Prime Target (3 page)

The officer nods. “Thank you for your time. If we have more questions, we’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as Officer Jones walks out of the room, I exhale. My cover hasn’t been blown, and I’m still alive.

But what will I do about Everly? I owe her my life now.

I owe her everything.

Madrid, four months later

I
scan the
perimeter of the room, ignoring the glittering ball gowns and black tuxes of the guests. They are not my target. Tonight, the hostess is my prey. Fitting to label her as such, I think, since she preys on children and sells them into human trafficking rings.

Her specialty is boys, and since boys demand a higher price than girls, she lives a luxurious life while they suffer. While her victims are degraded and made to serve adults who have no business breathing. If I could take out every last one of those monsters in one fell swoop, I would, but I will settle for taking out the supplier.

I recognize her face from the picture my contact gave me, hidden inside a second-edition copy of Dickens’
Oliver Twist
. As a server passes by, tray balanced on the tips of his fingers, I set my half-empty glass of champagne on it and then make my move.

“Excuse me,” I say, giving the redhead my most charming smile. “I’m in need of assistance, and you look to be the woman for the…
job.”

Vibrant blue eyes assess me, clearly excited by my attention, and I briefly wonder if perhaps my contact is mistaken about her. Or perhaps she’s been forced into this by another—one who holds all the power in her miserable life—because my target has a reputation for selling her own body as well.

But she smiles, and in that smile, I can see the evil that lives inside of her. I have seen it countless times before.

“Only assistance?”

“I’ve a need for what only
you
can provide.”

A coy smile covers her lips. “Just me?”

I raise a brow. “Only you…for now.”

She leans closer. “Meet me at the top of the stairs in ten minutes.”

Taking her hand, I bring it to my lips, a parody of a kiss, when all I want to do is finish the job.

*

I slam her
against the wall, giving her a wicked smile even as my mostly healed shoulder pulls a little. She laughs wildly. We’re in my hotel room, and she thinks this is foreplay. She thinks this is a mere prelude. What she thinks is going to happen tonight, never will. I don’t fuck my targets.

“God, I knew you were perfect for me.” She bites my neck, and it takes all my self-control not to break hers in return.

Instead, I gentle my caress, running my finger down the line of her throat, all the way to the deep v of her cleavage. She grabs my wrist and forces it to her throat. The silver ring on my thumb gleams, catching my attention. I rub the bottom of it, imagining the sound of the click that springs the deadly needles into action.

She’ll never see this coming. She’ll never feel anything beyond the sting of a mosquito bite. This isn’t my chosen method, because I don’t have a calling card beyond death. There’s nothing in each kill that will identify me as the killer. Only whispers of who I am follow in my wake.

“You can squeeze,” she pants, and I oblige her. She grimaces slightly. “Something bit me.”

“Did it?” I loosen my grip on her and slowly turn away. Walking to the bar in my suite, I pour myself a drink.

“What the hell did you do to me?”

Turning, I lift the glass to my mouth. “Only what you deserved.”

Her face pales, contrasting starkly with her red hair. “You’re him,” she gasps, and then smiles slightly. “I always thought I’d get the Skinner.”

“You still could,” I mock, and then take a drink.

She slumps to the floor, like a marionette whose strings are finally cut. Her eyelids droop. “Tell my mother I’m sorry.”

“But not the children whose lives you destroyed?”

“Don’t judge me because we sin differently,” she slurs. “We’re the same.”

“We are not the same.” I throw my glass against the wall, purposely missing her by inches. “I do not kill the innocent.”

A huff of air. “Exactly. The. Same.” Her eyes close, and she lists to one side.

Soon, her heartbeat will slow, her lungs will cease to draw in sufficient air, and her muscles will become so relaxed that her bowels will expel all the waste they store. I’ve been told that on some level, the poisoned know this, that they are at least partially aware of their body shutting down, of the indignity of their death. I take one last look at the woman on the floor.

“I pray to God that he has
no
mercy on your soul.” Pulling my phone from my pocket, I make a call.

“Service?” I don’t recognize the voice, but I do know that all traces of the body will be removed from my hotel room as quickly and discreetly as possible.

“Maid, please,” I reply and then hang up, tossing the phone on the bed a second later. I pull a clear bottle out of my pocket. Inside is a most useful liquid for a man in my line of work. The liquid destroys all evidence of DNA with just a simple misting and wipe-down, or I could use bottle number two and simply replace my DNA with another’s. Either way, this hit will never be traced back to me.

After spraying down
everything
—including the body and the broken glass—I exit the room.

*

I return to
the States on a Wednesday morning, the red-eye flight getting me back in time to open shop for Everly’s visit. I look forward to it even more than usual, since this will be her first visit to my shop in months.

Since my trip to the hospital, Everly and I have grown a bit closer, despite my resistance. The woman is, for lack of a better word,
determined
to be in my life.

The day I was discharged, she’d shown up with a spectacularly gaudy
Get Well Soon
balloon and offered to drive me home. Thankfully, and yet completely regrettably, my cousin, Benjamin Romanov, had arrived that morning to oversee my rehabilitation.

Something I appreciated, yet despised. A small part of me had hoped that the
Bratva
would forget about the man known as Roman Smith. That perhaps getting shot was divine intervention and I could be free to pursue Everly.

In the following months, I had to close my shop while I recuperated, watched for signs of Petrov’s return, and had the entire place cleaned of the forensics powder the police had left behind. Though every Wednesday, I would sit on a bench in a small park by my shop and wait for Everly. Always, I would stay by her side while she read from one of the books I delivered to her.

I’m a glutton for punishment, I suppose, but in those quiet moments, I felt at peace with the world. I had the most lovely, most beautiful woman within arm’s reach, and I soaked her presence in. She didn’t try to force me to talk to her, though she did her best to get me to open up.

“What’s your favorite book?” she asks, setting her latest Zoe Ambrose novel down.

“The kind that makes me the most money,” I say, breaking off a piece of bread and throwing it to the birds in the park.

She rolls her eyes, and I bite back a grin. “Seriously, Roman. Tell me.”

“Saint-Exupéry’s
The Little Prince
,” I say softly. “My mother read it to me as a child before bedtime.”

She doesn’t make one of her gentle jokes at this. Instead, she inches closer to me, so close that our thighs are touching. “That’s a sweet memory to share with me.”

It’s a true memory. I pick up her book and examine it. “While you are reading a very raunchy scene.”

Blushing, she laughs. “It’s not raunchy. It’s romantic.”

We both grow quiet, and I hand the book back to her. Romantic. I can’t offer her straight-up fucking, much less romance.

“Fantasy is good,” I murmur, and she beams at me.

“Thanks for not making fun of what I read.” Her hand reaches for mine, but I move it out of the way. She makes a little face, then goes back to her reading.

The moment has passed, but I can’t help wondering what it would have been like to give in.

A gust of sharp wind brings me back to the present, and I blink.

For reasons known only to God, Everly sees something in me. Something she wants to touch and hold. I feel the same way about her. When I see Everly, all I see is pure goodness and beauty.

Yet, each time I look at my hands, at the tattoos that are inked so deeply into my skin I’ll never be able to remove them, I see blood. My fingers may as well be twisted and charred, oozing with blood, with the sins that I committed in the name of ridding the world of scum.

And not for the first time, I wonder what Everly would do if I confessed the truth.

“Exactly the same.”
The redhaired woman’s words slither into my head.

A plaintive meow breaks through my clouded head, and I turn to find a small cat sitting by the back door. Its fur is an odd shade of bluish-gray.

Kneeling, I rub its head. “Lost, little one?” I’ve always had an affinity for animals, from the time I was a child. A weakness my father said I inherited from my mother’s family. Animals were meant to serve us, to do our bidding, not perform tricks.

I scoop up the purring cat, heading in the direction of the local shelter. Everly won’t be here for at least thirty more minutes, so I have time to get this bit of fluff there.

“Ridding the world of mice, eh?” I croon as the familiar brick building comes into sight. The door opens, and an older woman with black hair liberally streaked with gray comes out. Mrs. Tatum is the director of the rescue shelter. Bangles on her wrists jingle as they crash against one another.

When she sees me, she smiles—her expression genuine and warm, much like Everly’s.

“Mr. Smith, how are you today?” Her gaze zeroes in on the bundle in my arms and the smile melts away, leaving behind a frown so sad that grooves appear in the side of her mouth. “Ah, I wish you hadn’t brought it.”

I glance down at the cat. Yellow eyes regard me thoughtfully. “She can’t eat that much. I’m more than happy to donate food—”

“That’s not it.” She lets out a thick sigh. “We can’t take any more animals for at least a week. If they are left here, then we have to euthanize them.”

“I’ll take her home with me,” I immediately say, uncaring that even something as small as a cat can complicate my life.

“I’ll stop by later with some supplies for you,” Mrs. Tatum says.

Without further ado, I hurry back to my shop and await Everly’s return.

*

Naturally, Everly loves
my cat. Naturally, the cat hates Everly and hisses as soon as the woman attempts to hold her.

“Perhaps I should put her in the back?” I whisk the cat away, placing her in a nearly empty storeroom. There’s some cat food in a bowl, a small dish of water, a litter box, and a blanket—all courtesy of Mrs. Tatum. But the damned cat bolts out of the room before I can shut the door and disappears into my shop.

When I return, Everly is digging through her box. She stops when she sees me. “Does it bother you?”