drink, swallowing slowly. “How do you want him to die?”

Lifting her gaze she met his eyes and held them, wishing she could see into him the way he always seemed to be able to see inside her. “I kind of hope he cries, begs, dies sobbing.”

“We can make sure that happens.” Smith’s cold response, and his steady gaze, eased some of the tension inside her. He could be terrifying when he was in
work mode
. When he was the guy that made people naturally walk around him – as if he took up more room than he actually did. He was death in a beautiful package, and for some unknown reason he put up with all of her shit.

“Thanks,” she muttered, even though she wanted to apologize for the night before. For rubbing his face in her sexuality as some kind of twisted
fuck you
just because he didn’t want her. Sure, she had wanted to know if she could do it, wanted to know if she could have sex
just
to have sex. No one forcing her, no one paying her – and she’d gotten her answer.

Yes
. She could.

Even though it had left her all the more empty, and with even more distance between her and Smith.

You are so fucking pathetic, Camille. Accept the rejection and move the fuck on.

“So, what’s the next step?”

He chuckled, spearing a waffle to drag it onto a plate. “You tell me.”

“We go and observe. See what his patterns are.”

“I’ve got someone doing that for us, we should have the info in a few days. But, yes, then we’ll go and verify for ourselves.” Bacon, eggs, hash browns, and enough salt to kill someone. Apparently Smith was throwing all of his food rules out the window this morning. “What will we do next?”

“Make plans. A primary, a secondary, and a back-up. Taking into account location, times of day, the people who could be around, etcetera.” Tentatively, she tugged her plate closer to her side of the table and went for the hash browns before Smith finished them all.

“Don’t
etcetera
me, C. Be specific. This is your job.” It was his teacher-voice, the one he employed whenever she said something dumb, or fucked up in a session.

“Fine. We’ll identify locations that will work for the best time of day we determine based on his schedule. Then we’ll look for the people who could be around, identify how to avoid them at best, and kill them if shit goes south. Decide whether we leave the body, or call a clean-up crew. Choose rendezvous points, and back-up rendezvous points if we get separated.” Camille dragged more food onto her plate, her hunger gnawing at her stomach now that she was planning and not just dwelling on the past, on the memories of Clinton’s breath on her cheek. “Once we’ve made choices, based on the circumstances, we’ll decide how we want to do it. Quick and quiet, or slow and messy.”

“Good. Which are you hoping for?”

“For him? I don’t care. I just want to know he’s dead, I want to be the one to pull the trigger. The crying and begging is just a bonus.” She shoved a forkful of eggs into her mouth to halt her tongue before she over shared with Smith. He already knew more about her past than he needed to – he didn’t need the details. Didn’t need to know how Clinton had whispered strangely sweet things to her as he’d moved inside her. Called her beautiful, told her he wanted her to feel good. Where Joe had been all violence and pain, Clinton had been presents and sweet nothings – all to smother his own guilt.
Bastard.

“He will die, C. They’ll all die.” Smith dropped the tines of his fork into his waffle, spearing it against the plate. “And then you’ll be free. Free to do whatever you want. Work wherever you want.”

And what if I want to work with you?

The question froze in her mouth, stymied by a mouthful of food that conveniently kept her from embarrassing herself further.

He doesn’t want you, Camille.

Let it go. Don’t be pathetic.

At least you know you can have sex if you want it. You’re not broken.

Or, at least, you’re putting yourself back together piece by piece.

“That’s the plan, isn’t it, Smith?”

“What do you mean?” He lifted his eyes to hers again.

“Kill them all.”
So you can be rid of me without feeling guilty about it.

“Of course.” He nodded and snuck another bite of food as his eyes wandered back to the crossword puzzle. “None of them are getting away with what they’ve done, C.”

“Right.” Camille tugged the curtain open so she could look out at the bustling morning of the city, and she wished they were on a lower floor so that the traffic could be a dull roar to fill the silence. Instead she stood and flipped the television on, changing the channel from news to some movie that she didn’t give a shit about, but she stared at it so she wouldn’t stare at Smith.

There would be no more staring at Smith. There would be killing, and training, and meals like this one, but there would be no more staring.

No more wishing and hoping for what would never happen.

Liar, liar, liar.

Chapter Eleven

It was after two AM and they were sitting outside the shitty, rundown little bar where Clinton Porter squatted after working hours. She and Smith had spent over a week in the bad part of this bullshit Northeastern town, waiting and watching for Clinton to give them an opening. Fortunately, it seemed like tonight would be perfect.

A poker game.

The same one Smith’s contact, Lacroix, had tracked the asshole to two weeks before.

Gamblers always returned to their haunts, and she knew that the cards were not Clinton’s only addiction. He was twitchy, jumpy, and probably had more tells than a toddler. It was likely why those men kept showing up to play, but they wouldn’t return for another hour at least. This was their chance, and she wanted to go in, wanted to put a few bullets in Clinton’s pleading face, but Smith was casually scanning the street from inside the car. The same car he’d picked her up in that first night – still pristine, still perfect, like everything in Smith’s life
except for her
.

“What are we waiting for?” Camille asked.

“If you think we’re good, we’ll go now.” Smith’s gaze landed on her, and the teacher-tone in his voice grated her nerves, but a stroke of the gun hidden in her lap made her feel better.

“I think we should go before those idiots come back. He’s alone, we know it.” Her gaze tracked to the front of the bar, the welcoming neon turned off for almost half an hour. For a moment she imagined what he was doing inside. Cleaning the bar that he apparently worked at? Setting up the cards? Putting out a nice charcuterie platter and other hors d'oeuvres for his asshole friends?

Not fucking likely.

“Alright. Then we go.” He nodded, but just as Camille reached for the door handle, Smith touched her arm. “You’re going to pull the trigger?”

“
Smith
.”

“It’s a serious question, C. I need to know if you’re going to freeze.” There was concern in his voice, and she subconsciously rubbed at her thigh with her gun hand.

“I’m not going to freeze. He dies. Tonight.”

“Oh, yes. He will absolutely die tonight.” Smith leaned back from her and flipped a knife over his hand before he tucked it away somewhere hidden. Then they were both out of the car, guns tucked away, just another couple making their way through the streets, but Camille didn’t even let her mind wander to the way his arm felt against her side, wrapped around her waist.

Nope. Not at all.

“I’ll go in first,” she whispered as they paused in front. A soft tug of the door revealed it was unlocked, and Smith just nodded at her. His face half in shadow and unreadable.

“Do what you need to do,” he whispered.

With his blessing she stepped inside and heard a not-so-subtle crash from behind the bar. “ – the fuck?”

“Hey, you guys still open for business?”

“No, no we – oh, shit.” Clinton Porter froze on the other side of the bar, and Camille smiled as she raised her gun to point it at him. If she were the kind to gamble, she would have bet he pissed himself. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh sh-”

“Keep your hands up, and come around. If you even twitch your hands towards your waist, I’ll paint the liquor bottles with your blood. Got it, asshole?”

“Right! Right, yeah, uh…” he sidestepped his way around the end of the bar, hands hovering around his shoulders. Even from fifteen feet away she could see the glassy, shifting gaze in his eyes. He was high, or jonesing for a high, his muscles twitchy. “Listen, take the booze or whatever. All the cash is in the safe, I swear, I -”

“You think I want your fucking money, Clinton?” With her use of his name he stilled, his eyes narrowing and focusing on her, and then they went wide.

“Oh. No, no, no…”

“Oh, yes.” Camille growled as he dropped to his knees on the floor, near the table holding a deck of cards and a few unopened beers. “Tell me, do you remember me?”

“Don’t do this, I was always nice, don’t kill me. I’m not like Steve, I didn’t -”

“Didn’t what? Didn’t fuck me? I remember things a little differently.” The door swung open behind her, but Smith’s presence barely registered. Had it been anyone else she would have known.

“Aw, man,
fuck
, I never hurt you. I was always so sweet to you. I was good to you and the other girls. I was nice!” He pleaded, and in his high-as-a-motherfucking-kite state he seemed to believe himself.

“
Right
. You used to bring us presents.”

“YES! I brought you presents, remember? I made sure you had candy and stuff, oh shit, I never –”

“Never… what? Never thought I’d show up again, never thought I’d track you down out here?” Camille watched as he squirmed, his hands resting on his knees as he groaned out murmured pleas. “You know, you always tried to be there when no one else was. You’d show up when Steve was the only one there, you’d get high, and then you’d come to us. Never wanted to be around with the other guys…
except
for the poker nights. When Steve had poker nights you always showed up.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it!” Clinton’s voice broke as he started sobbing, and she couldn’t help but smile.

Ah, sometimes wishes do come true.

“So, you look like you’re going to have another poker game, Clinton. Any special guests I should know about?” Camille tilted her head at him as he randomly cursed under his breath. With a sigh she paced in front of him, keeping the gun trained on him while his curses grew more fervent. “Clinton, I’m going to give you two seconds, and then I’m going to shoot you in the knee. Alright?”

“Oh, fuck,
man
, I didn’t mean anything by it! I didn’t want to hurt you! I was -”

“Tell me who’s coming to the poker game. Is it Barry? Roger?” She flipped the safety off and waited for him to stop hyperventilating long enough to look at her again. “Clinton.”

“What? No!” he shouted at her, and Camille put a bullet through his kneecap. The whisper of the shot leaving the chamber was quiet thanks to the suppressor, but his scream echoed off the walls in ear-splitting decibels, and then she felt Smith step up behind her.

“We should have gagged him first,” he whispered.

“I have questions for him,” she whispered back and watched as Clinton writhed on the floor. Camille snapped her fingers on her free hand, trying to regain his attention. “Clinton. Hey! Dickbag! Stop screaming or I’m going to put a matching hole in your other fucking knee.”

“Oh God, I don’t wanna die, I don’t -”

“Who else is coming to your little game?”

“Just some local guys! FUCK! My knee, oh fuck…” he groaned. “Please, please don’t kill me. Come on, I was always nice, I was always so good to you.”

With a growl Camille shot at his other knee, but he was twisting in agony and the bullet went into his thigh instead. Still, he screamed,
and
he was begging for his life.

He had cried, he had begged, and pretty soon he’d die sobbing. Don’t they call that a hat trick in soccer? Or was that hockey?

Whatever.

“Tell me where Barry and Roger are, or the next time I pull the trigger I’m aiming for your cock.” He responded by sobbing harder, and it made her smile. She had maintained her calm, even face to face with him, with one of the monsters from her nightmares. She wasn’t panicking like she had with Joe. Everything was going perfect – until she heard the door open behind her.

Loud, male laughter filtered through the opening just as she twisted at the hips to take aim. Smith was already facing them, gun out, and he took down the first man without hesitation. A surprised shout came from one of the men, and Camille stepped to the left to get better aim and knocked a clean shot through the second man’s chest. Someone took off at a dead run from the back of the group, dropping things to the cement as they fled, and Smith growled and charged the door. There was still one man in his way, and that man was fumbling for a pistol stuck in the waist of his jeans. Smith slammed his forearm into the man’s throat, grabbed his gun hand and twisted it, before breaking the arm with a drop of his elbow. The guttural scream the man released was pure pain. With a sharp shove, Smith threw the guy into the bar making him crash into a chair which had him howling in pain again.

Then he picked up the pistol off the floor and pointed directly at her. “Get information out of him, C. Who are they? Who knows them? Be quick about it, and kill Clinton – now.” Keeping his gun down at his side, Smith took off outside after the one that had run, and Camille had to remind herself to breathe. He had moved like a shadow, fierce and powerful, and she was now ninety-nine percent sure he was still holding back with her when they sparred.

Fucker.

With a sigh Camille wandered over to the man on the floor and he stared up at her in shock. “Hey asshole, I have some business to finish. I want to be very clear, if you move, if you go for the door, I’m going to shoot you somewhere very uncomfortable, and then I’m going to break your other arm. Got it?”

“Fuck you, you stupid bitch, you’re gonna -”

She cut him short by pistol-whipping him across the face. If he hadn’t lost a tooth or three, he was lucky. “I’m gonna fucking kill you if you call me a bitch again, got it asshole?”

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with!” he shouted through a bloody mouth as she wandered back to Clinton.

Turning back towards the man she pinched two fingers together. “Shh. You can tell me all your info in a minute when I’m torturing it out of you, until then? Shut the fuck up.”

He gaped at her through the twist of pain on his face, but she didn’t give a shit. Clinton was still alive… barely. The pool of blood under his leg was larger than she would have expected, she’d probably nicked the god-damned artery. Fucker should have kept his leg still and then he’d only be missing another kneecap.
Idiot
. “Wake up, Clinton.”

Crouching she slapped him hard across the face and he groaned in pain as he shuddered. Holding his face by the chin, she slapped him again and his eyes opened. “Oh, God, my legs, I’m -”

“Where are Barry and Roger?”

“Fuck, I don’t -”

She pressed the end of the gun against his jeans, aiming right between his legs. “Listen, do you want to feel what it’s like to have a bullet rip through your cock and balls? Because I’d really enjoy pulling the trigger.”

“I don’t know where they are! FUCK! I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die.”

“Focus,” Camille growled and dug the gun in harder. “Barry. Roger. When was the last time you saw them?”

“AT STEVE’S! I didn’t know them. Jesus Christ, I’m gonna -” Rolling her eyes Camille pulled the trigger, annihilating what had counted as his manhood, and then she cut short his scream of pain with a bullet between the eyes. His blood had blown back onto her arms with each shot made so close, but it didn’t matter. Clinton Porter was dead, and she had killed him.

It felt good.

Three down. Two to go.

When she stood, the man at the other end of the room was a lot more polite, terror and pain turning his face white as she stalked back towards him. Rolling her neck she counted the shots in her head as she aimed the gun at him. She’d used five, which meant she still had plenty in the Glock 19 9mm to persuade the asshole in front of her. “You get one chance to tell me why you’re here.”

“The p-poker g-game!” he stumbled over his words, scooting back against a chair with his good arm.

“Nothing else?” She cocked the gun for emphasis.

“Ah,
fuck
! Drugs, okay? Drugs. We cook up a little meth and Clinton sells it here at the bar, but we don’t kill anyone, we’re just trying to make a little cash!”

Narrowing her eyes, Camille watched him carefully. Tracking his expression and his twitchy movements to see if he was telling the truth. “Ever spice up the poker games with some girls? Maybe some younger ones?”

The man looked sincerely disgusted. “The fuck do you mean by that? I don’t touch kids. Who the fuck told you that?”

She ignored him. “Who’s your boss?”

“My uncle helps us do it, but – shit, oh man, Mike. Mike’s dead, you fucking killed Mike.” The man’s reality was settling in as his eyes focused on one of the two dead bodies by the door.

“Does your uncle know you’re here, and what you’re doing here?”

“Yes! Yes, he does! And he’ll totally come looking for me, he’ll be all over this. You should just get out now -”

The door opened, and Smith was slightly flushed, carrying two grocery bags in one hand and his gun in the other. “Runner is dead, and we need to leave.” With a glance at Clinton he nodded at her and then tilted his head towards the man on the floor. “What do we know?”

“Clinton was selling meth for these assholes out of the bar, I’m guessing the poker game was the time they exchanged goods. Nothing more than that it seems. Also, he’s fucking annoying, and he called me a bitch.”

Just as she said the last word, Smith raised the gun and fired twice, landing a bullet in the man’s head and another in his chest. “He should not have called you that.”

“I told him the same thing, he listened when I threatened to kill him. Didn’t think you’d disagree so strongly with him calling me a bitch though.” Camille glanced around, unworried about the false security camera hanging out of the ceiling. Lacroix had already verified it was a fake. After all, security footage would be foolish if you were running drugs.