SOLD TO A KILLER: A Hitman Auction Romance

by Evelyn Glass

  I stand up, feeling restless. I want something to happen, something which would give me a chance to do something, anything. I hate feeling powerless. I didn’t even feel this powerless on the yacht. Terrified, sure, but not powerless. On the yacht, at least I had hope in the form of the stolen kitchen knife. At least I could tell myself: I’ll kill anybody who tries to touch me. Mr. Black’s men are a far cry from the clumsy, drugged-up, drunken Russians on the yacht. I haven’t heard any of these men slur their words. I haven’t sensed any lack of control in them.

  I pace up and down, wringing my hands. I can’t stop thinking about Dad and Roma. I imagine Dad rushing to meet me in a crowded place, a shopping mall, perhaps. Or wherever they decide to put me. Maybe they’ll drug me and leave me on a bench, call up Dad pretending to be a concerned onlooker. Hello, Mr. Fellows, I think I have spotted your daughter. And then . . . What? A bullet? A knife? Will it still be Roma who does it? I want to tell myself that no, Roma would never do that, not after everything we’ve shared. But he’s worked for Mr. Black longer than he’s known me. I can’t know where his true allegiance lies.

  I won’t let them use me as bait, I think, my breathing getting quicker as I pace, pace, pace, doing laps around the tiny cell. I’ll sacrifice myself if it comes to that.

  I must pace for a long time, because after a while, I hear voices outside my cell.

  “Time for a shift change already, eh?”

  I creep to the slit in the door and peek out. The big brute has his back turned to me, talking to another guard. The new guard looks different to the others. He is thin, almost as thin as Mr. Black, and young. Whereas the others are all in their mid-thirties, maybe even early forties, this man looks younger than me. He has a freckled face and a small, tight smile. His clothes fit baggily on him. His eyes are red and soft. His hair is ginger, a red darker and more stained than mine.

  “Yes,” the man mutters, his voice as soft as his face.

  “Alright, don’t let this one give you any trouble.” The brute nods toward the cell, at me. “I’m off to find a hole.” I duck low and wait as his footsteps echo down the hallway.

  When I look back through the gap, I see that the man now stands alone in the hallway. He faces the wall, just as the big scarred man did, but his face isn’t as impassive. It’s obvious just by looking at him that he is either new or unsuited to his job. He glances across at me, swallows nervously, and then turns back to the wall.

  Okay, I think, remember the yacht. Remember what those men liked. They don’t like a feisty woman, a woman in-control, a woman with a personality. They like a vessel into which they can pour their hopes and dreams and lust and all the rest of their warped self-images.

  I force my voice to be sweet. Sickly sweet, the sweet of a hooker attending to a high-class client.

  “Oh, hello,” I say, as though surprised. “You’re new.”

  He stares ahead, but he’s not a brick wall, not like the others. A tiny twitch at the corner of his lips tells me he’s listening, intrigued, even.

  “You’re certainly more handsome than the other man.” I giggle, the fakest giggle that’s ever escaped the lips of womankind.

  But he doesn’t seem to hear the fakeness. He swivels his gaze to me, jaw tight, clamped shut. He looks at my face for a few seconds through the slit. I plaster a wide smile to my face, willing my cheeks to go red.

  “You shouldn’t talk to me,” he says after a pause. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

  “Oh, what’s a little chatting? How long’s your shift?”

  He swallows again. His Adam’s apple is that of a skinny child’s, jutting like a rock from his neck. “Seven hours,” he says. “It’s five in the morning. I have the morning shift.”

  “That’s unlucky!” I cry. I sound exactly how I want to sound. A male fantasy. What men who have never truly known the affection of a woman dream it sounds like. A flirty cheerleader.

  He allows a small smile to touch his lips. “Well . . .” He shrugs. “Uncle was kind enough to give me work, you know. So . . .”

  “Uncle?”

  “Uncle Black.” The man nods.

  Uncle Black . . . Mr. Black . . . Ah, that explains it. Mr. Black hires toughened killers, men immune to this sort of thing, men, in fact, who would rather bust into the cell and force themselves on me than have me talk with them. If there’s a weak link in the agency, it’s this man, standing on the other side of my prison.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Daniel,” he says. “My name is Daniel.”

  “There’s no harm in just chatting, is there, Daniel? I’m so bored.”

  “At least you can sit down in there,” Daniel says. “Think what it’s like standing up for seven hours straight without even a book to read.”

  “It must be awful,” I say. “Just awful.”

  “It is,” he says, nodding seriously. He truly believes that standing guard is the same as being guarded, I realize. He must be young.

  “Sorry, Daniel, but . . .” I giggle again, hating the sound but seeing that it’s working. “Oh, never mind.”

  He turns toward me without realizing what he’s done, leaving his space on the wall. “No, what were you going to say?” He smiles and his cheeks go rosy. “You were going to say something.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter.” My heart is pounding now, in my ears, in my palms, in my feet. It’s working, I think.

  He walks close to the cell, so close that the smell of his over-applied cologne drifts through the slit and attacks my nose. It is thick and almost makes me gag. I fight back the urge.

  “Oh, okay, you’ve twisted my arm.” I roll my eyes, fluttering my eyelids. “I was just going to ask if you worked out, because you look like you do.”

  He grins from ear to ear. “A little,” he says. “I started going to the gym last month, three times a week. Free weights, but I do the exercise bike and the running machine as well.” He looks at me eagerly. “Can you really tell?”

  “Look at those arms,” I say. “Of course I can tell.”

  We meet eyes for a few second.

  Then I crane my neck back so that he can see it through the slit, a sliver of skin. I trail my fingers along my neck. “Can I tell you something else?” I whisper.

  “Uh, yeah.” He nods.

  “I haven’t had a good man for such a long time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’ve all be so fat and old. I’ve been waiting for a strong young man . . .” I arch my eyebrow at him, wondering if I’ve made it too obvious. Can he really be that foolish? I glance at the gun on his hip and hope so.

  “Really?” He takes another step forward. “Oh, wow. And you . . .”

  I look him straight in the eyes now, my face a veil of lust and flirting. “And I want you to come in here and fuck me. Hard.”

  He swallows for a third time and I think: I’ve got him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Roma

  Felicity, I think, lying on my back in the cell. Felicity, I’m sorry. Felicity, forgive me. Felicity!

  The bruising on my face has lessened over the past few days, but the pain remains. My body aches. I feel like I’ve been dragged across a field of stones. When I open my mouth, my jaw clicks. I haven’t been beaten like that since I was a kid on the streets, before I met Bear. When I think of how they laid into me, I clench my fists and grit my teeth. But after a moment I release both. There’s no point in getting angry. The damage is done. Getting angry would be a rookie mistake, just like punching the tree was, just like letting Felicity get separated from me was.

  I think of her, somewhere within this complex. I don’t think Mr. Black will let his men hurt her. He still plans to either use her as bait or release her to her father, bringing him out of hiding. Even if Felicity tells him what’s happened, he still might emerge. Only fear for his daughter’s safety and a determination to stay alive long enough to see her home is keeping him hidden. After that, politics
will take over, and a politician who plays the terrified rabbit won’t be a politician for long.

  Felicity, it was real. All of it was real.

  I want to explain to her that I truly felt for her. When we kissed, the energy was there, the closeness wasn’t a lie. When we made love—and I have no qualms about calling it that now—there was a connection. Despite everything, I wanted her, needed her, just like she wanted and needed me. But now she knows the truth about you, you stupid ass.

  I lean up on the bed, my body screaming out against me. My mouth is dry. I stand up, totter for a moment, and then find my bearings and go to the sink. I splash water in my face and look into the cracked mirror. Yellow bruises and pink cuts cover my face. Dried blood clings to my upper lip. I splash more water and rub at the blood. Crimson liquid swirls down the drain. Then I gulp as much water as my belly will take and lick my lips, wetting them.

  I go to the door and peer through the slit. One of the bastards who laid into me stands outside. Big and chunky like a goddamned animal.

  “Round two?” I say cheerily, grinning at him.

  The man grunts, but doesn’t turn his head.

  “We can go at it one on one, if you want, eh?”

  He ignores me. I laugh darkly and return to the bed, sitting on the edge of it, looking down at my cut knuckles.

  I keep thinking of the first kiss, the release of it. It felt like we’d been holding in the lust for years, not days. It felt like kissing somebody I’ve wanted to kiss my entire life. Felicity has made me think about myself in a way I never have before. She’s made me reflect on how I feel, a feat I never thought possible. Because, in a way, I have been waiting for Felicity my entire life. I’ve been waiting for a woman I feel close to, really close to, not just rut-and-leave close. I’ve been waiting for a woman I can look in the eye and see love, not just lust; I’ve been waiting for her.

  And now you’ve lost her, don’t you get that? You’ve lost.

  I sigh, massaging my temples. My head aches from the madness of it all. Who knew a job could turn out like this?

  I’m about to lie back on the bed, close my eyes, try and get some sleep, when three sharp raps sound at my door.

  “What?” I grunt.

  “Mr. Black wants to see you, slugger.” The guard sniggers.

  “Come in here and get me, then,” I spit.

  “I have canisters of tear gas on my hip,” the guard sighs. “I could throw one in, but Mr. Black says he would prefer if I didn’t.”

  “Mr. Black says jump—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I ask how high,” he says wearily. “Look, don’t make this difficult.”

  “Maybe I want to make it difficult.” I stand up and go to the slit, staring straight into his face. I won’t let them beat on me again, no matter how many of them come at me. I’ll fight like a hound straight from hell.

  The guard rolls his eyes, steps back, and takes out a gun. He points it at the door and unlocks it. I step back as the door swings open. He steps into the cell, and behind him stands another man, one I didn’t notice before. He holds an automatic rifle in his hands, looking down the sights.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” the first guard says. “Turn around. Hands behind your back.”

  The second guard tightens his grip on the rifle.

  With a sigh, I turn around and put my hands behind my back. I’ve done this long enough to know when a situation is ripe for going south. Maybe I could snatch the pistol from the first guard’s hands, turn it on him, paint the wall red with his insides. But then the second guard will just kneecap me. A peppering of bullets will shred through my legs and leave me immobilized for months, years, maybe forever.

  My only chance now is to wait for opportunity and seize it when it comes.

  The guard clamps the cuffs onto my wrists, reaches into his pocket, and pulls a black bag over my head.

  Then I’m guided through the facility. I’m pushed into an elevator and guided down a hallway and then shoved through a door.

  The black bag is taken from my head. It’s daytime, but the sunlight is overpowered by the glistening of the electric chandeliers overhead, which throw down huge waves of light. The room is carved from marble, the walls and floor white and shining. A small fountain sits in one corner, beside a bookshelf. In the center of the room sits a massive desk, polished to a fine gleam. Mr. Black rises from a throne-like chair and waves me in. Four guards line the walls, all holding high-powered rifles.

  Still cuffed, I walk to the desk and maneuver myself into the chair opposite Mr. Black. He wears his customary black suit with his black cufflinks and his eyes are as dark as ever. He drops into his throne and grins at me.

  “Roma, Roma, Roma,” he sings. “What are we to do with you, my boy?”

  I don’t speak. I learnt a long time ago that when Mr. Black starts speaking, you wait. He’d happily set all four of these guards on me if it came to that. But I’ve known Mr. Black almost as long as I’ve known Bear, and sometimes over the years I’ve gotten the sense that there’s some humanity behind those black sheets of eyes, even if it is just a touch of it.

  “You went to France and lost your heart to a girl,” he says, making a tut noise. He looks to the guards and then waves a hand. “Out, please.”

  Without a word, all four of them file out. Mr. Black reaches under his desk and places a pistol down. “Just for security, you understand. Even cuffed and beaten, you are a dangerous man.”

  He sighs, and then says: “Listen to me, Roma, and listen closely. I value you as a worker. You are, without a doubt, the best killer on my payroll. The only reason those men got you was because you were focused on other things. Namely, Felicity. If they had come on you Stateside, before your head was tossed, you would’ve ended them all. We both know that. Now, let’s get down to business. I am willing to tell everybody—the men, my contacts—that the true reason you disembarked that yacht and went to Bear’s little hideout was to finish him off. You see, you were there under express orders from me. And, look, you carried out your task!” He giggles, a sound that is both childlike and demonlike. “Yes, yes, you jumped off the yacht and you swam all that way because I told you to. You understand . . . I’m still in complete control.”

  He stares at me. His face holds little anger, little of anything, but I’ve known him long enough to understand the significance of his words. If I agree now, he’ll bring me back into the agency, if for no other reason than I’ve served him without flinching since I was a teenager. And he’s right. I’m the best man he has. He has mercenaries, but they’re best in warzones, and our business is rarely a warzone. It requires finesse, blending in.

  I bite down my pride, my rage, and nod. “You are still in complete control,” I say.

  He claps his hands together loudly. “Right!” he exclaims. “Now, this business about the girl.” As he talks, he stands up and walks around the desk. I don’t realize what he’s doing until he’s already done it and my hands are free. He unlocks the handcuffs and drops them on the desk in front of me and walks back around to his chair. Get him! a voice screams. But what would it accomplish? I’d die, Felicity would die. This isn’t my opportunity.

  He drops into the chair and drums his fingers on the table. “She’s a very attractive girl, Roma,” he says. He shrugs. “I can understand why you lost your head for a few moments. Let’s put that behind us, too, yes? Let’s return to business.”

  Numbly, I nod.

  “Great!” Mr. Black claps his hands again. “Because I need you, Roma. With Bear gone, you are the best agent. The best. You have trained hard and you’ve earned your stripes.”

  Despite everything, I feel a pride in this. Being the best is a difficult feeling to simply shrug away.

  “I want to bring you further into the fold,” Mr. Black says. “I want you to become my second-in-command, eventually. Maybe one day you’ll take over the agency. So, listen. This is your first lesson. The Politics of Murder.” He waves his hand, as though gesturing at a
blackboard. “This agency of mine now works exclusively for the Kremlin. The Russians, in short, are the ones who purchased the execution of Ambassador Fellows. His ideas won’t do, not in the least. He wants to crack down on criminal organizations, international criminal organizations. That’s us, Roma. Your pile of money—wherever you squirrel it away—is under threat by this man. He will seize all our assets and have us arrested, perhaps killed. He’s our enemy.”

  He looks at me expectantly.

  I nod. “Yes, sir,” I say.

  His gummy grin spreads across his face. “Roma, you’re back! So, enough funny business? You are my Roma again, yes?”

  I nod, but I want to spit in his face. Felicity . . .

  “Yes, sir.”