Hitman's Desire: A Bad Boy Romance

by Riley, Megyn

  “Fair enough,” I say. “Serpent Syndicate just made a failed attempt.”

  “Finn’s got several contracts out on you,” Nick says. “So does the Commission.”

  I know Big Nick well enough to know that he placed a hit on me too. Business is business. He’s gotta look impartial if he wants to avoid a war with Finn.

  “My money says Finn ordered the hit on Falco. He’s got the most to gain. He’s making a big show of how determined he is to kill you. But if it comes out that he did kill Falco, he’s gonna have anarchy on his hands.”

  “I don’t know if I can clear my name in 24 hours. But I can guarantee you, Finn will be dead in that timeframe. And so will anyone else who puts a contract on me.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No. Just a statement of fact.”

  “By the way. I’ve got a source that hears rumors of you wanting to cut a deal.”

  “You know me. I’m not a snitch. I had to get them to think I was going to turn. It’s hard to break out of a jail cell. It’s much easier to ditch some federal baby sitters.”

  “That’s good. Because I hate snitches,” Nick says. “Do me a favor. The girl. The special agent. As a show of loyalty, kill her.”

  “Why her?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  There is a long moment of silence.

  “You’re not going soft on me, are you?” Nick asks.

  “No.”

  “Good. I expect to read about her death in the paper tomorrow. Good luck.”

  The line goes dead.

  I hang up the phone and grumble to myself. Then I dial another number. This business isn’t conducive for making friends. You have acquaintances, associates, enemies, and targets. There’s not much room for anything else. But Salvatore Rossa is the closest thing I’ve got to one.

  Sal and I go back a long ways. Back to the special forces. And he owes me one. He’s part of Falco’s crew. And now, by default, part of Finn’s.

  After a few rings, a gruff voice answers the phone. He’s got a thick Brooklyn accent. “What is it?”

  “Is that any way to greet an old friend?” I say.

  “I don’t got any friends.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “You’re in a whole lot of trouble, Ryker.”

  “I didn’t kill Falco.”

  “I didn’t think you did. You’re dumb. But you’re not dumb enough to do that. And if you did, you would have covered your tracks better. You know, I could get in a lot of trouble just talking to you.”

  “Well you better not let anybody find out, then,” I say.

  “What do you need?”

  “You and I both know who did this.”

  “So?”

  “You just going to let that stand?”

  “You don’t think I want payback? Vic Falco was like a father to me. I want the son-of-a-bitch who did this dead. But you know the rules. You can’t touch a made guy without authorization.”

  “Since when do you follow rules?”

  “Since I like staying alive,” Sal says. Look, you get some proof. Take it to the commission. I’ll help you take out the scumbag myself.”

  “Proof. That seems to be what everybody wants. You guys are worse than the Feds.”

  “Hey, no need to insult me.”

  “Where is Dominic Finn?”

  “Sorry, pal. I can’t tell you that. I wish I could help you. But, you know how it is.”

  “We go way back, you and I,” I say, trying to illicit a little empathy.

  “And I owe you. I know that. But you can’t cash that chip in on this one.”

  “You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.”

  Sal doesn’t say anything. He’s not the kind of guy who is persuaded easily. I don’t blame him. You look out for number one in this business. Or you won’t stay in it for very long.

  “Thanks, Sal. You’ve been helpful,” I say with a trace of sarcasm.

  “You watch yourself out there.”

  “Always.”

  I hang up the phone and scan the street. I see two guys in a car down the block, staring at me. I think, for a moment, that I’m just being paranoid. But then the headlights flash on, and the car screeches away from the curb. The engine clatters and the sedan roars toward me.

  I see an Uzi jut out of the window. The barrel lights up with muzzle flash. A stream of bullets rifles through the air, rocketing straight for me.

  13

  Scarlett

  I knew a girl in high school who could dislocate her thumb and slip out of almost any handcuff. She learned she could do it when her boyfriend handcuffed her to the bed post. They were playing the fun version of cops and robbers. Her parents came home early, and she panicked when she heard them pull into the garage. Her boyfriend couldn’t find the keys. She was going to have a lot of explaining to do. She was 18, and a senior, but still… it was happening under her mom and dad’s roof. And they weren’t very open-minded.

  In desperation, she managed to pop her thumbs out of joint and slip her hands through. They swelled up for days, but she was able to do it at will after that.

  Ryker slapped these cuffs on tight. There’s no way I’m getting out of these things. Even if I could dislocate my thumbs. The cuffs scrape at my skin as I keep trying to pull my wrists out. Finally, I give up. I could try and shoot them off, but that doesn’t seem like a wise move. The bullet would probably ricochet and hit me.

  I hate Ryker. I’m going to kill him when he gets back.

  My eyes scan the room, looking for anything that might help me pick the lock. That’s when I see it. A bobby pin underneath the bed. It’s covered in dust and stray hairs. I reach out for it, but it’s too far away. I pull my body as far away from the bedpost as I can, then lunge my foot out. I try to scoop it toward me with my toe, but I end up kicking it further away.

  I try again. This time I’m able to pin it down with my toe and scoop it back toward me. A few more swipes and the thing is in my hand. I bend it into shape, then insert it into the locking mechanism. After a few tries, I’m able to depress the lever, and the cuff swings free. I release the other cuff from the bedpost, and stuff my cuffs back in their case.

  I know I can trust Murphy. I’ve got to talk to him. Find out what’s going on. My hand lifts the phone from the cradle, then I dial nine to get an outside line. Then I dial the Bureau’s number—Murphy's direct line. It rings a few times, and I think it’s going to roll over to voicemail. But then Murphy answers.

  “Murphy,” he snaps.

  “It’s me, Scarlett.”

  “My God. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “I’ve been worried sick about you,” he says. “What about Ryker? He still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He exhales deeply. “Where are you?”

  “I’m… I can’t say right now.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t say?”

  “Murphy, I think we’ve got a mole.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “How else could they have found us?” I ask.

  Murphy is silent for a moment. “Meet me at Pier 57 in a half an hour.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Special Agent Fox, that is an order. I promised your daddy I’d look after you and keep you safe. By God, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. Are you still with the perp?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean, not exactly?”

  “He stepped out for a moment.”

  “Since when does he have the liberty to do that?”

  “It’s a unique situation,” I pause. “He, uh… saved my life.”

  Murphy is silent a moment. “Well, I’m thankful for that. Just don’t start going soft on the guy.”

  “No worries there, sir.”

  “Pier 57. Half an hour,” Murphy commands. The line goes dead.

  Ryker

  Bullets streak through the air.

  I dive b
ehind a parked car.

  Bullets puncture the body panels. Metal clinks and pings. Glass shatters. The report echoes off the towering buildings. A continuous flurry of gunfire blasts in my direction. Then it stops for a fraction of a second. The shooter has to reload. His magazine only holds 30 rounds.

  I spring to my feet, angling my 9mm over the roof of the parked car.

  The shooter drops the magazine from the mag well and snaps in another. Then his finger squeezes tight around the trigger. The barrel aimed straight for me.

  I double tap two rounds before he can get a shot off. Bullet number one pierces his chest, pulverizing his heart. Bullet Number two shatters his cranium. The bullet enters through his forehead and explodes out the opposite side. It splatters crimson blood all over the driver of the sedan.

  The shooter slumps over. The driver mashes his foot to the floor. Tires squeal, and the wheel wells fill with white smoke. The engine growls and the sedan screeches around the corner, disappearing into the city.

  I brush the shards of shattered glass from my coat. Then my eyes scan my body for injuries. Sometimes you don’t feel the shot until later. I appear to be unharmed—this time.

  I don’t recognize the shooter. At this point, it doesn’t really matter who they were. Everyone in the city is after me. The Commission doesn’t care how I die, or who kills me—just as long as I end up dead.

  By the time I get back to the Lexington, Scarlett is gone. I draw my weapon and clear the bedroom and bathroom. Empty.

  My whole body tenses. I’m furious. Where did she go? Did someone get to her? My stomach turns in knots at the thought. I don’t know why I feel this way. I’ve only known the broad for a day.

  My eyes catch site of the phone on the nightstand. I grit my teeth, thinking she may have made a call. I pick up the phone and hit redial. After a few rings, a gruff man answers.

  “Special Agent Murphy…”

  I scowl. I told her not to call anyone. My first inclination is to hang up. I just need to forget about this chick and take care of myself. Right now, I’ve got two options. I prove who actually killed Falco, or I get my ass out of town until things cool down. But it’s not in my nature to run.

  “Murphy, it’s Ryker.”

  “Where are you?”

  “That’s not important. Where’s Scarlett?”

  “I’m meeting her at Pier 57,” he says. “Stay put, I’ll send a few guys to pick you up, wherever you are.”

  “Don’t bother. I won’t be here.”

  “You can’t stay out on the street. That suicide.”

  “I’ve seen your definition of protection.”

  “I don’t know how that happened. But I’ll take full responsibility.”

  I hear a floorboard in the hallway squeak, just outside the door. I drop the phone on the bed, and draw my weapon. Murphy's thin voice crackles from the speaker on the bed.

  Under the door, I see the shadows of someone in the hallway. An instant later the door is kicked open. The doorframe splinters around the deadbolt. A blaze of automatic gunfire fills the room. Blinding flashes of muzzle flare. Bullets rip through the air, smashing the sheetrock and shattering mirrors.

  I squeeze off several rounds as I launch over the bed and take cover behind a wall. My ears are ringing, and I can smell the gunpowder in the air.

  In the metal ice bucket on the dresser, I can see the reflection of two men in the entrance foyer. One of them is dead on the ground. The other is creeping forward. He’s lining up to spray a flurry of bullets through the wall in an attempt to hit me.

  I’ve got to act quickly.

  I grab a pillow from the bed and hurl it into the foyer. A stream of bullets pierces through the pillow, exploding feathers everywhere. They dangle in the air. It provides a split second of distraction. Just enough for me to spin around the corner and fire as many rounds as I can.

  The assassin squeezes off a burst of automatic fire.

  Bullets puncture flesh, spewing blood.

  My bullets. His blood.

  The bastard falls back, tripping over his comrade’s dead body. He smashes into the full-length mirror on the closet door. And falls to the ground. To add insult to injury, a shard of glass falls, piercing his throat. The man gurgles and spits up blood.

  I dash to him, kicking the weapon away from his hand. “Who sent you?”

  I don’t think he could speak, even if he wanted to. The only thing that comes from his mouth are indiscernible groans. And the sound of him choking on his own blood. He lasts another few seconds, then exhales his last breath. His body goes limp.

  I rummage through the two mens’ pockets. But these guys are pros. No IDs, nothing. Just extra magazines, and a pack of matches. I stuff them into my pocket, grab one of the Uzis, and pry it from the dead man’s fingers. Then I scavenge as many magazines as I can find.

  I creep into the hallway. It looks clear. Then I rush to the stairwell and plummet down to the lobby.

  Sirens warble in the distance. Someone must have called the cops. Those Uzis made a hell of a lot of ruckus. I step out into the lobby, weapon ready. I don’t even bother to conceal it. I’m ready for a fight.

  The lobby looks clear.

  The concierge sees me and rushes over.

  “Someone broke the rules,” I say, marching toward the front door.

  “My most sincere apologies.” He scurries after me. “I hope you won’t allow this incident to reflect negatively on our establishment?”

  I ignore him.

  “Please allow us to offer you a complementary stay in the future.”

  “Give me your cell phone,” I demand.

  “What?”

  “Don’t make me take it from you.”

  “Certainly.” The concierge slips a cellphone from his pocket and hands it to me. “Anything you need. Just ask.” He gives a phony smile.

  I push through the main doors and grab a cab that is loading someone else’s bags in the trunk. A couple of newlyweds catching a cab for the airport. Honeymoon’s over.

  Nobody is going to argue with a pissed off man wielding an Uzi. “Pier 57,” I say.

  The cab driver drops the luggage. I hear something inside one of the bags break. The cabby raises his hands in the air. His eyes bug out, and his face washes over pale. He’s trembling.

  “Now!” I yell.

  He scurries around to the driver’s seat, and I climb in back. Tires squeal, and we launch away from the taxi stand, blazing off into the night.

  14

  Scarlett

  I stand in the shadows across the street from the 57th Street Pier, watching to see who shows up. After a few minutes, I see Murphy's black SUV pull to the curb. He throws it in park, kills the engine, and steps out. His eyes glance from side to side, scanning the area. He keeps a hand in his coat pocket, undoubtedly gripping a pistol. He strolls about halfway down the pier and takes a seat on a bench.

  I hold back in the shadows for a bit. My eyes scan up and down the street. I look up to the roof tops of neighboring buildings. I look for open windows. Anywhere that a sniper could be hiding. There are a few open windows, but nothing overly suspicious. Perhaps I’m just being paranoid, but after what’s already happened tonight, I’m a little spooked.

  Murphy is still waiting casually on the bench. I step out from the shadows and wait for the streetlight to turn. Then I stroll through the crosswalk and make my way to the pier. My hand is planted firmly on my pistol, still in its holster.

  Murphy sees me approach, and he smiles. He stands up to greet me as I arrive at the bench.

  “Thank God you’re okay,” he says.

  “How did the shooter find us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ryker thinks we have a mole in the Bureau.”

  “Does he?” Murphy scoffs. “I can think of any number of people who would want him dead.”

  “There is a contract out on me too.”

  Murphy grimaces.

  “Let’s get you somepla
ce safe,” Murphy says. “We can talk more about this.”

  “I’m beginning to think that there is no place safe.”

  Murphy's eyes narrow at me. “You trust me, don’t you?”

  I hesitate. I don’t know what to think. He sees the doubt in my eyes.

  “Scarlett, your father was my best friend. I’ve known him for 30 years. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

  I hesitate a moment. I’ve known this man all of my life. He’s never given me any reason not to trust him. Finally, I nod and smile.

  Just then, two cars screech up to the pier. Doors burst open. Four men in ski masks spring out, semiautomatic weapons in hand. A flash of muzzle fire. Bullets rip through the air.

  Murphy's chest explodes in a crimson mist. Blood splatters across my face. Murphy's body crashes to the concrete with a splat. Blood pools from his gaping wounds. I gasp in horror. My eyes glisten with tears.

  I draw my weapon, but I’m surrounded.

  “Put the gun down, ma’am,” one of the attackers says.

  I have no choice. I might be able to take out one of them. But the other three will gun me down. My heart is in my throat and I’m trembling. I’ve been in sticky situations before, but this is intense. My grip on the gun goes slack. It spins back, the trigger guard hanging on my finger. I slowly kneel down and set the weapon on the concrete.

  “Kick it to me,” the masked man says.

  The weapon clatters as I shuffle it across the concrete. One of the masked men kneels down and picks it up. Then stuffs it in his waistband. Two other men rush to me and grab me by my arms. A third shoves a black bag over my head and draws the tie-string tight. I can barely breathe.

  They whisk me down the pier and stuff me into one of the cars. I hear the door slam shut. Weapons clank as the men file inside. The tires squeal, and I’m thrust back into the seat as the vehicle speeds away into the night.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” I ask.