“What should I do, Jeremy?” I ask the steamy bathroom air, trying to get some clarity. “How do I get out of this and do right by her?”
How should I know? You’re the one who’s spent years learning how to be a killer. You’ve picked up a few other skills in that time too.
Even in my head, my brother’s biting sarcasm resonates, making me feel close to him.
I quickly wash and step out of the shower, drying off before checking my shave in the mirror. A day’s growth . . . no need for my razor today. Instead, I head back into the motel room and open up my travel bag, grabbing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a red zip-up hoodie to get dressed. Leaving the motel room, I get into my ‘work’ truck and drive, trying to think about how I can protect Bella.
It’s the million-dollar question that’s been tearing me up since I snuck out of Bella’s bed this morning with no more ideas than I’d had when I fell asleep with her in my arms.
It’s a ticking time bomb situation and I have to make a move.
I pull over into the parking lot of a convenience store on the north side of town. There isn’t much else around, and it’s ancient enough that there are probably no cameras on the side of the building where I park.
Using the privacy, I pop open the console next to me and take out my burner phone. I dial a number from memory, knowing it’ll be missed but that my recipient will get the voicemail and respond accordingly.
“You’ve reached Larry’s Plumbing. I’m out of the office. Leave a message.”
“Hi, I’ve got a problem with my toilet. The ball float won’t do its job. If you can replace it ASAP, I’d appreciate it,” I say, using the necessary code words. “A rush job, if you’re available.”
I hang up, knowing I just tacked a hefty fee onto what I’m asking, but there isn’t much I can do about it. I need help now.
It doesn’t even take two minutes before my phone rings. I pick it up. “Hello?”
“You called about a toilet?” the voice on the other end asks. I’ve never met Larry the Librarian, but there are few in the underworld who don’t know that slightly nasally voice. I do wonder just how he’s able to pull off a front of being a plumber, but for all I know, that’s just his damn cellphone line. “A rush job?”
“Yes, Larry, I did,” I reply. I hear the grunt on the other end. He knows me and recognizes my voice. “I need a supplement.”
“Just a moment,” Larry says, and a moment later, I hear an electronic beep in my ear. “Go ahead. The line’s scrambled.”
“I need everything you can give me on a man named Blackwell.”
He whistles, long and low. “I can’t help you with that.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, surprised. Never in the years that I’ve been using Larry as my primary information broker has he refused a request.
“No. As in, if you want to stay topside and not six feet under in an unmarked hole in the forest, you’ll drop any inquiry into that man. There are people you should not look into. He’s one of them.”
“That a threat?”
“Just advice. From one professional to another. Goodbye, Gabriel.”
Before I can say anything else, Larry hangs up. I try the number back, but I don’t even get the voicemail, instead getting a computer voice that tells me the number I dialed is no longer available.
Shit.
Not even a moment later, my other phone buzzes, and I see it’s a text message.
I want an update.
Speak of the fucking devil.
“Fine, you want an update?” I ask, starting up my truck and pulling out of the convenience store parking lot. “I’ll give you one,” I say to myself.
Chapter 16
Blackwell
The office is cloaked in shadow as I sit behind my desk, waiting and plotting. I tap my hand on the desk, quickly shadow fingering my way through Ravel’s Piano Concerto For the Left Hand to slow my rising blood pressure.
My father, decades ago, had forced a much younger and more malleable version of me to learn the piano as a means of structuring my thoughts. At the time, I’d hated the hours at the ivories, had pleaded to stop practicing, and the dismissive response my father gave had been the beginning of the end of any positive feelings I had about him.
Coupled with the look of disappointment in his eyes when I didn’t perform to his satisfaction, on the piano and in my young life, it’d been enough to eventually make me hate the man. Enough that when he died, I got drunk . . . to happily celebrate his passing.
But still, the lessons stuck, and I often find myself absentmindedly pressing out the broad strokes of notes along a nonexistent keyboard.
The clock chimes eight, and my temper rises a notch. Previously, my guest had arrived early, but now, he is precisely on time. A telling change. While not disrespectful per se, it shows the variance in his feelings about this job, perhaps about me. It’s a power move that shows his hand, whether he realizes it or not.
The door to my office opens, without a knock, and Gabriel Jackson comes in, unescorted this time. While that could be seen as a sign of danger, I know that my personal security detail frisked the man when he stepped off the elevator and they’d be in here at the press of a button if I needed them. Still, I won’t be careless, considering how Gabriel’s reputation precedes him.
“Mr. Blackwell.”
My hand stops before the second movement of the piano piece, and I stand up, ignoring Gabriel’s greeting to walk over to my wet bar. This is also a power move, one of many I employ regularly, allowing me to stand over my guest and to control the beginning of the conversation more readily. The show of good manners also makes people underestimate the degree of cruelty I am capable of.
I pick up a decanter of tequila, not yet looking at Gabriel. Over my shoulder, I toss, “You’re late. In many senses of the word.”
“Your security man was extra thorough,” Gabriel says as I turn around, adjusting his tie as though my guard had left him disheveled. “I haven’t been that violated since my last trip through airport security.”
“When someone is as dangerous as your reputation says, it’s in my best interests to be . . . cautious,” I reply, pouring myself a glass and intentionally not offering one to him. “Have a seat.”
Gabriel sits, and I lean against the bar to study him for a moment. Typically, I find that a silent, pregnant pause on my part leads others to shift and fidget nervously, especially when they are well aware they have not met my expectations.
But not him.
Gabriel sits still and patient, but ready, a light tension coiled through his muscles. Unable to wait any longer, I let him have the appearance of the upper hand by initiating. “So—”
“There have been developments,” Gabriel says evenly, looking unfrazzled as I sip my tequila. “The job has required more finesse than I expected.”
“How so? It should be a rather easy one for someone like you.” It’s a compliment and an accusation in one. “She’s unprotected, unskilled, and slinging slop in a rundown diner. Unless your reputation of handling high-value targets is overinflated, this should’ve been the fastest contract you’ve ever completed.”
I’m tired of excuses, but at the same time intrigued. I have hired gangsters before, usually as muscle to intimidate someone, but Gabriel Jackson is unique. His demeanor demands further study and a little bit of vigilance.
Gabriel nods, folding his fingers together. “Of course not. But she has very powerful friends.”
“Which is why I hired you in the first place,” I hiss, setting the tumbler of tequila down on the surface of the bar, realizing a beat too late that my outburst exposes my reasoning for being interested in a podunk diner waitress.
“Tell me why you hired me, not a thug, for this contract,” Gabriel says lightly.
I scoff, dismissing the request. “I’m not here to stroke your ego.”
He shakes his head but continues. “Of course not, but perhaps the answer to your concern is contained in t
he information you already have.” He inclines his head, waiting patiently.
“You are thorough, careful, able to meet specific needs of unique jobs. Your reputation as a cold-blooded killer appeals to a certain type. In particular, it works well for power plays.” Hmm, perhaps he is correct. The reasons I hired him and not a Craigslist-advertised hitman are rather apparent. “But the results are not holding to your hype,” I finish icily.
“Rest assured, I’ve earned my reputation,” Gabriel replies, still looking unruffled. “If you have any questions on my effectiveness, feel free to ask my former employers. They’re all men and women who would stand equal to you in their respective fields.”
I’ve been around a long time. I know a veiled threat when I hear one. And while I’m not normally a man to take threats lying down, I say nothing. The situation has become a bit of a chess match. Luckily for me, I don’t play by the rules and am quite comfortable stacking the game in my favor.
However, while I have done many things that normal people would consider evil, Gabriel Jackson is the type of man that one keeps at arm’s length when possible.
Besides, he’s right. I know Gabriel’s former employers, and what he says is the truth.
“Then what are the developments that are staying your hand?” I ask.
“As you’re aware, I don’t create collateral damage. And I will maintain that professional standard.”
“You didn’t answer the question. What is staying your hand?”
“Her friends,” Gabriel challenges. “You said the job was to send a message to someone in her circle. I suspect you did not predict they would anticipate this sort of reaction from you, and she has been given extra protection.” He gives me a hard look, daring me to contradict him. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I know more about Thomas Goldstone that he ever will, but I bite that tidbit back, not wanting to further divulge my obsessive nature with an underling.
He continues at my silence. “Each time I’ve observed her at the diner, she has had three customers consistently with her. Their presence seemed beyond commitment to the subpar food, so I did some looking. I have yet to identify two of them . . . but one I know. She’s a private bodyguard, used to work Secret Service a few years ago.”
A small amount of pleasure blossoms that perhaps Gabriel has noticed the PI that I hired to follow him. I’m impressed to some degree. But he doesn’t know who the man is or what he’s been sent to do. Another play in my favor.
Though my PI hasn’t mentioned anyone else in play, but perhaps his vision has been so laser-focused on Gabriel, his intended target, that he didn’t parcel out other potential hazards to my plan.
“And this stops you how? You’ve already said you’re not doing the job at the diner.”
“I’ve seen this same woman drive by Isabella’s house. It gives me pause,” Gabriel says, drawing the word out. “Mr. Blackwell, understand this. I’m a professional, not a suicide bomber. I’m a man who has a particular set of skills and rules. If you wanted something done at any cost, you wouldn’t have come to me.”
“So are you telling me that you cannot complete your task?” I ask, wondering how badly this man is trying to fuck me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned the whole situation around on me, considering my experience with men in his dark line of work, but he surprises me with his answer.
“Hardly . . . just that we should be careful,” Gabriel replies. “It’s for your protection as much as it is for mine. I just need time. Mr. Blackwell, I do play a rather effective seducer.” His cold demeanor warms in a blink, a charming smile and boy next door joviality replacing his threatening aura.
“So I hear,” I say tauntingly. It is a calculated comment, meant to make him feel pinned under a microscope and show that while he may think he has the upper hand in our conversation, he is woefully unprepared compared to a man like me.
His good-natured act disappears, icy frost in his dark eyes as they lock on me.
“Rest assured that I do what I need to so that the job is completed as agreed upon. I have already made initial contact.” The words are correct, but they fight their way out, as if he’d do anything to not say them.
Interesting.
The question of whether Gabriel is becoming closer to Isabella as a means to an end or as something else still looms. I consider the options, and her seduction and humiliating end has a certain irony and justice to it that I can appreciate. Fine . . . maybe it will be worth it to see if Gabriel Jackson is actually going to do his job.
I sip my tequila, thinking. To know that Isabella Turner went to her grave degraded and heartbroken . . . that would be a sweet taste of revenge indeed. “Fine. But I want proof. And quickly.”
Gabriel nods and gets up. “You can be assured you will get your proof. As soon as her bodyguards relax, I’ll make my move.”
Gabriel walks to the door, but before he can open it, I call out again. “Mr. Jackson, do not make me lose faith in you. I am not the sort of man you should double-cross.”
Gabriel turns, his hand moving so quickly that I can hardly see it before a stainless steel throwing knife embeds itself in the middle of the wet bar, not more than three inches from my hand. “The same could be said about me. You need better security, but currently, I’m no threat to you. Goodnight, Mr. Blackwell.”
Gabriel leaves, softly closing the door behind him, and for the first time in years, fear makes my hand shake as I set my tumbler down. I pry the throwing knife out of the wood, grunting with effort as the knife’s embedded deeply in the antique oak.
The low lights in my office reflect off the muted silvery surface, and in it I can see a warped, wavy reflection of my face. It makes me look like a monster, and after a moment, I set the knife down, pondering the meeting.
First lesson. Gabriel Jackson is not a man to be trifled with. Young, yes. But foolish? Doubtful.
Still, the threats, the lack of fear Gabriel showed . . . they irk me. I’m a man used to having others quake at the very mention of my name. Even those of a caliber to afford hiring Gabriel would not normally go against me.
And yet, Gabriel hurled a knife in my office like it was nothing. Like I am nothing.
I need to know, is that the reaction of a man truly without fear, or an act born from fear, the violently desperate reaction of a cornered animal?
The tequila has warmed my stomach, but another warmth spreads through my body . . . the warm fire of anger.
The little shit, daring to threaten me.
Going over to my desk, I sit, my fingers mindlessly tapping out Ravel again as I consider my options.
“Fine . . . I’ll give you some more rope,” I finally say, opening my desk to search for a very specific phone. One I only use in very specific circumstances. “But only enough for you to hang yourself with if you betray me.”
Dialing quickly, I wait as the line rings, bounced through at least two redialing services based off the changes in tone.
I detest using such devices, but in this case, it is as secure as it can be. Finally, after a long period of near-black silence, the line is picked up.
“Yes?”
“Jericho? This is Blackwell.”
“It has been awhile. What can I do for you?” the voice says, giving me shivers. And that is why I am using it. If Gabriel Jackson can frighten me, then logically, hiring someone even more deadly, though not quite as quiet and certainly not as ethical, is the best option.
“I’d like to discuss a potential job offer.”
There is silence on the other end of the line, and I wait patiently while Jericho considers his words. “I can be at SeaTac in two days.”
“Excellent. I’ll meet you there personally. Send me your arrival time.”
The line hangs up, and I turn off the phone before putting it away.
My PI will continue to follow Gabriel, perhaps get a read on whether he is being sly or has fallen under Miss Turner’s charm. And in two days’ time, Jericho will take ove
r this mission if it has not been completed successfully.
That piece of business taken care of, I stand up, reaching into my desk drawer for the small pistol that I keep, just in case.
I have a security guard to chastise.
Chapter 17
Gabriel
I pull my truck over to the side of the street, mindlessly pulling off a near-perfect parallel parking job about a mile from the Blackwell building. Taking a few breaths, I go over exactly what Blackwell said, looking for tells, gaps, and information.
The back and forth nature of conversation is sometimes the worst enemy to a well-laid plan, sharing more than intended. Conversing with Blackwell had been more chess match and power posturing than usual, though.
Everything had been going mostly according to plan, and I’d even gotten a bit of insight about his motivation for wanting the hit on Bella. My bluff about security because of her big-wig friends had been just that, a bluff based on the research I’d done and the connections I’d made myself about what in Bella’s life could put her at such risk. But Blackwell had all but said that he is using Bella to get at Thomas Goldstone. It seems like an obvious slip of the tongue, which makes me question the accidental nature of it.
But all in all, it’d gone pretty well, I’d even managed to put off his urgency at completing the job, until I’d mentioned using seduction as an effective tool.
So I hear, he’d said.
And the game had changed, pivoted on a dime.
In three words, he let me know that he was holding more cards than I’d prepared for.
I’d had to play along, telling Blackwell, the one man I don’t want to look too closely at my relationship with Isabella, that I’d already begun a seduction course of action. Of course, the best cover is as close to reality as possible, so in making Blackwell believe I am seeing Isabella in order to complete his mission, perhaps I can distract him from my true intentions.
But that is only a temporary solution.
Not So Prince Charming: A Dirty Fairy Tale Page 14
