Young Love Murder

Edited by:  Akesha Probert

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Kindle Edition

Copyright © 2011 by April Brookshire

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www.aprilbrookshire.com

Kindle Edition, License Notes

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For my Wattpad fans,

thanks for the encouragement.

Chapter 1

Annabelle

Moving seductively to the pounding rhythm of the music, I throw an enticing smile over my shoulder at the guy grinding up behind me.
Buddy, enjoy it while you can.
Although, the last thing I’m feeling right now is sexy. The dark, smoky atmosphere of the club is making my eyes water, or maybe it’s the blue contacts in them. The song ends, streaming into the next, and I lead my prey over to a booth tucked in a dark corner. While he’s kissing my neck, I’m taking a filled syringe out of my red wrist clutch. As he’s sliding the thin strap of my dress off my shoulder, I’m gently, swiftly sticking him in the thigh with the needle. The syringe is emptied and slipped back into my clutch before he can react. After all the drinks I’ve made sure he’s had, he doesn’t even notice. Besides, he’s a little preoccupied with sucking on my shoulder at the moment. Making a sound of irritation, he absentmindedly scratches his leg where I’ve stuck him with the needle. He’ll be dead by morning and I’ll be long gone. Good riddance, he’s a bad one.

His obituary will read that he was Christopher Gage Bingman, age twenty-four, born in London, England. It’ll say that he’s survived by both parents and an older sister. It’ll leave out that he’s deeply involved in the human trafficking of young women from Eastern Europe, using his charisma and looks to lure them in. To me, he’s just a job and now that job is done. Freeing myself from his repulsive embrace, I excuse myself to use the little girl’s room. 

Walking out of the club, I catch a cab to my hotel, glad to be leaving Prague. For as much beauty this city has, it has just as much depravity. During the ride, I send a message to Uncle Simon.

It’s done

Once back at the hotel, while taking the gold and glass elevator up to my room, I get a reply.

Transfer complete

The elevator doors slide open on the seventh floor and I step off. My footsteps are muffled by the patterned carpet of the empty hallway. Sliding the keycard through the slot on door, I receive the okay to enter from a green light. Not until I’m in my room do I message him back.

New contract?

Throwing the clutch down on the bed, I slip off my light jacket, hanging it on the back of a chair. My black strappy heels are next, along with my red satin dress. A beep from my cell phone alerts me to a new text message.

Not at this time

Well that calls for a toast.
Later
. No time to hang out in the hotel bar when I might be able to catch a red-eye flight tonight. I send one last text to Simon.

Flying to New York

After a five minute shower and throwing all my belongings into a suitcase and carryon, I call my older brother, Jackson. He doesn’t answer. Not that I’m surprised or even worried since he’s also on a job right now. A quick text message to let him know that I’m flying to our apartment in New York should suffice for now. He’ll call me when he can, or when he’s bored. 

Arriving just past 4 a.m. Eastern time the next morning, I take a cab to the two-bedroom apartment that Jackson and I share in Manhattan. Although, we’re rarely here at the same time so not much sharing is involved. The place could use a dusting, but I’m too exhausted from the flight to deal with it right now. Looking at the sparsely furnished apartment you’d think we couldn’t afford more, or a bigger place. The fact is anything bigger would be a waste. We each spend less than two weeks here a year.

Instead of giving the place the cleaning it needs, I pad into my room, exhausted from traveling. It’s always hard for me to sleep on airplanes ever since I stopped having Jackson or Simon’s shoulder to rest my head on. Laying down on my queen bed, sinking into the white down comforter, I take a deep breath. The only places where I can relax are the homes that Jackson and I keep in cities around the world. Here, I don’t have to be someone else. Here, I get to be me. And I happen to think that
me
is kinda awesome.

I’m in repose not even five minutes, blissfully being me, when my phone rings. Checking the caller id shows that it’s Simon. Tempted to let it ring to voicemail, I reluctantly answer it. “Uncle Simon?”

“Another job has come up,” he says promptly. These days it seems that’s the only reason he calls me. 

No point in arguing, this is my life. Sometimes the breaks are short in-between jobs. But there’s no other life I’d want. “What’s the job?”

“You’ll be going to Miami. Given your age and gender, you’re the best person for this one. I’m faxing over the information now. Call me tomorrow night after you’ve settled into a hotel,” he says, knowing I won’t turn it down. 

“Okay, talk to you then.” Sighing, I press ‘end’. It’s always about business with my guardian.

Leaving my room, I walk over to the fax machine in our office/dining room and catch the incoming fax before the papers drop to the floor. When the fax machine has finished printing the last page, I straighten the stack of papers, take a seat at the desk and flip them over. The feeling I get when receiving a new assignment, like opening a big present on Christmas morning, flutters through me. Time to get to know the next person I’ll kill.

Rifling through the papers, I take a look at the grainy pictures first. The first is of a dark-haired Hispanic man in his mid-forties. Above the picture is written
Xavier Sanchez, target
. The next picture is of a beautiful blonde woman, who looks a few years younger, but you never know with all the plastic surgery procedures out there. Written on it is
Eva Sanchez, wife
.
Don’t you mean future widow, Simon?
If it’s any condolence, at least she’ll be a pretty one.

Another picture is of a young man, a teenager most likely. Unexpectedly, my breath catches as I stare at it. Sure, he’s handsome, but that’s not what catches my attention. It’s his light-colored eyes, blue or green, impossible to tell in the black, white and gray image. There’s something about them. He’s looking into the camera in a way that makes me feel like he’s looking directly at me, which is impossible of course. Like he’s staring right back at me. I shake my head quickly and rub a hand over my eyes.
Get a grip, Annabelle
. Y
ou’re being ridiculous and imagining things.
There’s something about him, though. Written at the top of the page is
Gabriel Sanchez, son, 17
. Damn, I need to get a good night’s sleep.

The last picture is of another teenage boy. He looks kind of like Xavier Sanchez. All I see in his dark eyes is warmth and friendliness. His description is
Max Garcia, nephew, 17
. I’m starting to get an idea as to why Simon chose me for this contract. The boys are my age.

Time to read the notes Simon sent. The target is Xavier Sanchez, a businessman in both legal and illegal ventures. His legal businesses include a chain of Cuban restaurants and gas stations throughout the South. His illegal business involves drugs, most notably cocaine. The DEA has been trying to take him down for years, but he’s evaded them by never giving them the opportunity to catch him in the act of doing anything illegal. Minions haven’t been as lucky, though. Unfortunately, most have been rather tight-lipped upon arrest. There had been one informant who was going to testify to seeing Sanchez executing an employee mafia-style, but that informant was killed in a car bomb before the trial. My, doesn’t it suck when that happens?

It can be assumed that the contract wasn’t taken out to rid the world of a sleazy restaurateur serving inedible food.
Someone is obviously willing to spend a small fortune to put Sanchez in the ground. Either it’s his competition in the drug world or someone wanting to right the wrongs Sanchez has committed.

Most of the time, other bad guys hire me to take out a target. Competition in the criminal world can be ruthless. On the other hand, sometimes it’s hard for ‘by the book’ government agencies to take down men like this because they have to follow the pesky laws the criminal element choose to ignore. Can’t have the FBI or Interpol offing any person they suspect of committing murder and mayhem. That would definitely make my job more hazardous.

If I ever get caught, as unlikely as it is, my crimes can’t be traced back to the client and the client must be able to claim ignorance. Fine by me, because if I ever get caught, it’d be for about as long as it takes to take down or elude my captors.