Last Hit (Hitman) (18 page)

I hate it. I hate people. I want to go home where it's safe.

A muffled whimper escapes my throat, but the club is so noisy I can't even hear it. I can't breathe; air won't get into my lungs. It's too hot in the club and there's just no air. The bass has pounded it all away. I stumble, pushing my way off the dance floor, heedless of the fact that I'm pissing off people as I shove past them. Finally, I emerge from the crowd and arrive at the tables. I spot the man who waved at me earlier. I'm on the verge of tears now. I ignore his attempt to get my attention again and snatch my purse off of the table I share with Regan and Becca, who are still missing.

And then I run out of the club. I don't stop running until I'm out in the street. It's dark outside, and the music is still pounding in my head. I run away from the door and stop about halfway down the block, and then I curl up against the brick wall.

I feel as if I've been assaulted.

I've never been touched like that. Never. So casually, so ruthlessly. I just wanted to dance, and I was manhandled by a man with an erection. It's too much for my senses to handle, and I sob quietly to myself.

"You okay, honey?"

I look up at the face of the big bouncer. He's fat, middle-aged and balding, and he looks irritated that he had to come to check on me.

"I'm fine," I tell him.
Go
away
.
Go
away
.

"Anyone bothering you?"

Just
you
, I want to say, but I realize he's trying to help me. So I shake my head and say nothing until he goes away. I can't stop trembling. It's cold outside, but I like the crisp air. It feels so different from the steamy atmosphere of the club and the pressing bodies. I want a shower. I feel dirty. Someone touched me without my permission, and it was awful.

The man calls down the street at me, one more time. "You need me to call you a cab, girlie?"

 "I have a ride," I call back hoarsely, and when he turns away, I wipe at my cheeks, trying to stop crying.

I'm not good at that. I can't seem to stop. I'm glad Regan and Becca can't see me like this. They won't understand. Only one person seems to understand me.

I get my phone out and stare at the texts I sent him earlier.

Nick:
If you need me, say the word. I will be there to rescue you.

D8Z:
I'll be fine.

Then I send him three little words.
I'm not fine.

NIKOLAI

My phone is on vibrate because it is too loud in this club. This basement club is a death trap. I can see only three exits, and the space is over capacity. Drunk people are stumbling everywhere. I could kill at least half of them by starting a stampede.

It is clear to me that Daisy can never be left alone. She is too trusting and too willing to try out new things without the leavening effect of fear. She's not experienced enough fear in her life, I think. The mere fact that she wants me in her life is evidence enough of her precious naiveté. But it is the one thing about her that draws me to her, and I do not want to stamp it out. So I've followed her here. It is easy with the GPS. There are men who smile at her, who pass their hands over her back. I want to howl that she belongs to me; she is mine.

My jaw is sore from grinding my teeth together. I hate that she is here surrounded by sweaty palms and unclean thoughts. I see the lust in the eyes of the men around her. She exudes freshness in this stale air, and they want a taste of it. I fold one hand over the fist I've made and squeeze; the cracking of joints relieves a tiny bit of tension. I repeat the gesture with the other hand. I try to shake my shoulders and roll my head to ease the pressure, but none of it really works. The only way I will feel good is when I've removed myself from this box, and I won't do that until Daisy is ready to leave.

I do not need advice from Daniel to know that I cannot drag Daisy out of this place. I've already made multiple missteps with her. The only thing I can do now is to wait, collect information by watching my mark, and then use that information to acquire the mark. It is different work than I've done in the past. The ending steps must conclude with her liking me instead of her dead on the floor.

I sit in the corner of the club, unseen. Occasionally, a drunk girl will stumble back here and try out her wiles on me, but a cold stare seems to penetrate even the densest of heads. Their hindbrain knows the truth their muddled consciousness does not. I'm a danger, and these girls in here don't want dangerous.

I've encountered some that do; some that are turned on by it and some that are attracted to it. But not tonight. Tonight is filled with little dolls, tottering on their tiny heels, clothed in their tiny dresses. A man and a woman stumble back beside me. The dark corner provides them with a false sense of privacy. He lifts her skirt and they begin to copulate. In the cocoon of space beyond the dance floor, I can hear the sounds of their sloppy sex mix with the beats spun out by the DJ. I wonder what the man would do if I reached over and stroked a hand down the back of the girl. Would he even know, lost in his own pleasure? She is glassy eyed from either the drink or the heat or both. It's not passion I see in her eyes when they meet mine. It's triumph. We stare at each other for a minute. She is suffused with excitement at being watched, so I turn away and seek out the object of my own desire.

Daisy is now on the dance floor, no longer texting me. Her purse is abandoned on the table. Vultures circle around it. If left there much longer, no doubt someone will come along and pilfer the contents. Daisy works so hard for what little money she earns, and since I cannot stand guard over her body here inside this club, I will protect her belongings. As I rise to walk to the bar top that Daisy has left, I feel a hand on my shirt.

I look down and it is the red-tipped fingernails of the girl, still being tupped by the drunk male, who has no idea that his partner's attention has so completely detached from his experience. "Stay," she mouths at me, her matching red lips forming words that I cannot hear. "Stay, and I'll do you next."

I shake off her hand like it is a snake. I hear a mewling cry behind me as I walk away. The man takes it to be encouragement and not disappointment. "Yes, baby," he groans, and I roll my eyes. He is like that man of Daisy's roommate. So much about his own pleasure and about not seeing to the one he is with.

But perhaps it is because he does not have a Daisy, someone whose pleasure in everything brings its own delight. The crowd parts for me as I walk forward, mostly because I do not hesitate. Or because they understand instinctively that I am not moving for them. There is a light-fingered hand that rests on Daisy's purse. It is not her hand, and it is just as I feared. I glance quickly at Daisy, who is dancing, her skirt twirling around her and her body being watched by so many in this club. My blood heats and instinct makes me want to shut this place down, but first, before I go to her, I rescue her purse.

My hand slams down on the table beside the thief's hand, making its owner jump. The girl is not her roommate or her friend who has come with them tonight. Some other woman with painted nails and a painted face. She grimaces and then smiles at me, smoothing down her brown hair with one hand, not moving her other from Daisy's purse. She intends to either pretend this purse is Daisy's or to try to make a move on me. Neither will work, and I glare at her, trying to impart the message. She is too dumb to get it, for she moves closer to me, her fingers running down the front of my chest. I glance again at the dance floor, but Daisy has been swallowed up.

 Impatiently, I grip the offensive hand in mine. "If you do not want me to break your wrist with one squeeze of my hand, you will do two things immediately. First, you will remove your hand from my woman's purse. Second, you will remove your hand from this shirt. It is attached to the body that belongs to the owner of the purse."

Her hands slip away after an infinitesimal pause. Daisy has reappeared from the crowd looking upset and distraught. I wonder if she's seen the whore's hand on my shirt. I turn in anger to face the intruder, but she's melted into the crowd. I hesitate, wondering if Daisy would be upset if I were here. I think she would be. This is not the zoo or a picnic, as Daniel had suggested. And I've given Daisy multiple opportunities to invite me with her…none of which she has accepted. I allow the crowd to hide me as I watch Daisy snatch up her purse and head for one of the exits. She does not wait for either of her companions but instead pushes her way out. I follow behind. Before I can reach her, another man intercepts me.

"Bro," he says. "There's no exit here."

"I disagree," I say, pointing to the illuminated sign above the door, which spells out the word in red letters.

"It's an emergency exit only." He points to a red sign attached to the door. It says emergency, but it means nothing to me. Daisy has exited that door alone.

"I do not care what the sign says." I begin to move past him but he pushes me back.

"Look, dude, my man is making his move out there, so just use a different exit." At first, I cannot comprehend what he is saying. Daisy is a woman. She has not gone to make any moves other than to get fresh air. But then it comes to me. These are not places you visit alone, only in packs. There is a predator outside, and his teammate is inside deterring any interruptions, making a clear path for the predator.

My right arm comes up and knocks the hand off my chest. The left hand comes up to hold the neck of the offender off the ground. "He touches her in any way, and I will come back and rip your head off your body like it is the stem of an apple. One twist and you will be done." I drop him to the floor and make no notice of the way he slides down the wall, gasping and spitting. I run out the door, unconcerned now what Daisy will think of me following her to this club.

I will create another lie, a hundred of them if I have to. Outside I see nothing at first. I take a second sweep of the alleyway and hear a grunt and sound toward the end. I sprint there, and I see Daisy struggling in the arms of a man.

He has my Daisy. Rage blinds me for a second, the blood sweeps over my eyes so that I cannot see, but I can hear—and my well-trained body can feel. I pull the man off her with two hands, and I send him spinning backward. But I do not let him go, for he is a coward and cowards run.

As I pull him away from Daisy, I notice that she tries to swing at him—tries, and fails. And when she fails, she seems to crumple inside of herself. As if she has tried to be brave and it is too much for her.

The man in my hands fights me. I twist the back of his collar until he is choking from the pressure of the cloth. I run my other hand lightly over Daisy's shoulders. She is shaking, and there are wet tracks running down the front of her face.

"Are you all right?" I ask her hoarsely. While I was tending to her silly purse; while I was listening to that
mudak
inside, this vile creature was making my Daisy cry. I hear his weak gurgles and feel his struggle against the grip. If he were smart, he would loosen his shirt and run away, so I quickly let go of the collar of his shirt and grab the back of his neck and pull him close to my side so I can wrap an arm around his neck. I'm holding him like he is a bag tucked under my armpit. It is too close to Daisy, so I back off slightly.

"Are you all right?" I repeat.

She nods and wipes her face so that the tear tracks go to her temples instead of down her cheeks. "Nick, what are you doing here?"

I think for a minute, trying to invent a good lie, and come up with nothing. Hitmen are bad liars. At least I am a bad liar. I tell her the truth. "I worry about you, Daisy, and come to this club."

"How did you find me?"

Now I do need a real lie. "I was driving past and saw you on the street."

She considers this for a minute, and I think she might buy it, but the man in my arm says, "He's fucking lying. Saw you on the street? What a crock of shit."

I squeeze my arm tighter. I could easily twist his neck and put an end to his misery, but not while Daisy is looking on. Her face displays uncertainty caused by the
mudak's
words.

"I drive around a lot at night." I lie again. "I can't sleep." Not a lie. I hardly ever sleep. It's not a welcome place for me.

"Did you—did you follow me?" Daisy stutters out.

"Oh this is rich," the soon-to-be-dead man snorts out. "You're a stalker, and I'm the bad guy?"

"One moment, Daisy," I say. I must take care of this trash before I can explain myself to Daisy.

I drag the predator down the alleyway. There is no real place to hide from Daisy's gaze. I push the male up against the brick exterior wall. "I will tell you what I told your friend inside. I do not like anyone touching Daisy. She is not for you. But you touch her and make her cry, so you must be punished."

"No way, man," he protests. His legs kick futilely at me. I lower him to the ground and turn his foot to the side with mine. Three swift kicks to his Achilles tendon has rendered him unable to stand.

He cries out sharply.

I muffle it with my hand and lean him against a wall. "See what I can do to you with just my boot out here in front of God and everyone? Think of what it would be like alone. Maybe I will come after you one night as you are walking home. What could I do to you then?"

He cries then. "Okay, enough, enough. I didn't even want the fucking bitch."

I kick him again for disrespecting Daisy, and then I let him crumple to the ground. Daisy is watching me, because what else is she going to look at? Her hands are covering her mouth. I tell myself she is horrified at how close she came to being hurt instead of about how I maimed this stranger. Lie.

"He'll be fine," I say brusquely as I take one of her hands and lead her out of the alley.

"How'd you get here so fast?" she asks. "I just texted you."

I felt it, but I hadn't looked at my phone, too intent on following Daisy outside. I'm tired of lying to Daisy, so I don't answer. I've parked down the street in another rental, something else I will have to explain to Daisy. So many lies piling up. I hear the click, click, click of her heels against the pavement and realize I am walking too fast. I slow down immediately.