Get Even: A Michelle Angelique Urban Action Adventure Thriller Series Book #2 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Assassin)

by Lori Jean Grace

  Ever since she killed Mr. Jackson and company, Michelle hadn’t been out on a contract. She was fine with not being on assignment, so no, she didn’t miss the adrenaline rush. She also hated leaving with Jerome still free to cause trouble; that slimy rat bastard needed to be dealt with before he hurt someone else.

  Yet, here I am, sitting across from Jones, discussing another job.

  Like most, this job required her to be gone, which meant she’d have to trust her friends for a few days to deal with anything concerning Jerome. But Jerome was only a smoke screen, not the real issue. One way or another, she’d handle the problem of Jerome when she returned home. The real issue was staying in, or getting out, of the assassin business.

  Damn. She had a dilemma.

  Actually, she had two dilemmas: while leaving Jerome alone might cause more problems, the bigger issue was whether or not she’d really finished her revenge for Michael’s murder.

  She’d become an assassin to learn how to kill; she’d wanted—needed—to avenge her brother’s murder, and she thought she’d done just that. But, maybe not. Jackson said he’d acted on orders to kill Michael and Gabe Jr. Who could have given Jackson orders?

  Obviously, he would have said anything to save his life. Now she wondered if there was something to his bullshit. Either way, she’d killed him. No going back now.

  Even more than what he’d said, though . . . someone had tipped him off about her being on the rooftop across from his office. The only people who’d known about that were her uncle, G‑Baby, and Ascia. G‑Baby had been with her, and he’d wanted Jackson dead as much as she did. Ascia had ordered the hit, so it didn’t make sense for him to leak it to Jackson. It had to have been someone in Ascia’s organization. But who?

  These questions needed answers and as long as questions remained about Michael’s and Gabe Jr.’s murders, she’d stay in the business.

  Not to mention, something about the way Mr. Jones presented the information on this job implied some special interest. What was the connection? Who was involved?

  Something’s going on here. I can feel it.

  “Ms. Angelique, will you accept this assignment?” Mr. Jones asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Any questions at this time?”

  “About the assignment, no. However, I’m curious; why did you choose to be called Mr. Jones and not Mr. Smith? Jones seems, well, perhaps a little old‑fashioned. Don’t you think Mr. Smith sounds more modern?”

  Michelle, for the first time, saw a smile touch his eyes. “Remember Mr. Smith in the movie The Matrix? I considered him a bit of a pussy. I didn’t want people to associate me with him and believe I was a pushover.” He winked, stood, and evaporated into the crowd.

  *

  Back in Los Angeles, Michelle called Nikky. “Hey, I’m at LAX, and I’m hungry,” she said. “Can you and Deja meet me for a late breakfast? I need to talk to you guys. But before you answer about breakfast, what’s the word on Taye?”

  “She’s stable,” Nikky said. “I spent the night here at the hospital, and everything’s as expected. Mom’s back from her run to the house, and I was about to head down for something to eat. Something other than the hospital cafeteria sounds good.”

  “Okay, I’ll take that as good news. Now about breakfast?”

  “Are you familiar with The Spoon on Centenella?” Nikky asked.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “You’ll love it. Their soul food is so good, it’ll make a man jump up and slap his momma. Pull up directions on your GPS. I’ll pick up Deja and meet you there in about thirty minutes.”

  Like many single shop cafés, The Spoon made its home in a small, older strip mall. The moment Michelle climbed out of her car into the hot morning sun, she smelled the promise of a great meal in the BBQ smoke drifting out into the parking lot.

  Michelle joined Deja and Nikky in a booth with deep‑cushioned, brown leather seats. She’d no sooner slid into the booth, than the waitress, a young, plump woman with a friendly smile, brought water for everyone. “Y’all want breakfast or lunch menus? Breakfast is good, but if you’re up to it, we have some jamming catfish for lunch today.”

  “Oh yeah, catfish for me,” Michelle said. “I’d also like an A&W Root Beer.”

  “Why not?” Nikky said. “Make it catfish all around.”

  A half‑hour later, a sated Michelle said, “This is without a doubt the best catfish I’ve had since coming back.” Then she chuckled. “What am I saying? This is the best catfish I’ve had since I can’t remember when.”

  Nikky smiled. “Told you.”

  “You were so right. Now, on to what I need to talk about. I’m leaving for some time.”

  “How long? Not like before?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. A week, maybe two at the most. I don’t want to go, but then I think of what it’s all about.” Michelle’s eyes narrowed into tight slits. “Girl, I can’t tell you how much I hate those scum.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Deja asked.

  “I’ve accepted a job dealing with some seriously bad mess.”

  “A movie job, or a job job?” Nikky asked.

  Only three civilians knew about Michelle’s real job: her uncle, G‑Baby, and Deja and Nikky, her lifelong dogs. G‑Baby knew all along, but Deja and Nikky learned when she recruited them to help her get revenge on her brother’s murderers. Everyone else who discovered what she did, died at the end of a short, steep learning curve.

  “It’s a job job, and one I’m happy to do. I’m to remove an agent dealing in the sex slave trade. This particular scum works with a group that deals in women from Asia, Russia, and Eastern Europe, and they make them into slave prostitutes in other countries. Really, that’s more than I should say. Making women sex slaves makes me so mad I could scream.”

  “That’s some serious bad shit,” Nikky said. “Can we do anything to help?”

  “Not with the job, but here at home, yes. I’ll be gone for at least a week, but with the crap Jerome’s mixing up, I don’t want to leave right now. This is important, though, so I need your help. I want you guys to up the game with T‑Dog and Sugar; stay in close touch with them. Even if they say nothing’s happening, keep connecting with them.”

  “No problem,” Deja said. “I can call them every day easy enough.”

  “I don’t think calling is good enough,” Nikky said. “One of us should meet with them, real regular.”

  “She’s right,” Michelle said to Deja. “It can’t be on the phone. Someone has to go out and talk with them face to face, and daily.”

  “That might piss them off, don’t you think?” Deja asked.

  “Maybe, at first,” Michelle said, “but those feelings go away pretty quickly. When most people understand you’re looking for answers every day, they feel like they should know something, so would be able to tell you about it. Sugar and T‑Dog should be no different. Also, it’s hard to blow someone off when they’re looking right at you.”

  “Okay, if you say so,” Deja said.

  “Now that you point it out,” Nikky said, “I’ve seen that before. People make up shit so they won’t look like they don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Then they’ll start telling their crew to be alert,” Michelle said. “They do that so outsiders like us won’t think they aren’t taking care of business. Your showing up every day keeps it important, on their minds.”

  “When do you leave?” Deja asked.

  “In two days. I’ll stay in touch as much as I can, but some days I’ll be dark and while I’m gone you can’t contact me at all. My phone will be off, and I won’t access any of my emails, so don’t try.”

  “Where’re you going?”

  “To save some women and start world peace,” Michelle answered.

  “Sorry, I forget not to ask that question,” Deja said.

  “Here’s to whirled peas,” Nikky said, raising her glass
in a toast.

  “Whirled peas,” Michelle and Deja echoed, then everyone laughed and clinked their glasses.

  Fourteen: Results

  LYING ON THE METAL TOP of one of the seven large industrial air conditioning units up on the flat rooftop, Michelle pissed in her pants; the urine puddled under her, then leaked out around the mat she lay on. In this type of situation, she preferred that over wearing a diaper. All of the moisture would soon evaporate in the dry heat. She continued to wait for the perfect conditions to take her shot.

  A good sniper only needed a few exceptional skills. Marksmanship, of course, was at the top of the list, but being an excellent shot wouldn’t make someone a sniper. Far from it.

  The job required the ability to plan carefully; detail after detail must be considered and prioritized. On post, a sniper needed to be very, very patient when doing nothing for long hours, even days. For many, remaining focused and alert was the hardest part. Most people washed out because they couldn’t stay patient and alert at the same time.

  Others couldn’t get over the idea of pissing in their pants or wearing a diaper. Too bad; it was part of the job. Once in place, a sniper should never give away their position, certainly not for something as small as getting up to pee.

  Plenty of other shooters were better than Michelle, and some could even stay on post for longer, while others could stay more consistently alert in the middle of a god‑awful boring stretch. Overall, however, she managed to do well enough in all of the combined skills to become a formidable professional.

  Perhaps her greatest strength resided in her uncanny ability to get to the heart of every project. She intuitively understood the most important aspects, and built strong plans to support them. She focused on the highest priority element first. Other considerations came later. Some parts of her plans, such as determining the superior tactical spot for the shot, or even selecting the exact perfect weapon, were usually somewhat less than optimal. In balance, though, they always sufficiently supported the key issue, and her plans always included a first‑rate exit strategy with an accessible route.

  This plus her high‑level training made her a dangerous sniper assassin, although she’d never be the best in this job that, deep in her heart, she didn’t want. Just like some people eat to live and others live to eat, some snipers live for the job. To her, becoming a sniper was a means to an end.

  Covered from head to toe in an industrial ghillie camouflage suit, Michelle was virtually invisible on the top of the bank building. All morning, Michelle watched Galina Gavrikov as she moved around in her hotel room, passing up a couple dozen opportunities to shoot.

  Suicide bombers, fools, and amateurs didn’t escape. Professional snipers did. An undetected, clean‑and‑free exit held even more importance than taking the shot. Amateurs took the dangerous shot and were often caught for it. Professionals took as long as necessary to take out the target and disappear.

  She’d wait until after the meeting between Marcos Gutierrez and Gavrikov. Marcos handled the money while his cousin, Manny Gutierrez, headed the Acapulco‑based cartel.

  After the meeting, Gavrikov shouldn’t be expected anywhere for several hours and based on the previous day’s observations, Gavrikov’s bodyguard would leave for lunch after his boss ate, then post himself at the door for the afternoon. Michelle would be long gone, possibly back in the States, before anyone found Gavrikov’s body.

  Gavrikov ate a late lunch in the hotel’s terrace café four floors above her room, while her bodyguard stood just inside the café by the hostess podium. Michelle took another bite of her granola bar and washed it down with a sip on the hose next to her mouth that connected to the two‑liter bottle resting by her side.

  The hot water tasted terrible coming through the rubber tube, but it was also wonderful, no matter what it tasted like. In this heat, water of any kind was pure joy.

  Turned out this was one of the hardest shots she’d ever set up; technically easy, but emotionally difficult. The target being a woman didn’t bother Michelle. At a deeper level, she understood women could be every bit as guilty as men. She was living proof of that. Her code of no kids didn’t come into play here. Also, the problem wasn’t because she wanted Gavrikov to live. Even though Michelle had never met Gavrikov, she hated her because Gavrikov made women into sex slaves.

  In any assassination, emotions were a bad thing. After killing someone, Michelle always had to deal with an emotional hangover, but this was different. She was emotional during the shoot, driven to be the one to make this blight of a person go away.

  The strong desire to pull the trigger made it doubly hard to wait in the baking sun. Long hours of waiting in misery came with the job. She was used to that. Never before on a professional hit did she want to pull the trigger. The longing was new and strange. Professionalism and self‑preservation won over impulse and impatience, and she waited for all the right things to converge.

  Michelle despised what would come after she killed Galina Gavrikov. Of course, she’d fold up her ghillie suit, change clothes, break down the rifle, and walk away.

  Walking away from the actual shoot was good. Leaving nineteen women in the clutches of men like Manny and Marcos Gutierrez made her boiling mad.

  Without detailed inside knowledge, Michelle assumed a few things: the women had traveled for three, possibly four weeks in a container on a ship from Russia, and sometime in the last few days they’d arrived in Acapulco. Their container, with them still inside, had waited on the docks in the hot sun. With only some five‑gallon plastic buckets for toilets, and nothing to clean with, the stench had to be sickening. Thinking of it made Michelle furious.

  Some things she already knew. After the women were checked and inspected like so many heads of cattle, the money would follow. Her client’s inside man at the shipyard got word out that the inspection happened earlier that morning so the money transfer should happen sometime today.

  Gavrikov finished her lunch and returned to her room. Her bodyguard went with her and checked the room before she entered.

  Right on time. Come on in. Thatta girl, check your hair. Lipstick okay? Nope. A little touch up. Good. Wouldn’t want you to look any less than perfect for this afternoon’s business. Now, sit your ugly ass down and wait for Marcos. How about you check your messages or surf the net a bit? This won’t take long.

  Michelle watched her through the scope as Gavrikov stood up from her desk and, after checking spyhole, opened the door. Marcos Gutierrez and two other men entered. Her bodyguard followed them in and stood just inside the door. Two of the men walked around the well‑appointed room; one went into the bathroom, the other opened the closet doors.

  The man, who’d gone into the bathroom, took a position behind Gutierrez, and the other man went to the balcony’s sliding glass door. Michelle reached up and closed the front cover on her scope. Even though the sun was slightly at her back, there was no reason to take the chance of him seeing a reflection off of the lens. After checking the area, he joined his counterpart standing behind Gutierrez. Michelle continued to watch without the scope.

  After a short conversation, Gavrikov went to her computer, concentrated on the screen for a couple of minutes, then nodded, turned and, shaking his hand, spoke to Gutierrez. The men left the room. The two guards went out first, Gutierrez followed, and Gavrikov’s bodyguard went out last, closing the door behind him. Galina Gavrikov walked back and sat down in front of the open laptop.

  Michelle pulled the trigger. PUHFFITT!

  The rifle recoiled into her shoulder. Galina Gavrikov had delivered her last shipment of sex slaves for the Russian Mafia.

  *

  In her typical post‑assassination spiral, Michelle hadn’t been able to relax, though she’d hoped to deal with it more successfully than before. This time, she had a GFB she trusted, and the sex was definitely good, but it hadn’t been what she needed. Now, she stared at the ceiling while Daryl, lying asleep next to
her, breathed deeply. She hated to wake him, but she couldn’t just lie awake all night. As fantastic as their sex was, they unfortunately hadn’t developed a deeper emotional connection. Daryl was smart enough, but they still lacked the spark for more meaningful conversations.

  She reached over and turned on the lamp. “I’m sorry, Daryl. I know I asked you over to spend the night, but I have to go.”

  “All right, I’m as good as gone, no problem. Are we okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re good, real good, and you . . . you did real good, too. No, that’s not right. You did fantastic.” With a twinkle in her eye, she rubbed her hand over his beautiful, naked chest. “I’m so sorry to ask you to get out of bed like this, but I have to go do something. I’ll make it up later—I promise.”

  “You sure you want to leave this warm bed?” He grabbed her around the hips, spun her on the bed, bent over, and planted a big smoochy kiss low on her flat stomach near her hairline. Another kiss landed a bit higher, and a third caressed her left nipple. He held the last kiss for a moment, sucking and tickling with his tongue. Then he rolled over and sat up, legs over the side of the bed. “Just making sure you know what you’re missing.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about on that score. I know exactly what I’m giving up, and, baby, it’s the best.”

  “Hey, we’re cool. I trust you. You said you have to go and that’s good enough for me. Plus, I can tell you have something on your mind, you’ve been a little distracted all night. No problem. I hope everything works out. Call me when you’re settled.” With that, he was up getting dressed.

  While Daryl dressed, Michelle hopped into the shower.

  Daryl raised his voice over the running water. “I’ll lock the door on my way out.”

  “Thanks, I really appreciate your being so good about this.”

  He reached into the shower, gave her a light swat on her wet bottom, then left. As she turned off the water, she heard the front door of her cottage close.

  Dressed in a bra and panties, Michelle sat on the side of her bed. She tapped Trevon’s name on her cell.