SOLD TO A KILLER: A Hitman Auction Romance

by Evelyn Glass

  I open the gate and navigate the overgrown garden, stepping over and around as though I’m walking through a jungle.

  When I knock on the door, my fist is trembling. Knock, knock, knock. No answer.

  I knock again, the door opens, and the barrel of a shotgun is aimed right at me.

  “Roma. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Bear,” I say, looking at the snowy-haired man, his thick beard and his gargantuan muscles. One of his eyes is missing, a pink mass of scars and flesh, and both his pinkies are severed at the knuckle. He’s as beat-up and grizzled as I remember him. “I need help.”

  “Hmm,” Bear grunts. He doesn’t lower the shotgun.

  Chapter Twelve

  Roma

  “Are you going to shoot me, Bear?” I say.

  I try to put laughter and disbelief into my voice, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Bear. Sure, he basically raised me, he trained me, he brought me into the life. He’s about as close to a father figure as I’ve ever known. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t changed in the interim. Maybe to him I’m not Roma, his adopted son, but just a reminder of the life he once lived.

  “I’m not sure yet.” His voice is deep and crackly and his one eye watches me closely. “How the hell did you find me? I picked this place with care, Roma. With damn close care. No one from the life has found me . . . until you.”

  “I’ve always known you were here,” I say.

  His eye—and the mass of scars and flesh around his gaping eye socket—goes wide.

  “Is that so?” he muses. “Thought I did a pretty damn good job at hiding.”

  “You did, but I know you. You trained me. Of course I’d be able to find you.”

  “And Mr. Black and his cronies haven’t swooped down, so I guess you stayed loyal. Gotta say, I’m damned surprise. Thought the life was deep in you, boy.”

  “Does that mean you’ll lower the gun?”

  Bear shakes his head. “Didn’t say that. Gotta understand, Roma, it’s been a helluva long time since I saw you. Don’t know what sort of man you are. Maybe Mr. Black sent you to finish the old bear off, aye?”

  I spread my arms to my sides and take a step back. “If you think that, Bear, then you better pull the trigger.”

  Bear takes a deep breath and looks down the sight at me. The barrel trembles and I’m shocked to realize he’s actually considering pulling the trigger. A thousand memories of Bear light up my mind. I remember him before he lost the eye, grinning over his white beard at me—though it wasn’t so white then—and patting me on the back at a football game. I hear his words: You’re a good lad, Roma. I remember him how he was when I was a kid, huge, tall, a giant to my child’s eyes.

  “You won’t . . .” My voice cracks. I could probably grab the gun before he shoots, but I have no desire to fight with Bear. It’s Bear.

  Bear shakes his head. “I’m done with the life,” he says.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Felicity

  I watch as the old white-haired man shoves the barrel of the shotgun at Roma’s face. Odd, but I feel protective, like a lioness who’s just seen her lion threatened. He saved me, I think, and now he’s in danger. In my mind, I see how the next few minutes could go. I see the white-haired man pull the trigger and I see Roma’s head explode and the overgrown garden showered in red. Then what . . . I run, perhaps, and the white-haired man catches up with me. What if he’s just as bad as Barinov?

  “You won’t,” Roma says, but his voice does not sound like his own. It breaks and I’m sure a genuine tone of fear enters it.

  I watch, terrified, as the white-haired man shakes his head. “I’m done with the life.”

  “I’d never ask you to come back to the life, you stupid old bastard,” Roma snaps. His fists are clenched, but he doesn’t lean forward or make any move toward the man holding the gun. I’ve seen him in action. He took out Barinov calmly and coldly; I’m sure he could snatch the gun away from the old man if he tried. I study the old man closer—through branches and leaves—and see that he only has one eye. Yes, Roma can take him. But he doesn’t even try, just stands there. “I want you to be happy, you oaf. I don’t want you in the life.”

  “You just want me dead.”

  The old man’s breathing gets quicker. It’s the breathing of a man who’s trying to key himself up, working himself up to something he doesn’t want to do but has to. It’s the breathing of a man who is about to cross a line he never thought he’d cross. He’s going to kill Roma, I think, and terror lances through me. He’s going to kill Roma!

  I jump out from behind the bush, hands raised above my head. My heart thumps right to the tips of my fingers, making them tingle. “Wait!” I cry. When I lift my hands, the sleeves on this too-big shirt roll down to my shoulders, making me look like a little girl. Ridiculous, but maybe this huge white-haired ogre will feel bad about shooting somebody who looks like a little girl.

  The man swings the gun to me and then immediately back to Roma when he sees I’m not a threat. “Wondered how long it was goin’ to be before she popped up. Gotta say, though, was expecting an armed killer.”

  “I’m not here to kill you,” Roma sighs. “Bear, stop this. I need your help. What are you going to do? Shoot me and her?”

  The old man looks down the sight of the shotgun with his one good eye, squinting into Roma’ face. “Tell me you’re not here to hurt me,” he says.

  “He’s not!” I call across the garden. “I swear to it, he’s not. I was taken hostage on a yacht just off the coast by Russian gangsters. They were trying to use me as a sex slave. Roma impersonated an American politician and bought me. He saved me. He’s not a bad man and he doesn’t want to hurt you!”

  The old man’s eyes flit to me and then back to Roma. “This true?”

  “It’s true,” Roma says. “You remember Zherkov?”

  The old man nods.

  “What about Barinov?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, he’s dead. He tried to rape her and I snapped his neck. We jumped overboard and swam through the night. In a way, we were lucky Barinov attacked her when we did . . . right on the coast of your French slice of heaven.”

  The old man continues to look down the barrel of the gun, but he seems more reluctant.

  Roma sighs. “You’re not going to kill a woman, Bear. We both know that. And sure, maybe you could kill me. But I bet it gets awful lonely out here. How’re you going to sleep knowing I’m buried a few feet from your house? It’s me, Bear. Do you remember the Arena?”

  For a moment, the old man’s eyes glisten.

  “What’s the Arena?” I ask, seeing the effect it has. I lower my arms, my shoulders aching from the swim, and the old man doesn’t seem to notice.

  “He remembers it like it was something out of legend,” the old man says, a wry smile on his lips. “In his mind it’s a huge arena like out of ancient Rome or something. In truth, the Arena was behind a Chinese takeout place; I had an apartment above it. It was a few chairs gathered around a rain-soaked stone. We used to fight there. At least, he used to think we were fighting. I’d use one hand and train him up. Got good, didn’t you, lad?”

  “You let me win.” Roma’s back is to me, but I hear his smile in his voice.

  “Aye, guess I did.” The man lowers the gun.

  “Alright, guess you two better come in. Too old and tired to do any shooting at this time of day. Anyway, the old coots round here might hear the gunshot and come snooping. They’re already suspicious of the old white-haired bear who’s moved into their ass-end-of-nowhere neighborhood.”

  He steps aside. Roma turns to me, holding out his hand. I step over the overgrown plants and take his hand. Together, we walk into the house.

  The old man steps in front of me, looming two heads above me. I have to crane my head to look up at him. He’s the biggest man I’ve ever seen, even bigger than Roma. He must be almost seven foot, and wide.

  “My name’s
Bear, by the way.” He offers me his paw.

  I take it and he shakes my hand so hard I think my shoulder will dislocate.

  “My name is Felicity,” I tell him.

  He grins, showing yellow teeth. “Nice to meet you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Felicity

  We’re led into the living room which is completely at odds with the garden. Where the garden is mayhem, this is order. The couch and the two armchairs are pressed firmly against opposite walls with a sparkling oak coffee table in between. Off to one side, a smaller table sits with a radio upon it. A glass cabinet displays various knickknacks: bullets and photographs and ornaments. The photographs are of Bear, but younger; he has two eyes and a happy grin. Most are black and white. I guess by the time color became the norm, he’d already lost his eye.

  “Expected this to be a mess,” Roma says, as we stand at the doorway.

  “I rarely go outside, except to the market in the village over the hill, so it doesn’t matter much what outside looks like. But if I’m going to spend the rest of my life here, I want it to be tidy.”

  “Makes sense,” Roma nods.

  Bear waves a hand at the couch. “Don’t stand to attention.”

  We sit on the couch, side by side, our legs touching. I thought he might die. Something has happened to me, something which is at once confusing, terrifying, exhilarating. I have become attached to this man, attached to him in ways I never thought I’d become attached to any man. I don’t consider myself the easily-pleased type. I don’t think of myself as a woman who can be swept off her feet. But I can’t deny that Roma has done just that . . . in an alternative sort of way. No fancy dinners and helicopter rides for us. But who else can say their man killed for them, saved their life? My man, I think, astonished by how easy that sounds in my mind. Yes, my man.

  “I’ll get some coffee,” Bear says. “And some bread and some cheese, aye? Bet you two are starving.”

  “And some socks,” Roma says, “if it isn’t too much trouble.”

  “Aye, alright.”

  Bear leaves the room and Roma turns to me. His dark blue eyes hold a hint of worry. “Really thought he was going to kill me then,” he says.

  “Who is he?” I ask.

  “He raised me, pretty much. The only man I’ve ever had to look up to. Found me when I was seven or eight and raised me up.”

  “Found you? Found you where?”

  “On the streets,” Roma says. He flinches, as though he’s said too much. I touch his face. His jaw fits perfectly into my palm. It feels like it belongs there. “You never have to hide anything from me.”

  He nods shortly. “As strange as it is, I believe you.”

  Bear comes back into the room making a lot of noise, huffing and breathing heavy, carrying a huge wooden platter of bread and cheese. He places it on the table and then reaches into his pocket, taking out two rolled-up pairs of socks. He drops them on the couch and then leaves the room again. A moment later, he returns with two jugs and three glasses, all of it gripped in his huge hands.

  He drops into one of the armchairs opposite us after he’s laid it all out. “Wine.” He points to one jug. “Water.” He points to the other. “Just don’t ask me to turn one into the other. I can turn both into piss, but that’s as far as my parlor tricks go.”

  He lets out a booming laugh. It’s infectious and Roma and I chuckle.

  Bear waves at the food. “Tuck in.”

  I started salivating the second he brought the food in. I can’t remember the last time I ate and the nighttime swim and the walk through the morning sun has only made me hungrier. I take up a huge chunk of bread and a slab of cheese, not even bothering to slice the bread, and begin munching. Roma does the same, leaning forward and eating efficiently, like a man in the army or prison. I doubt he even tastes the food. As hungry as I am, neither do I. We shovel the food in for around five minutes in almost-complete silence, the only noises our munching and glugging as we down water, and Bear’s occasional chuckles when one of us coughs on our food.

  When we’re done, I sit back, tired, my belly fit to burst.

  Bear is like a different man now he’s invited us into his home. His hostility is gone and he smiles easily at Roma. “It’s been a long time, lad,” he says. He holds a glass of wine in his hand. It’s almost empty. With one swift movement, he drains it, and then pours himself another. “How is life treating you?”

  “Fine,” Roma says. Is his voice tight, or am I imagining that? I’m not sure. “Good, just working. Making as much money as I can.”

  “Ah.” Bear runs his finger along the rim of his glass. “And you’re still working for Mister . . .” He trails off, glancing at me, and then finishes: “. . . Mister Smith?”

  “He’s still in charge, yes,” Roma says.

  Bear turns to me. “Politics!” he laughs. “I can’t make any sense of it. Ever since Mister Smith took control, the organization has become more and more politicized. I never understood why a business like ours needed to bother with politics, but there you are . . . I’m just a relic from a simpler time, I suppose.”

  “My dad’s a politician,” I say. If Bear used to work for the private contractor my dad hired, I see no harm in telling him. Anyway, Roma didn’t seem to mind when I gave him my real name.

  “Is that so?” Bears says, before sipping his wine.

  “He’s the American ambassador to Russia.”

  Bear goes quiet for a moment. Something flickers behind his eye; it’s like wheels spinning behind his gaze are reflecting the sunlight which slants through the curtains. He looks to Roma and then back again. Then he smiles. “I suppose that’s why this one was sent after you, aye?”

  “Yes, my father hired him.”

  “Your father is Greg Fellows.”

  I nod. “You’ve heard of him?”

  He gestures at the radio. “I listen to the news sometimes. He has some very progressive views about Russian-American relations, if I’m not mistaken. About crime and the like. Wants to set up a joint task force with the Russian and American secret service to help reduce international crime. He calls it—”

  “Tackling the syndicates,” I finish. I can see Dad’s face clearly as he says it, his politician’s voice rising, his eyes alive with hope. “That’s correct.”

  “Russian and American crime syndicates . . . your father also has eyes toward the White House, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s always had eyes toward the White House.”

  I smile as I remember him sitting me up on his knee when I was a girl. It was a few years after Mom died and I could see he was tired, always tired from working and raising me alone. But he always found time to give me some one-on-one attention, to make me feel special. I can hear him now: There’s a peaceful solution for everything, Felicity. And when I’m Mr. President I’ll do everything I can, in every situation, to follow that solution.

  “Ah,” Bear says. He takes another sip of his wine. His white beard is stained red. “Yes, a very good man, with lots of support. Not from the Russian and American syndicates, though!” He lets out a guffaw.

  I smile and glance at Roma. He’s smiling, too. But there’s something in his eyes. Worry, maybe. I tell myself I’m imagining it, just as I was imagining the tightness in his voice.

  “You should’ve seen this one as a boy,” Bear says, pointing to Roma. “Had the goofiest smile you’ve ever seen. All teeth.”

  “Bear . . .”

  “The sweetest little boy you’ve ever seen,” Bear goes on, ignoring Roma. “Gap teeth and a cheeky grin and . . .” Suddenly, he goes quiet. “Anyway, I bet you two are tired, aye? Why not take a nap? I have a spare room, though I don’t have any clue why. It’s not like I have any visitors.”

  I yawn. “I am tired,” I admit.

  I stretch my arms above my head and side to side, feel the muscles in my body contract with the effort.

  “I’ll think I’ll take you up on the offer,” I say.

&nbs
p; Bear nods and stands up, waving me toward the door.

  “I’m not tired,” Roma says, watching Bear.

  I glance back at him. “Are you sure?” I ask.

  He smiles at me. “Go on ahead, Felicity. I’m too wired to sleep.”

  I shrug. I get the sense he could go forever without getting tired. “Okay.”

  Bear leads me up the stairs to a small room in which a single bed sits and nothing else. “Door open or closed?” he asks.