Hitman's Revenge (a Forbidden Bad Boy Romance) (2 page)

I
parked
the Harley in front of a run down shambles of a building and climbed off as the thunder boomed in the distance. I would have to make this trip quick if I wanted to stay dry, I thought. Striding to the door, I threw it open and stepped into the smoky interior; my eyes scanned the room to assess my odds. It was an old habit that had saved me on more than one occasion over the years—the ability to know how many people you might have to kill to get out of a place alive. “
Stand tall, don’t let them see that you are scared shitless even if you are already shitting in your pants,”
Nixon told me in one of his many lessons.
“They’ll never know the difference.”
But tonight there wasn’t a damn person in the world that could scare me.

Walking over to the bar, I sat on the stool and watched as the tired bartender in a revealing outfit flirted with another customer. The bar was quiet, only a couple of old drunks who got their kicks looking at the scantily clad bartender and the other worn-out women that frequented the bar. But I wasn’t there for any of that. I was in search of one person.

The bartender turned around and eyed me appreciatively, her lips curving into a smile as she sashayed over. At least she wasn’t stupid enough to ignore where the money was going to come from tonight.

“What can I get you, baby?”

“A beer,” I responded, sliding a fifty across the bar top. “And Pedro.” Her smile instantly changed to a frown as I continued to give her my best grin, knowing without a doubt that I was going to win and get what I wanted.

“Pedro doesn’t see just anyone,” she said slowly, eyeing the money. It was probably more than she would see tonight, and I just had to find her sweet spot. It was something I was damn good at. She pushed her chest out, and lovely though her tits were, I averted my gaze; I didn’t have time to spare. “But I will see you in the back if you want. I could give you whatever your little heart desires, baby.”

“I will have to decline.” I smiled devilishly, producing another fifty. “Just do as I ask and tell Pedro, Jack is wanting to pay a visit. Trust me, he will see me.”

The bartender bit her rouged lip, deciding, but her greed took over and she grabbed the fifties, shoving them both in her bra before I could blink. “I’ll get him. Wait here.” She slid a beer my way before scurrying off and I took a swig, swilling it in my mouth before swallowing; hoping the alcohol would ease some of the tension in my jaw.

Of all people, Pedro was the damn near perfect place to start. He had all his grubby fingers in every dodgy dealing around town, and so many snitches on his payroll that if anyone had said anything about the murder at the garage, Pedro would know.

The ball in my chest grew tight again as I remembered the first time Nixon had brought me into this very bar to see Pedro, helping to get me and my fledging career established. But with another drink I tried to wave off the pain of loss, thinking instead of how I would avenge his death and make him proud of me one last time. Nixon would expect me to make getting Hazel back priority one, to do what was right and kill every last fucker who laid a hand upon his daughter.

“You wanted to see me?”

I looked to the right and saw Pedro standing at my elbow, his brow knitted together with concern. Pedro was not what anyone expected him to look like; he was short and squat, very soft around the middle, with a bald head. He loved wearing Hawaiian shirts even though we were far from paradise. A number of heavy gold chains in various lengths and sizes decorated his practically non-existent short neck, and I wondered how the hell he didn’t need to wear a neck-brace after lugging that lot around every day. Still, in all the years I had known Pedro, he was the same damn guy every single time, and I could appreciate that. I knew exactly what to expect from him.

“I want answers,” I said slowly, dropping my voice a notch. Even though I hadn’t picked up any shifty characters walking in, I wanted to keep my business
my business
and for it not to get out—not just yet, at least—that I was looking for vengeance. There were too many low-lives that would gladly sell the information, but I needed the element of surprise until I figured out exactly what I was up against.

“Listen, Jack, there are things you might not want to know about this one,” Pedro replied, knowing exactly what I was talking about. I never doubted he wouldn’t. “I know you were close to the old man.”

“Don’t bring my feelings into this,” I growled, letting him know that this had nothing to do with the fact that Nixon had raised me. This went well beyond loyalties and family. This was a debt that I would re-pay for everything he’d done for me. “Heads are going to roll, Pedro. And if you don’t want yours to be one of them, then you best starting spilling what you do know.”

Pedro swallowed visibly, his gold chains rattling gently against his bulk as he took a step back. Normally it would take a lot more than tough words to get Pedro agitated, but something was up with him. He was a tough son of a bitch, and many in the past had underestimated his size, thinking he was a pushover only to die wishing they had taken him seriously. “Jack, this isn’t just one head,” he said softly. “It could be multiple ones, and though I know you and what you are capable of, I think this is going to be a lot more than you can handle.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” I said, grabbing my beer. “Are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to make good on my threat? You know I wouldn’t normally, Pedro—I consider you an almost friend—but someone has to pay for what they did.”

Pedro blew out a breath and motioned for me to follow him. “Make sure no one bothers us,” he said to the bartender, who just bobbed her bleached blonde hair in response. We walked down the dimly lit hall past the bathrooms to a small office that was more like a broom closet than an actual office space. The interior was cluttered with yellowing papers and beer bottles, and it smelled like Pedro’s nasty two-pack-a-day habit. I took one look at the stained chair in front of the desk and opted to stand. Pedro flitted around the space before circling the desk, sitting in a worn leather chair. “The only reason I am telling you this is because of your old man,” he said with a deep breath. “Hell, I respected him and what he did for you. I see a lot of him in you, Jack.”

“Cut the mushy shit and get to the point. Tell me who did it, Pedro,” I growled, crossing my arms over my chest. I was ready to end this and get Hazel back. Then, and only then, could I ever have the chance to take a deep breath and go back to the relative normality of my life.

“Yeah, okay,” Pedro said, rubbing the top of his head. “So this is what I know. Nixon owed someone something big, like real big, and I ain’t talking about money, either.”

“That’s not helping me much, Pedro,” I said dryly. “Is that the best you got?”

He grabbed for a pack of cigarettes and lit one, bringing it to his mouth. The top of his lip was dappled with perspiration. I gave him a little more time to compose himself, trying to be patient; he clearly knew more. Pedro took a drag then let out a smoky cloud. “I heard he was playing a dangerous game of chicken—”

“What do you mean? You think he was an informant for the police?”

“Nah… not for the pigs. Someone much more dangerous. I dunno, maybe whoever he crossed found out?”

“But who?”

Pedro shrugged. “I swear that’s all I know.” Sweat dotted his greasy forehead. I watched his eyes as they maintained a steady gaze and realized that he was telling me the truth. Shit.

“Romano might know more,” he continued, relaxing in the chair. “But you didn’t hear that from me, of course. And if you go after him, you know he’s not going to be happy to see you, not after the last time.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Romano. I knew the name very well, and it was not going to be a pleasant meeting by any means. Let’s just say the last time we met, I shot him in the thigh and nearly killed one of his bodyguards. Nope, he wasn’t going to be happy to see me.

But he was the next logical person to talk to if I had any hopes of getting Hazel back safe.

“
K
ick
! Harder! Who do you think you can take down with that wimpy-ass kick? Put some boot into it, son!”

Jack stopped and wiped his forehead with the back of his skinny hand, feeling the burn in his legs from attempting to beat up the punching bag. For hours he’d worked on perfecting his kicks and thrusts to the point where the skin had broken on his knuckles and made a bloody mess. Nixon just bandaged them up crudely, and they went right back at it, working with his legs until Jack was sure they would fall right off.

Nixon dropped his hands from the bag and stubbed out the cigar that was hanging from his lip. He grabbed the bottle of beer that was sweating on a nearby table. “Two minutes,” he warned as he walked out of the room. “Then we will get back at it.”

Jack waited until he was out of the room before he collapsed onto the mat, lying on his back so that he could feel the cool air from the floor fan dance across his sweaty skin. He was so tired.

“Jack, are you okay?”

Jack turned his head to the right and smirked as he saw a pair of pink toenails near his face, sparkling from a fresh polish in the low light. She loved pink right now. Her room was pink, her clothes were pink, and even her bubble gum was pink. Nixon had said it was just a phase, but Jack wasn’t so sure. Soon the entire house would be a thousand shades of the pastel girlie color if they let her take over. “I’m fine, Hazel, just tired.”

She knelt down on the mat, her freckled face looming over him as she looked at him with those wide blue eyes of hers. “You don’t look so good. Are you going to hurl?”

He choked back a laugh and pushed himself up to a sitting position, ignoring the screaming of the muscles in his back. “I’m fine, see? Nothing to worry about.”

Hazel didn’t answer. Instead her hot-pink tipped fingers rubbed over his covered knuckles. Jack tried not to pretend that he was glad for her touch as she looked at him, shaking her head. “You should tell Daddy to quit, Jack. I’ll tell him myself.”

“No, Hazel, it’s fine, I swear,” he said hastily, wrapping his banged-up hands around her small, soft ones. He owed everything to Nixon, and this was his way of paying the old man back. Nixon had taken him in when no one else would, the threat of foster care floating over his head like an ominous dark cloud. For six years Nixon had clothed him, fed him, and cared for him in his own gruff way. Now the old man had really taken a shine to Jack, and there was no way he was going to let anyone ruin that. “I swear it.”

Hazel bit her lip and shook her head, looking down at their joined hands. “You aren’t supposed to swear Jack. It’s bad.”

Jack sighed, the longtime rule between them making him crack a small smile. She hated when he said the word swear, and he had no idea how she would react if she really heard him use a curse word. Jack doubted she even knew those words.

“I’m sorry, Hazel.” At nine, Hazel was far smarter than she should have been. “Listen, how about tomorrow I teach you to ride that bicycle of yours, okay?”

She nodded then and slid her hands from his, the sudden loss of her innocent connection tightening a ball in Jack’s chest that he didn’t know existed. Hazel held a very special place in his heart. She was the only one besides his dead parents, and Nixon, that he would die for. If anything ever happened to her, he thought he would crumble right along with her. She looked up and pressed her hands to his cheeks, leaning over to kiss his forehead softly. “Thank you, Jack,” she said as she dropped her hands. “I miss hanging out with you. And I really want to learn how to ride with no training wheels like all the other kids.”

Jack gave her a wink, earning a giggle from her as a result. “You don’t have to be like the other kids, Hazel. You’ll learn in your own time, okay? I will be there to make sure they don’t pick on you.”

She nodded and walked back toward the steps, exiting the basement just as Nixon came in through the outside door.

“What are you doing on the floor? Get the hell up.” With a long sigh, Jack stood on wobbly legs and walked back over to the punching bag, his legs screaming for a break—but this was what he’d asked for. Never again would he let himself, or any part of his new adopted family, feel vulnerable. He was going to show Nixon that he wasn’t a lost cause, that he could do the kicks that he was trying to teach him and then he would show him how he could protect Hazel long after the old man was gone. That was his top priority.

I
decided
that some sleep was in order before I visited Romano. I needed to be sharp, and a couple hours of sleep was going to get me to that point. Swinging the motorcycle into the motel parking lot, I cut the engine and climbed off, feeling the weariness in my bones. The last time I’d slept was at least a day or so ago, before I’d gotten news about Nixon’s death and Hazel’s disappearance. Or should I say kidnapping, though there had yet to be any demands made. I had just finished a job in a neighboring town a few hours away, making sure the body was properly positioned so there would be no question as to what had happened, when I’d gotten the heads-up.

Reaching into my jacket pocket, I extracted the hotel card and inserted in the door, The silence of the ratty motel room greeted me. It wasn’t anything spectacular, but hey, none of them ever were. I had a nice penthouse apartment back in Baton Rouge, but I was rarely ever there. I spent most of my time either on the road, in someone else’s house during or after a hit, or in motels like this one.

Shedding my jacket, I threw it onto the chair and pulled off my double shoulder holsters carefully, setting them on the bedside table with the grips facing my way. I removed another gun from my ankle holster and placed it inside my jacket pocket, out of sight and out of reach. Nixon had taught me long ago to always have a backup gun hidden, just in case some fucking asshole decided to take me on thinking I was unarmed.

I kicked off my boots and reached into my jeans pocket, pulling out the folded-up serrated knife before placing it under my pillow. I was overly cautious, but it never hurt to be prepared for whatever might come through the door. It was the only way to ensure a long life in this business.

Satisfied, I lay on top of the bedcovers and tucked my arms behind my head, staring up at the stained popcorn ceiling. Tomorrow I would visit Romano on neutral turf, knowing that he usually got his hair cut at the same barbershop every Thursday morning. There he would be limited on his bodyguards, not seeing any threat in the shop itself. I knew the shop well, and the back door would prove to be my surprise entry. I played over Pedro’s words, trying to figure out what the old man had gotten himself into, but if Romano was involved, then this mess went deeper than I thought.

With a sigh I rubbed a hand over my face, thinking about the innocent girl caught up in this mess. Woman, I corrected myself. She would be a grown-ass beautiful woman by now. I could only hope she hadn’t gone down easily, using everything her father and I had taught her to protect herself the best she could, though it wasn’t much, more out of play that anything that could be considered self-defense; to keep her happy when Nixon concentrated on molding me into a killing machine. Her gun had not been on the scene, but that didn’t mean anything, considering the police had combed the place before my arrival.

Still, it made me feel hopeful that her body hadn’t been found, either. They had taken her, and the only reason I could think of why they would do that, and why they would keep her alive, was because of me. They needed something from me. And if that were the case, perhaps I’d done something to have gotten Nixon killed, too. My head pounded.

What if I’d been the target all along? After all, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out what made me tick, what would bring the rat out into the light and sniffing around, even though I’d tried to do everything I could over the years to distance myself and sever that connection. Nixon had been a casualty, but maybe Hazel was the true taunt.

My cell vibrated, and I pulled it out of my pocket, swiping the screen to read the message. It was another job, the address not far from where I was staying. My standard fee was also in the message, along with the date and time that the hit was to take place.

I considered the message for a minute. I was dead on my feet yet unable to sleep. Perhaps the job would give me a good distraction. Plus, I couldn’t very well ignore it, either—this was my job, how I made a living and how I managed to keep on going, day after day all these years. Killing fuelled me.

I am the real deal, the boogeyman at night that carries a set of guns and is pretty damn handy with a knife. I had perfected my craft over the years to the point where not one of my hits was the same as another. I was virtually untraceable and highly sought after for that reason. Hardly anything bothered me anymore—which came in handy for those unusual requests. With one exception: I didn’t take hits out on kids. Kids were off-limits; they were innocent, and if someone wanted a child dead, I was more likely to kill the requester than the kid. Those types of people sickened me.

But everyone else, well, they were fair game. The reasons varied, too. People wanted someone dead for all sorts of reasons, most commonly revenge, money or jealousy. I did the dirty deed they didn’t have the balls to do, and they were able to sleep at night. Once upon a time I kept track of every unfortunate soul I had done in on behalf of someone else, but after ten years of professional killings, I had lost count.

Not one had made me lose sleep at night. There had been a time when I would get physically sick after a killing, but again, it got easier with age.

Shifting in the bed, I thought about my last one—a man who had unfortunately stolen something very important from his former employer. He hadn’t even known I was in the house till the last second, and I made his death swift and clean. It was the least I could do after I’d caught sight of the wedding pictures and kids in the photo-frames in his living room. The last thing I wanted to do was have his smiling wife come home to a bloody mess from wherever the fuck she’d been. No, she would come home to find her husband OD’ed on the pills she didn’t know he had, for the problem she would never find out about. I could have a heart when I wanted to.

I closed my eyes, and Hazel’s face flashed before my eyes; there was definitely no way I was going to get to sleep now. Just the thought of her lithe body had my groin reacting, and I tamped down the feeling, saving it for another day. I certainly didn’t need that type of distraction right now. Instead I forced myself up off the bed, ready to divert my attention to the last-minute job.

I
moved
to the window near the back of the shabby house, my boots making no sound on the leaves underneath.

The instructions were explicit: take down the man in the back room. He had murdered a six year-old a few months before—it had been in all the papers—but he had gotten off without charge because the police had screwed up the chain of evidence. These types of missions I didn’t mind one little bit—it felt just, like I was righting the scales somehow. He sorely needed to die for what he had done. The cash, I would donate anonymously to the six year-old’s family, or some kid’s charity. I didn’t need the money for this.

I eased the window up and climbed in, up and over the sash, stepping into a dark room.

Patiently I waited before taking another step.

The sound of heavy breathing filled the air. Though it was dark in the room, I could easily make out the sleeping lump of a body on the bed, but first I needed to confirm that he was my target.

If he wasn’t, and I killed the wrong person, I would lose all credibility and any future jobs that could come my way.

Walking over to the bed, I slipped on the ski mask that allowed me to conceal my identity while I confirmed his. If he wasn’t my target, then I could easily escape the way I came and be written off as a burglar if he woke up. It was a part of my profession that I had tried to perfect over the years, but honestly there was no easy way to do it.

I shone my penlight on the face lying upon the pillows, taking time to memorize the features before clicking it off. I didn’t need to look again. This was my guy.

Adjusting my gloves, I grabbed the pillow from beside him and placed it over his face, applying pressure to make it quick.

While I would have been more comfortable to take him out back and torture the hell out of him for what he did to that innocent child, I just wanted the job done.

Quick and easy. He thrashed at first as he startled awake, gasping for air that would not come. Gritting my teeth, I envisioned the man beneath me to be Hazel’s captor and pressed down even harder, my arms starting to shake as I held the pillow in place.

His legs bounced and kicked off the mattress as his fists tried to claw the pillow away from his face, but he was fighting a losing battle.

Soon his limbs dropped to the side, going limp as he quit breathing. I held the pillow in place and started to count. I’d been caught out before in my early days, my target feigning death—holding his breath—and I’d removed the pillow too quickly. Since then I’d made sure.

Once satisfied, I removed the pillow and checked his pulse.

He was a goner.

Calmly I replaced the pillow and took the same path back to the window, climbing through it before easing it back into place. This job had been quick and easy, but some were more complicated. Some jobs came with few or no instructions, only that they wanted the target dead. Others, however, tended to come with some sort of pain inflicted or a particular way for the body to be found. I had done it all.

I removed my gloves, tucked them into my pocket and walked over to the next street, where the car was parked unassumingly in the residential neighborhood. Then I took off the mask. I wasn’t stupid enough to bring my own damn motorcycle, so a stolen car from a nearby parking lot was transporting me tonight. I would return it to the same lot once I wiped it down, erasing any chance of being discovered. “Easy in, easy out,” I muttered Nixon’s old mantra as I turned over the engine and pulled out into the street. If only finding and rescuing Hazel was going to be that simple.