Jenna Wright
HELLION: THE COUNTERFEIT CITY
First published by Jenna Wright in 2017
Copyright © Jenna Wright, 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
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Contents
Disclaimer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
A WORD FROM JENNA
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Karl Slominski
1
After nine years of killing and stealing for Lilah, I suppose all of this should be old hat to me by now, but the anticipation, the thrill of the job, still gets me every time.
Tonight is the last time, though, and it’s going to be harder than I thought to walk away. I want to deny it, to pretend like leaving this all behind won’t leave me wanting for an excitement that David can’t give me, but that’s the whole point, isn’t it? To move on from a life of destruction.
To finally be good.
First, though, the task at hand.
Tonight, it’s a meeting in a disused warehouse at the docks. Muted light filters out through its dirty window panes and shadows shift about inside. There are half a dozen within the hulking structure, maybe more, and I need to get rid of all of them.
I’ve had tougher missions, and I’ve done worse things.
Crouching down, I pull my hood up and focus on the two men flanking the rusted metal door to the warehouse about twenty feet ahead.
One is mountainous, with a barrel for a chest and scar slashing through one eyebrow. A fighter gone soft. The other is thin as a matchstick, the sodium lamp above him casting sharp shadows underneath his cheekbones and eyes.
They won’t see me coming until it’s too late.
Bits of their conversation float to me over the lapping of dirty water and the clang of a bell on a distant buoy. Mountain Man is hungry. Matchstick Man just wants to get paid and get out of here, man.
Same, Matchstick. Same.
He will be first. Wiry is always more unpredictable than beefy.
“…they think I don’t got places to be?” Matchstick drones on. “Linda, down at the spot… you know Linda?”
Mountain Man grunts. “Everybody knows Linda.”
“You’re a real comedian, man. Yeah, well she’s waiting for me…”
The only warning he gets is the skitter and click of pebbles on the concrete as I come up fast behind him. He tenses in the way you do when your body understands there’s a threat before your conscious mind can process it.
I grab his face, my black gloves stark on his skin, and his eyes go wide as I jerk his head back toward me with a violent twist.
Crack.
His spine snaps and he drops like a marionette with cut strings.
Mountain Man remains motionless for a comically long second. No rush with this one, then. One by one, I can practically see the dominoes fall behind his eyes, the situation clicking into place.
He fumbles inside his leather jacket. Reaching for a gun, no doubt.
Before he can pull, I slide a dagger from my belt and fling it toward him.
It arcs, end over end, before lodging in his throat, splitting his Adam’s apple. Arterial blood sprays against the side of the warehouse, bright crimson against the decades of dirt.
Clawing at his throat, he drops to his knees and collapses onto his side. Pink froth bubbles from the hole in his windpipe as he wheezes his final breaths.
I hold a finger to my lips.
Muffled voices from inside the warehouse grow louder. Sharper. Someone’s having an argument. Who could have predicted that a meeting between criminals might not go smoothly?
I take advantage of the commotion and gently pull open the metal door, slipping inside the warehouse with only a quiet squeak of the hinges to possibly give me away.
***
The concrete floor of the warehouse is littered with splintered pallets and shattered glass; the detritus of decades of use and abandonment. I gingerly pick my way around a piece of broken rebar and crouch behind a dusty crate.
Thirty feet ahead, a man in a trench coat stands in a pool of light filtering down from one of the few working lamps in this place. He’s flanked by four beefy goons dressed in the same black as the two men outside. Trench Coat must buy his henchmen their turtlenecks in bulk. They are nearly indistinguishable from one another, so I take note of their positions and number them in my head: One, Two, Three, and Four.
Across from him, an angry man with heavy silver rings on each of his fingers gesticulates wildly. He’s got a security team of his own: three men in well-tailored suits. It’s going to be a shame to get blood on them.
A box the size of a coffin lies between Trench Coat and Rings, a line of demarcation separating the shady businessmen.
“I don’t see my payment,” Trench Coat says, and it’s clear from his tone and the fact that he brought six men with him that he wasn’t expecting to see his money tonight.
“It was cash on delivery,” Rings says, the jewelry glinting as he flicks his hand at Trench Coat. “Step back from the package. Once we check out the merchandise, then we can talk.”
“We’re done talking. If I don’t see money in the next five seconds, we’re gonna have a problem.”
Goon One slides a hand toward his coat. If he pulls a gun I might have my work done for me tonight. Goon Two shakes his head almost imperceptibly as if to say not yet.
Rings crosses his arms. “I don’t take orders from you.”
“Then you don’t take the package, either.” Trench Coat’s hand moves ever-so-slightly toward his waistband. Maybe for a gun. Maybe not.
It doesn’t matter because I’m sick of waiting. I’ve got places to be.
Phht. Phht. Phht.
The softest puffs of air.
A thin wisp of smoke rises from the barrel of my silenced gun, and one by one, the well-tailored men drop to the cement, each with a neat hole in his temple.
Goon One, still twitchy and itching to kill, yanks his gun from his holster and empties his bullets into Rings’ chest. The gunshots echo and crash in the enormous space, startling pigeons that had been roosting in the rafters. They flutter and fly, losing feathers as Rings hits the ground, crimson oozing into a thick puddle around him.
Trench Coat dives behind the coffin box and the goons back toward each other, forming a circle protecting him and the package. Their guns are drawn but judging by the wild looks in their eyes, they have no idea where to point them.
“Where did it come from?”
Trench Coat’s question is a frantic whisper. Good. He should be afraid.
This is the part I live for. When the targets finally realize that they are targets. As their fear spikes, my nerves calm. This is what I do. This is who I am. A lethal shadow, ready to bring the mayhem to some very bad men.
I pull up the collar of my fitted shirt so that it covers my mouth, pick up a handful of broken cement, and throw it toward the far end of the warehouse.
I’m sprinting toward them before it hits the ground.
The pieces shatter on impact, and all four of the goons turn and fire into an empty corner. The muzzle flash from their guns illuminates the fear on their faces.
I race toward their circle, and the goon closest to me, Three, spins on his heels, bringing up his weapon to fire. I’m already airborne, and he turns just in time to catch a heel to the chest. I feel his ribcage crack underneath the weight of the kick, and he topples backward, his large body sending up a puff of dust as it hits the ground.
As I land, I sweep my leg to the left, catching Goon Four at the back of his ankles and sending him to the hard concrete next to his friend. His head snaps back and his teeth clack, and the sound is music to me.
From a crouch, I sense rather than see Goon One coming at me from the front and Goon Two from behind. I pop up, spinning to drive an elbow into One’s nose while simultaneously donkey-kicking Two in the groin.
One’s gun clatters to the floor and I know he can’t see a damn thing through the stinging tears in his eyes, so I turn my attention to Two.
He’s doubled over, gagging, so I yank his arm backward and around, snapping his wrist as I turn his own gun on him. His shriek of pain and fury cuts off as I put a bullet in his ear.
Two’s blood mists over Three, who hasn’t moved since I put a heel into his chest and sent him to the ground. Pink spittle drips from Three’s open mouth. I hit him so hard that bits of bone from his shattered ribs tore into his lungs.
Two goons down, two to go.
I sense movement on either side of me. Four’s rolling over, wheezing as he brings his gun up, and One’s charging at me, his face smeared with blood and tears.
So I drop to my knees, yanking a small knife from my belt and flinging it at Four while driving my shoulder up and into One’s belly, flipping him over and sending him crashing to the floor behind me.
Four slumps back, the hilt of the knife protruding from his left eye. His finger twitches in death, and a gunshot goes off, ricocheting off the thick concrete and steel beams and puncturing a window near the ceiling.
Dust and bits of metal rain down on me as I scramble on top of One, wrapping my hands around his thick neck. Already winded, he gurgles and squirms as I tighten my grip. He punches at my sides. Claws at my arms. Catches me with a backhand across the side of the face. It rattles my cage, but I do not let up.
He is a bad person.
I squeeze harder.
They were all criminals.
The blood vessels in his eyes burst, and he stills.
Finally… finally… I let go.
I sit back to catch my breath. Angry red marks flare out on either side of his neck, evidence of my brutality, and a sick triumph flows through me.
It lasts for half a second.
Something small and hard presses against the back of my head, and I freeze, recognizing what it is instantly: the barrel of a gun.
A shadow flutters in the corner of my eye. The flap of a trench coat.
His voice trembles when he finally finds it. “Who sent y…”
I duck to the left, twisting, bringing my arm up and across to shove Trench Coat’s gun in the opposite direction. He manages to get a shot off, but it goes wild.
The cold cement presses into my back as I wrap my legs around his knees and yank forward, sending him off balance and onto the ground. I crawl on top of him and grab his head in my hands.
He nearly got me.
On my last fucking job.
Adrenaline fires through my veins.
I slam his head down onto the concrete. Again. And again. And again.
Crack.
Crack.
Crunch.
The hard hits go dull as his skull caves.
I am covered in bits of bone and spatters of blood, but I do not care because I am done. I peer down at him, my last kill for Lilah, and try to feel something. Remorse? Relief? There is a gnawing deep inside me, and when I dig down deep, I realize what I’m feeling is fear, for the first time tonight.
I glance up at the bodies strewn around me. At the havoc I have wreaked. Without this, I’m not sure of who I am. Sitting back, I try to catch my breath. To slow my heartbeat. I pull my collar down and slide my hoodie back, trying to get some fresh air. I survived. That’s all that matters.
I know I can be better than this. David will help me.
There is only one thing left to do now.
My muscles scream as I pull myself to my feet and shuffle over to the coffin-sized box. The wood is splintered now, pierced by bullet holes and hanging in jagged shards.
I grab a piece of scrap metal from the floor and wedge the edge underneath the lid. One push. Two. Crack.
The lid lifts in a puff of dust. Inside, reams of shredded paper fill the box. Cradling my ribs with one arm, I lean down and begin to dig through. It takes only seconds to find what I truly came for.
I lift a black box the size of a paperback book out from the scraps of paper.
I know better than to open it.
“It’s done.”
My voice in the void of this place sounds hollow and small.
The receiver in my ear crackles and Lilah’s voice croons, “That was fast. Even for you.”
I head toward the door, pulling my gloves off as I go. I do not look back at the men I’ve killed. They will be taken care of by another facet of Lilah’s enterprise.
“It sounded like quite the party,” she purrs. “You can just shoot them, you know.”
Cool air washes over me as I step out into the night. Across the water, the lights of the city twinkle and glow. The sooner I get back there, the sooner Lilah is out of my head, forever.
She has been my mentor for as long as I can remember, and the thought that she will no longer be my near-constant companion thrills me and leaves me feeling achingly lonely at the same time.
“I know,” I say, and because it would seem odd to her if I didn’t banter back I add, “but where’s the fun in that?”
I lift a hand to my ear and end the transmission.
Leaning down, I yank my dagger from Mountain Man’s quickly cooling corpse. It’s the first weapon Lilah gave me, the one I learned to defend myself with.
It would be smarter to leave it behind. To start fresh with no ties to what I’ve done and the life I’ve lead so far, but I can’t bear to part with it.
I’ve been hiding things from David for nearly a year. What’s one more?
2
If you don’t know where Bedlam is, you’ll never find it.
In truth, Lilah’s club at the back of a forgotten alley in the darkest part of Ash City, and it’s invitation only. If you have to search for it, you’ve already failed.
In midtown, billboards flash and taxis honk. The air smells of exhaust and perfume and money. The buildings are chrome and glass and the people are polished and beautiful.
Downtown, the streets are cobblestone and brick, the shadows seem to stretch out and follow you, and nobody notices when your clothes are spattered in blood.
I make my way down one of those cobblestone streets now, getting deeper into the far corners of this city, and my certainty grows that I will never be back this way again. My path is away from this darkness, no matter how alluring I may find it. If I want to be with David, I must move toward the light, toward his light, and let it burn away what I have let myself become.
Before I left last evening, he’d lifted me off of my feet to pull me into a fierce embrace. I’d nuzzled into his neck, losing
myself in his warmth and in his scent. A pediatrician at the hospital, he should live in a cloud of antibacterial gel and antiseptic, but he is pine needles and he is wood smoke and he’d smelled like my David.
“I miss you,” I’d said, and felt him chuckle against me.
“I’m not even gone yet, love.” He’d pulled back from me, a crooked smile on his beautiful face. I’d traced the line of it with my finger, his stubble rough under my touch and his lips curving with amusement.
In all of my twenty-six years, I’d only ever missed him. The moment I’d realized that was the moment everything had begun to change for me.
“And soon, you’ll never have to miss me again.” He’d taken my left hand, intertwined his fingers with mine, and kissed my engagement ring. “I was married to you the night I met you, Gray, and I’m not going anywhere without you.”
I’d pulled him to me, crushing my lips against his, and he’d wrapped my legs around his waist and carried me toward the bed.
We had devoured each other.
Lilah had saved my life. She’d pulled me from the wreckage of my childhood terrors and had thrown me into a new, brutal existence that let me exorcise my demons and unleash my pain. For the longest time, that was all that mattered.
And then I found David.
David had saved me from myself. I had been an angry young woman, and years under Lilah’s employ and tutelage had only calcified and sharpened that fury. It had made me dangerous. Meeting David, a man of uncompromising loyalty and heart, who spent his life not in the business of ending others, but in working to save them, put the tiniest of dents in my armor. Over time, that dented armor cracked, then split, and eventually fell away.
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