Viper: A Hitman Romance (8 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

JESSICA

Do my legs still work?

Nature wakes me up.  Everything's sore.  Except for a few parts of me, which are just numb. 

My legs are the latter.

I think I forgot my name while he was fucking me. 

Which was fine, because I sure knew what his was.  My throat is still raw from screaming it over and over again.

Ryker is next to me in the bed, in the deep kind of sleep that only comes about after downing a ton of scotch and having sex until you pass out.

I was in that same kind of sleep.

Thankfully, the handcuffs are on the nightstand and not on my wrists.  Not that they weren't used.  First on me, then on him.

I shiver in delight just thinking about it.

I can't even describe how hot it was having every raw, powerful inch of him entirely at my mercy.  Thinking about it makes my sex thrum with lust.  If he woke up right now, I could probably suck him hard again and we could have even more fun.

Hopping quietly to get the blood flowing back into my appendages, I quietly make my way to the bathroom.  While I'm sitting there, I realize that my mind and my body are both thoroughly fucked at this point.

I don't know who or what Ryker is.  He's more than just my kidnapper at this point, and I'm more than just a regular captive.  Things are complicated.  Because, as much as I should be frightened of him, I keep seeing flashes of a man who's so much more than just a hired killer.

I know he has a secret.  I know I want to help him.  I know I care about him.

This isn't Stockholm syndrome.  That doesn't happen overnight.  And it doesn't start with a jaw-droppingly handsome man picking you up at a bar.

Beyond that, I know nothing about him aside from the fact that he's the most terrifying thing on this earth when he's angry.  Oh, and that he's about as well endowed as a thoroughbred and has the endurance to match.

Other than that, he's a total mystery.  But he's one I want to solve.  Or at least explore for a while longer.

I wash up, and I go back to the bedroom.  He's still asleep.

There's a whole novel of scars and tattoos written on that body of his.  A life story that he's kept to himself out of the well-founded fear that he can't trust anyone.

I sit and read him by moonlight.

And I wonder.

According to him, there's no one close to him.  No one in his life.  The only things he keeps close are his guns and his money.

So, then, why give it all up?  Why retire?  Especially since he seems tailor-made to be the perfect hitman.

That's what I can't understand.  It's like death deciding to hang up the scythe so he can go farm sunflowers in Kansas or something.  It just doesn't make sense.

As I'm watching him sleep, I know I need to find out more.  There's a reason I work evidence analysis for the FBI — I'm good at figuring out these kind of questions.

I head upstairs.  I take each step super slow.  Partly because making noise would mean waking up Ryker, and partly because my legs still feel like they're made out of half-formed jello.

The office door is unlocked.  It opens quietly.

Inside is the perfect picture of military organization.  It's a drill-sergeant's wet dream.  There's a bookshelf of combat field manuals, language books, and other non-fiction pieces, all organized alphabetically and by subject.

The desktop is empty.  Dust-free, spotless, and solid — its metal and seriously heavy-duty.  It could probably even take a few gunshots and still hold onto its secrets.

Fortunately for me, it's not locked.

The first drawer is empty except for a few pens, paper clips, and some rubber bands.  There's a wicked-sharp letter-opener in there as well.

The second drawer is full of files, manila folders, and dossiers on people ranging from war criminals to CEOs to heads-of-state.  And all of their dirty secrets.  I flip through a few of them, some of which have handwritten notes about everything from their taste in prostitutes to what brand of cigar they prefer.

A few famous names have X's over them.

Victims, maybe?

"Holy shit," I whisper.

Some of these names are real high-level.  I recognize a couple drug lords and a few other names that are still riding high on the FBI's most wanted list.  Bad men who've met a bad end.

We think these guys are still alive.  He's knocked them off and made them fucking disappear and the FBI doesn't even know it.

Suddenly, I feel like I'm in illustrious company.

The third drawer has only two things in it.  A photo of a man and a woman on a beach, both with surf boards.  The man in the photo is definitely Ryker, though quite a few years and many miles younger.  And he looks…
happy
.  Almost carefree.  It's weird.  There's a smile on his face that just seems impossible to picture coming from the Ryker I know.

It's like that man who had that twinkle in his eye while he sang to me.  Only many times over.

The picture itself is old.  It's seen a lot of days in the sun, a lot of wrinkles, and a lot of time spent locked in this drawer.

The second picture is newer.  It's taken from a distance, but I can pick out a Hello Kitty backpack, pigtails, a pink jacket, and purple moon boots.

"You really should have stayed in bed, Jessica."

The voice snaps me back to earth.  I feel like I've been struck, physically.  There's a warning in there that's just barely hidden. 

Be careful, Jessica, things will turn very nasty if you don't watch yourself
.

I stand up, still holding both pictures.  And I disregard the warning.  There's a reason I work so well in analysis: I don't stop asking questions.

"Who are these?"

"Put them back."

I hold my ground.

"What?  Why? Do you think I'm going to put them in danger?  I'm not a hitman.  I'm a normal person.  I'm no danger to anybody.  All I do is work for the FBI pushing papers and writing memos."

Well, not really.  I do
way
more than that, but now is not the time to break out my resume.  Or my glowing performance reviews, thank-you-very-much.

Ryker sighs.  He's probably just as spent as I am and, right now, real arguments seem
exhausting
.

To my surprise, he sits down on the floor in front of me and holds out his hand.

I pass him the first picture.  There's a long moment while he looks at it, and for a second, there's a hint of a smile on his face that reminds me of the younger man in that photograph.

"This is Eleanor and me.  Just outside of Key Largo.  Her dad was Cuban, her mother was from New Orleans, I think.  That's just what she told me.  She kept most of her life secret.  And I did the same to her.  Which seems strange to say, but it's just part of how you get by in this business.  I didn't even find out her full name until after she died."

I'm on the floor now, too.  Right across from Ryker.  His eyes are closed, and he sounds like he's no longer here in his office, but far away, living in a memory that seems a lifetime ago.

"What happened to her?" I ask.

His eyes open again.  Emerald greens shine at me, bright, and with more than a bit of sadness in them.

"Eleanor was the best smuggler in the Gulf.  She ran people and goods from all over Latin America.  We met because I needed to get into Cuba secretly, and she was the first smuggler I'd come across that I didn't feel would stab me in the back and ditch me out at sea as soon as they got the chance.  I spent six months after with her.  She taught me how to surf."

That smile comes back again, just for a second.  He runs his thumb across the picture, brushing Eleanor's face.

"I was horrible at surfing.  No matter how much she tried, she could barely get me to do more than stand on that board.  It used to piss her off to no end."  He chuckles.

I reach out, rest my hand on his leg.

"Eventually, I took a job in Thailand.  It went bad.  I ended up spending nearly a year in some black site prison, and when I finally busted my ass out, I made my way back to the Keys.  Came to find out Eleanor was dead," he lets out a great big sigh, every part of him seems to fill up and then deflate.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

He shakes it off.  The moonlight coming in through the window shines brighter around the edge of his eyes, and I see the smallest tear there.

"She was always independent.  Worked only for herself.  Partly because she was good, partly because she just had too much fire inside to call someone else her boss.  Things got ugly when a cartel moved in and took over smuggling in the area.  She spit in some cartel bosses face.  I mean, right in his face.  Called him a 'pendejo' and a few other things, or so I heard.  Then she wound up with a bullet in her skull.  She was three months in the ground before I got there."

There's a moment of silence between us.  Ryker's back in a memory and I do not feel right about doing anything that might pull him out of it.  When he looks up at me, there's a litany of pain written on his face.

"That's why you don't get close in this business.  Because as much as I go around killing people, I never forget that I'm wearing the biggest target of all on my back.  And anyone else I care about is going to be wearing that very same target.  You just open yourself, and them, up to getting hurt."

"I'm sorry," I say again.

I hold out the second picture.  He doesn't take it, he just looks at it.

"Who is she?"  I ask.

Pain flickers again, and then his face is cold, hard stone.  Quicker than I can blink, there's the click of metal and cuffs are back on my wrists.  Tight.  He jerks me to my feet and the picture flutters free of my grasp and falls to the ground.

"No one.  We're done here."

CHAPTER NINE

RYKER

I cuff her back to the bed.  Then I spend the rest of the night on the floor, sleeping off a fifth of scotch and five rounds of the best sex I've ever had.

It
hurts
.

Not the floor.  Digging up memories that should stay buried, and secrets that burn like red hot coals. 

We almost got too close there.  Fuck it.  We did get
too close.
  As much as I'm starting to like Jessica, I have to be careful.  She can know about the dead — Eleanor is safe out of anybody's reach — but she can't know about the living; about the little girl I'd never even known I had until three years ago.

A lot can happen while you're locked away in a jail just outside of Chiang Mai.  Though I don't recommend putting yourself in the position to find that out.

You just might come out of it to find who you are has been changed.  You're not just a killer anymore.  And your partner, the woman you thought was untouchable, and who had a spark that just fucking
lit
something inside you, has been snuffed out.

You might also find out you're a father.  That some little girl out there is counting on you to be a much better version of yourself.

I
can't
be just Ryker Blackwood, the Viper, anymore.  I can't wear a target on my back any longer, and I sure as hell can't put her in danger. 

I need to put the Viper to rest.  I need to be a dad.

It's tough, killing a part of yourself.  It's taken me years of planning just to get to this point.

And if you think uncovering state secrets is tough, try figuring out adoption records.  Kylie was only an infant when Eleanor died.  She bounced around the foster system for years until the Owens family of Ventura, California adopted her.

Seeing that picture of her, taken as she was about to start her first day of school, was too much.  Too much pain, and too much pride.  Because, as fucked up as my life is, and as fucked up as her mother's was, Kylie has come through it all as a smart, incredible little princess.

That little girl is everything good.  Everything I'm not.

As much as I want to let Jessica into my life, I can't risk Kylie.  I can't risk the entire reason I've fought tooth and claw for retirement.

Suffice to say, when I wake up in the morning, I'm in a sore mood.

It gets even worse when my phone beeps at me.  Another text.

11000 Wilshire Blvd.  Tomorrow night.  Check your mailbox.  There's a flash drive there.  Replace FBI's DraxCorp flash drive with one provided.

Everyone who's anyone in this business, in this city, knows that 11000 Wilshire is the federal building and home to such lovely organizations as the FBI Field offices.  In addition to a dozen other federal organizations and law enforcement branches.

I'm beginning to understand why I've been sent to pickup Jessica.  Data-analyst for the FBI and with a vulnerable family member, she's the perfect victim.

Doesn't mean I have to like any of it.  Especially the part about breaking into FBI offices.  Suddenly, Mickey's little trip to Riyadh is sounding very appealing.

I think about calling the guy for a second.  But then common sense gets the better of me.

Fucking Riyadh
. 
Deserts.  Camels.  No booze.  Stuck in the middle of nowhere with only imams and Mickey fucking Shaughnessy for company.

Give me Burma any day over that.

I leave the safehouse, with Jessica still asleep, and take a drive to cool my head.  And to get some food.  There were no leftovers after our little drunken feast last night.

Returning with McDonald's, I wake her up by throwing the steaming bag of grease and dough onto the bed.

"Rise and shine — we're going on a stakeout."

She's groggy.  And gorgeous.  Even with the bedhead and smeared makeup.

There's a smile on her face that I know is just for me.  It's fucking
beautiful
. 

She dug into my secrets last night, but I don't blame her.  I still want to keep her as close as safely possible.  Those hips, that ass that ripples in just the right way when I smack it, and those tits that defy description – it's all irresistible.  Not to mention her smile or the food she cooks. 

All of that adds up to her getting a little bit of leeway, as long as she stays mission-focused and stops poking around where she doesn't belong.

We eat our McDonald's and take turns showering.

When she comes out, toweling herself off and looking every bit the fantasy woman, she hits me with a shot I never saw coming.

"I'm sorry," she says.

I look up from my place on the bed.  Half-dressed and totally surprised.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry for digging into your life.  I didn't mean to hurt you."

Hurt me?
  There's only two people in the world who have even opened me up enough that I could even
feel
hurt.  One of them's dead and Jessica Roan is not the other. 

"It's ok.  Just forget about it."

"You know, I wouldn't ever use anything like that against you.  I'm not a bad person.  You can trust me.  You don't have to be so afraid."

I stay quiet.  Head down, I tie my shoes, and pointedly ignore her.

She comes closer, her eyes wide, and she looks
angry
.

"What the hell is wrong with you?  Why are you so fucking
shut off
?  Do you even have real emotions, or are they just tools that you use, like your gun.  I'm trying to apologize, I'm trying to let you know that I
understand
.  And you're just like a fucking brick wall."

That's enough to get me off the bed and on my feet.  My fists would be up too, if it were anyone else standing across from me.

"Oh, really?  A brick wall?"

My voice is probably louder than it should be.  Thank good I soundproofed this house. 

"Let me tell you something: you are on the shitlist of a very, very powerful man.  Someone that's powerful enough that even I think twice about everything I say and do around them, because I know the kind of hell they can raise.  And you know what?  Even just the thought of it coming down on that little girl whose picture you saw worries me more than anything else in this world.  That's
why I'm not telling you anything, Jessica."

She backs up a step and I take one step forward.  I feel
rage
burning inside me.

"That's why I keep things locked up.  To keep other people
safe
, because I work in a dangerous fucking world and there's too many people getting hurt."

"I'm sorry."  Is all she says.  Her eyes are down at her feet.

I sigh.  My anger's gone as quickly as it came.  "Look, it's fine.  I know you wouldn't do anything intentional.  But we have to stay focused.  There's too much riding on this for me to slip up."

Which reminds me.  We have a job to do.

"Get dressed.  We're leaving in ten minutes."

And we do.

An hour later, we're parked outside of the LA Field offices of the F-B-Fucking-I. 

The Federal Building is nothing special to look at.  It's all concrete pillars, pure white facade, and boring late corporate modernist design, all set up to emphasize the fact that this is a very big, very tall building home to some very powerful institutions. 

It's the federal government's big swinging dick on the west coast.

Right now, we're as inconspicuous as you can be, while Jessica briefs me on her offices.

Michael Drax picked his victim perfectly.

Jessica Roan, newly transferred from the FBI offices in Virginia and currently on leave from the Bureau due to her brother's recent cancer diagnosis, is an evidence analyst.

Which is great for me.  But it scares the shit out of me as well. 
What kind of pull does Drax has that he's watching the inner workings of the FBI?

I get the lowdown from her for hours: where the evidence is likely held, what security measures I'll have to get through for the very fucked-up mission of breaking into the FBI offices, all while watching agents and lawyers and desk-jockeys file into and out of the building on what would otherwise be a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

Then, I realize that all of this traffic plays to my advantage.  Because this isn't just the FBI's offices.  It's the regional offices for most every government entity on the west coast.

That many pencil-pushers and agents crammed into one giant phallus makes for a full fuckload of confusion.

A plan's starting to take shape. 

Then, the phone rings.

It's not my regular phone. It's another, a small, near-unbreakable Nokia I keep stashed in a hidden pocket and on me at all times.  I even keep a battery backup charger in my glove box and another in my go-bag just for this phone.  And I never thought I'd hear it ring.

It's funny how innocuous things can set your heart racing.  I've taken bullets without breaking a sweat.  I've had battery-cables strapped to my cock while some gap-toothed Thai version of Mr. Blonde from
Reservoir Dogs
gets his rocks off giving me electroshock.  Doesn't fucking phase me.

But this phone ringing? 
This
phone?

My hand is shaking like a rookie about to blow his first target's head off and contemplating just how his life will change forever the moment after he pulls that trigger.

And life will be different.  Some things you know deep in your soul.

"What's wrong?  Who is it?"  Jessica asks.

"My daughter."