Skewed (The Mercenary Series Book 1)

by Marissa Farrar

  Skewed

  The Mercenary Series

  Book One

  Marissa Farrar

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  *You can click on the title to be taken to the selection. Additionally, clicking on the chapter titles will bring you back to the table of contents.

  Three Months Earlier

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Copyright Information

  Three Months Earlier

  V

  Let’s get one thing straight.

  I am not a nice person.

  I’m not the type of woman who greets her friends with a kiss and a hug—after all, doing so would require actually having friends. I don’t cry at sad movies or books. I don’t give a shit about flowers and cards on my birthday. On the outside, I fake it so people won’t guess that, beneath the pretty eyes and tattoos, I’m hard as ice. I can smile and nod in all the right places if I have to, but I’d rather not.

  Like I said, I’m not a nice person.

  My name is Verity Guerra and I’m the daughter of the most ruthless mafia don in New York. I was seven years old when I saw my first body. I was sixteen when I first hurt someone badly enough to be hospitalized, and nineteen when I took my first life.

  Turns out, it wasn’t to be my last.

  I’m standing with a gun in my hand and another at my head. Two women kneel before me—my mother and my sister, both with faces streaked with tears. My mom, still young at forty-two, my sister only seventeen. If I don’t shoot one of them, we all die. Problem is, I’m the one who has to decide who receives the bullet.

  How can I?

  My mother?

  Or my sister?

  If I don’t kill one of them, we’re all dead. That’s the deal, and I don’t doubt for a second that the man holding the gun to my head will go through with it. I hate him with a passion, and I consider swinging the weapon around and firing one single bullet in the hope it will kill him, but I know I cannot. He has other men surrounding us, men who are also armed and won’t hesitate to kill us all. If I fire the shot, I’ve sentenced us all to death.

  If I make a choice, two of us will live.

  We’re in an empty warehouse, harsh, fluorescent lights overhead, a concrete floor beneath my feet. Outside of the warehouse walls, I hear the low drone of the city, the constant background noise of traffic and sirens that is inescapable in New York. Above that are my sister’s quiet sobs, as she kneels with her hands behind her back, her head down, her eyes squeezed shut.

  “Please,” my mother begs the man holding the gun to my head. “Don’t do this. They don’t deserve—”

  He cuts her off. “Shut up, whore. This is all your fault.” He turns his attention back to me. “Time’s running out, Verity. Tick, tick, tick …”

  The muzzle of the weapon he holds jams hard against my temple, and he motions to his men to do the same to my mother and sister. All three of us are going to be shot if I don’t do as he asks.

  Choose. Choose between the only two people I actually give a shit about in this world.

  My finger is rigid around the trigger, my heart lodged in a tight, painful ball in my throat. I can’t do it, I can’t do it …

  But I must.

  “Now, Verity!” he roars at me, and my sister gives a cry of fear.

  I’ve always prided myself that my heart is cold. But right now it’s breaking. Not that you can tell from the outside. I haven’t cried since I was a child, and even now my eyes are bone dry, though they burn with unshed tears. I learned a long time ago that crying didn’t get me anywhere, and it wouldn’t do anyone any good now, either.

  My hand trembles, causing the weapon to shake. I can’t look at them, can’t stand to see the begging in their eyes. I need to shut myself off from it, take my heart and lock it in a metal box and throw away the key.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  And pull the trigger.

  Chapter One

  V

  “Hey, asshole,” I shouted across the shit heap I worked in. “Get your goddamned feet off the bar.”

  The redneck in the cut-off jacket blew me a kiss, but removed his feet. I was amazed he’d gotten them up there in the first place, considering the amount he’d been drinking. I should have probably cut him off, but I couldn’t be bothered with the fight I knew he’d give me.

  With a sigh, I wiped off the shiny mahogany surface with a damp rag and collected a couple of empties. One of the regulars motioned to me for a refill, so I poured him another shot. Cigarette smoke filled the air. No one was supposed to smoke in public areas anymore, but the patrons here never took any notice of that rule. It wasn’t as though the police even cared. In this backward little town, they were probably more bent than the perps they arrested.

  “Hey, Johnny,” I called out to my boss, a guy in his mid-forties, who was also working alongside me that night. “Mind if I take my break?”

  “Sure thing, Viola,” he yelled back over the music and raucous laughter coming from a group of guys near the pool table.

  “Hey, I told you not to call me that. It’s Vee, remember?”

  Viola. Ugh. The name made me want to puke. It was from Shakespeare. I didn’t know if whoever chose my name was trying to be funny, but I was about as far from being Shakespearean as it was possible to get. Some people in the program were allowed to keep their first names, and sometimes even their initials, but it was considered too dangerous for me to do so.

  I grabbed a drink and headed out through the back of the bar and out into the alleyway behind. The unpleasant tang of stale alcohol, mixed with a hint of old urine, filled my nostrils. The alleyway was shrouded in darkness apart from the light which illuminated the rear of the building, and the light from the streetlights at the far end. To my left were a number of large industrial trashcans, the cool of the night preventing them from adding to the not-so-lovely aroma of piss and booze in the air. At the end of the alley, the street brightened, and I watched as several vehicles drove by on the main street, only catching glimpses of them as they did so. Female laughter sounded, and then a young couple passed by, arm in arm, and vanished again, unaware of me watching them walk by.

  I dropped onto the step leading down to the ground from the back door and took a swig of my drink—straight bourbon which burned a fiery path down the inside of my throat and then settled to warm my stomach. I drank most of the time, but managed to get it to a level where the pain was dulled, but I was still able to function like a normal human being—well on the outside, anyway. I wasn’t stupid. I was perfectly aware the alcohol was my way of coping with the disaster my life had always been, but it had been made so much
worse since that day. I tried to exist with the memory of what I did. That was the best I could do, but I’d never go on to live a normal life. How could I? I was haunted by the knowledge I killed someone I loved, and it wasn’t something I’d ever get over. I was broken inside, and I couldn’t be fixed.

  It didn’t matter anyway. I just needed to make it through the next few months in order to get my revenge. After that, I could die and no one would care. Especially not me.

  A scrape sounded from the opposite end of the alley, tearing me from my thoughts, making all my muscles stiffen. I held my breath, my ears straining, and I peered into the night.

  Was someone up there, hiding in the dark?

  I leaned forward, my ass already growing numb from sitting on the cold stoop. “Hello?”

  I didn’t get any response—I wasn’t really expecting one—but I couldn’t shift the certainty that someone was out there, watching me.

  Narrowing my eyes, I began to rise from my position on the step …

  Sudden movement came from behind me, from the rear exit of the bar, making me jump. I twisted slightly to see who it was. I figured it was most likely Johnny coming to call me in early from my break. Perhaps the bar had suddenly filled up, but instead, the redneck I’d shouted at came stumbling through.

  “If you’re looking for the bathrooms,” I told him, “they’re back there.”

  He gave me a grin, exposing bad teeth. He was probably twice my age, in his forties, at least. “Nah, sweetheart. I came looking for you. Figured you could use some company.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fuck off, dude. I’m seriously not interested.”

  His already lined forehead wrinkled in disbelief. “Huh?”

  “You heard me. Go back to the bar. You’re interrupting my break.”

  He scowled. “Did anyone ever tell you that you ain’t got no manners?”

  Slowly, I got to my feet. “I’m sorry, you must be confusing me with someone who gives a shit.”

  He took another step toward me. “I should teach you some good behavior, little lady. I think you need to be taken in hand.”

  His threat simmered in the air between us, and I stared at him, every muscle in my body poised to react.

  He took another step.

  I moved quickly, reaching down the front of my scoop neck t-shirt and plucking the knife from the sheath which had been pressed against my solar plexus, the belt clip attached to the center portion of my bra. I brandished the wickedly sharp five-inch blade between us, my shoulders squared. I would have liked to have carried larger, but that was impossible without it being noticeable—I knew, because I’d already tried. A gun would have been even better, but I certainly wasn’t going to get a license to carry, and the cops were on my back too much to allow me to purchase a weapon illegally. Besides, I had no contacts here—something that was done deliberately—so I had to make do.

  His eyes flicked down to the knife. “What the fuck, you crazy bitch!”

  I leveled my cool gaze to his. “Come another step closer and I’ll stick this in your fat stomach and gut you like the pig you are.”

  His face turned puce, his eyes bulging in outrage. “I’m going to tell Johnny his new barmaid just threatened to stab me. I’ve been coming to this bar since before you could walk.”

  “Perhaps that’s a good reason not to hit on a woman who is young enough to be your kid. Now turn around and go back into that bar, and keep your fucking mouth shut. If you tell Johnny, there’ll be no reason for me not to wait on some dark corner for you to come stumbling out of the bar, drunk and unable to defend yourself.”

  He stared at me again, perhaps wondering if I was serious. Then he shook his head and turned around to head back into the bar, muttering ‘crazy bitch’ as he went.

  I exhaled a sigh through my nose.

  I didn’t think he was going to tell my boss about what I’d done, or threatened to do. It wasn’t as though I had any love for my job, but I needed things to stay as normal as possible—at least from the outside. I didn’t need the money, as such. The housing was paid for, and I was paid a ‘salary’ for being here, and would be for the next few months, but I couldn’t just sit around the house all day. I’d literally either drive myself crazy or I’d drink myself into an early grave. Plus, there was someone I was trying to avoid back at the new house we had to call home, and I didn’t think she particularly wanted to see me either. Not that I blamed her.

  Picking up my empty glass, I headed back inside to finish up the final hour of my shift. From the way Johnny didn’t fire me the moment he saw me, and how the guy who’d come after me sat sullenly at the end of the bar, avoiding eye contact with me, I hazarded a guess that he’d not spilled the beans about the knife which was now firmly repositioned in the sheath between my bra and my tits.

  Looked like I’d get to finish my shift after all.

  Chapter Two

  X

  That overweight jerk in the leather cut just saved her life.

  I wondered if she had any idea she should have been thanking him instead of threatening to stab him in the gut.

  My muscles had seized from sitting in the same place for too long while I’d waited for her to appear, and as I’d risen from my crouch beside the industrial trashcans, my legs hadn’t worked as quickly as they should and my foot had scuffed the ground. I’d silently cursed myself, and seconds later she’d called out, ‘hello.’ I’d lifted the muzzle of my silenced weapon, about to put a bullet in her pretty little head, when the man walked out. I’d been told to keep this clean—absolutely no witnesses and no trail of dead bodies. I’d needed to make it look as though she’d just vanished while on her break. I had ways of making sure a body never showed up again.

  I’d been about to take the shot, but then he’d exited the bar behind her, and so I’d lowered my weapon. Time, for the moment, was on my side, and I wasn’t going to make a stupid mistake just because I’d felt rushed.

  It was only the appearance of the guy that had stopped me—at least, that was what I kept telling myself. I’d been about to fire the shot, but I had to admit the long, silky black hair she had pulled up into a ponytail, combined with the sleeve tattoo she had running down one slender arm, and the almond shaped dark eyes, may have caused me to pause. I’d seen photographs allowing me to identify her, but none of the photos had done justice to the woman I’d been watching sitting on the steps while she knocked back some kind of hard liquor. Then the guy had arrived, and I’d almost been happy about the interruption. I hadn’t left, though. I’d remained, watching her.

  When she’d pulled the knife and told him she’d gut him like a pig, I’d smiled, actually smiled …

  Well, my version of a smile. I wasn’t a smiley type of guy.

  “Uh-uh, X,” I told myself. “Watch yourself, buddy.”

  Something about this woman fascinated me.

  It was a shame I’d have to put a bullet in her head.

  When I was happy she’d gone back into the bar and wouldn’t be coming out any time soon, I left the alleyway to go to my car. I’d parked the vehicle several blocks away, as was my habit, so it wouldn’t be recognized and linked with anyone’s disappearance or death.

  Dressed all in black, I moved quickly and almost silently through the streets of the small town. This wasn’t in my original plan, but I believed in being flexible. It was part of what made me good at my job, the ability to bend with whatever conditions landed unexpectedly in my path.

  It was always disappointing when things didn’t go quite to plan, but in this case it didn’t matter that I hadn’t been able to complete my job at the bar.

  I knew where she lived.

  Chapter Three

  V

  I opened the door to the small, single story house, moving slowly and quietly, as though I were a teenager sneaking home past her curfew.

  I never knew what her mood would be—she was either sullen and ignoring me, or else furious and hating me with every inch of her body.
Not that I blamed her. I felt the same way about myself.

  The first two weeks of our relocation into the Witness Protection Program had been the worst. The U.S. Marshals had driven us to the clearinghouse in a van with blacked out windows, while we huddled down, on opposites sides of the vehicle, staying away from each other, or at least, her staying away from me. We had two weeks of orientation where we were locked in a room, kept away from any other families who might also be staying at the house, so we didn’t run the risk of bumping into each other and exposing the other people at a later date. We were offered psychological counseling, not just because of what we’d been through, but also because of the trauma of upending our lives. We had to practice writing our new names, though they were kept as close to our original names as possible.

  My sister, Nicole, was now legally known as Nicolette, but it meant I still got to call her Nickie.

  She didn’t call me anything at all, if she could help it.

  I entered the house hoping to go straight to my room. I knew Nickie didn’t want to see me, but I didn’t want to see her, either. Every time I looked at her, I could see the blood splatters across one side of her face, how she’d turned, wide-eyed with horror, as our mother had slowly toppled to the ground.

  She’d run to Mom and sobbed over her body with great, keening wails. Then she’d jumped to her feet and rushed at me, screaming.

  I hadn’t done anything to try to protect myself. I’d just crumpled to my knees and sat on my heels, staring at the body of the woman who’d been my mother, while my sister beat me over my head with her fists.

  The bourbon had left my throat dry, so instead of heading straight to bed, I went into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. While I was there, I figured I might as well chase it with another shot of something. The alcohol helped me to sleep, and if I was lucky, it kept the dreams away as well.

  I turned on the faucet and, foregoing the glass, stuck my mouth beneath the flow of water instead, gulping it down. Then I found the bottle I stashed beneath the sink and unscrewed the top. I placed the rim to my lips and took a couple of long, deep swallows before pulling it away and screwing the cap back on. I hid it back beneath the sink, behind the bottles of bleach and floor cleaner, which I knew Nickie would never use in a million years.