The floor is covered with beige carpeting that reeks of cigarette smoke. Actually, the whole room smells like cigarette smoke, and as I approach the bed, I see an ashtray filled to the brim with butts. There’s also a cluster of pills and bottles on the nightstand, all signs that the guy was high as hell when he went to sleep this evening.
As a major importer of narcotics from Mexico into Texas, the guy has more than enough resources at his fingertips to indulge in whatever way he wants to.
And I’m sure that when he’s choosing the drugs to use, he steers clear of the ones laced with poison that have been hitting the streets around schools lately…all of which, according to my sources, are coming from this loser. Fifteen deaths from the latest batch alone, and I’m sure there’s more leaking out around the city.
Scumbag.
I pull my gun from my hip holster and wait for his rattling, phlegm-filled exhale to cover up the clicking sound as I release the safety. Then, without a second thought, I press the trigger.
The guy gives one last shuttering inhale and then stops, his lungs full of air that will never be used.
It’s over.
I linger over his body for three to four minutes, long enough to verify his death by feeling for a pulse. The August night is hot and muggy, and sweat pools in my gloved hands as I press my fingers against his carotid artery.
It’s still.
I can’t wait to get the hell out of this bedroom. The sickly scent of cigarettes is overwhelming. Within seconds, I’ve made a beeline to the window and reattached the ropes to my harness. Just as I’m about to push the window open, my lungs spasm. The air is toxic in here—my body is crying out for clean oxygen. I cough twice, violently, before I can get the reflex under control and stifle the coughing.
My whole body shakes as I work to suppress several more coughs, and I step back from the window long enough to put my hands on my knees. I focus all of my attention on my lungs, my throat, and my breath.
Finally, the sensation passes.
I straighten up, and as I do so, my eye catches sight of a photograph. It’s off to one side of the window—I never would have seen it had it not been for the coughing fit.
But now, I find myself face to face with a photograph of a child.
It’s a school portrait. The kid in the photo is young—maybe first or second grade. His eyes are bright and he’s smiling so wide that I can pick out two missing teeth. I have no idea how recent the picture is, but one thing is certain: this is definitely the drug lord's kid. The resemblance is unmistakable.
I just killed this kid’s father. His dad.
In the morning, this child is going to find out that his dad is dead. Because of me. He’ll have a fatherless childhood, just like I did.
I tear my eyes away from the photograph.
For a few seconds, I can’t think. All I can do is imagine that kid’s face when he learns his father is dead. I’m playing the scenario out—the wife getting home, screaming as she finds her husband lying in a pool of his own blood. The child, waking up to the sound of his mother’s hysteria.
My hand starts shaking.
I have to get out of here. I reach for the window and pull it open. Muscle memory takes me to the roof, but I’m still having trouble getting my thoughts under control.
As I cross the roof, I find myself picturing the child’s face again. Will his eyes ever shine that bright again, once he lives through the events that tonight holds for him? Will he ever smile ear to ear like that, as if the world is full of nothing but promise?
I’m at the edge of the roof.
I did this, I think. I took his father. I took the light from his eyes. I took his smile.
My hand knocks against the edge of my ladder, and in horror I watch it sail away from the roof. My shoulders jerk up to my ears and I cringe as the aluminum frame clatters against the chain-link fence bellow.
Shit, shit, shit.
A dog in the adjacent yard starts barking, and I see a bedroom light in the house next door come on.
My survival instincts kick into gear. I know that I only have a few minutes before the neighbor spots the ladder. I run across the roof, making calculations as I go. My rope will get me to the pavement, and I decide that I have time to go around the house and grab the ladder before the cops could possibly arrive.
Moving fast, I rappel down the side of the house, retrieve my rope, and then round the corner of the house and collect my ladder. Within three minutes, I’m in my car, pulling away from the curb. I can see blue lights, flashing in the distance. The police have arrived faster than I expected.
That was fucking close. Way too close.
I slam my hands against the steering wheel in an attempt to release some of the pent-up steam that’s building inside of me.
It doesn’t help.
What the fuck just happened? I lost my shit up there. It was that photograph. Then, all of the mistakes afterwards. In the five years since leaving the Navy, I’ve never botched a job so badly. Am I losing my edge?
From the corner of my eye, I see my phone light up.
It’s Clint. At least, that’s what my employer goes by, when he makes contact. I highly doubt it’s his real name. I’ve never actually met him, and that’s just fine by me. The phone is vibrating against the car seat, giving off a faint green glow as it hums.
He wants to know that the job is done. But at this moment, talking to Clint is the last thing that I want to do. My nerves are so fried, it feels like I’ve swallowed live wires and they’re simmering inside my stomach.
I want to get as far from this neighborhood and the sirens behind me as possible. I want to get out of this car, and out of these sweaty, incriminating clothes. I want to hide these guns.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into my motel.
There’s no sign of police presence, but just to be on the safe side, I throw all of my gear into a worn duffel bag and then pull on my construction worker attire—a thick, dirty denim jacket, bright orange vest, hard hat, and construction boots.
I make my way into my room knowing that the motel’s cameras will only pick up my hard hat, not my face. Once inside my room, I feel like I can breathe a little better. I strip down and then stand under a hot shower for so long my skin starts to burn. But even the scalding water won’t take away the jitters now living inside of my body.
I need a drink, and I’m not going to find one here. There’s a club I usually go to when I’m in San Antonio, and I think of it, now. They’re probably still open—it’s only one a.m.
I dress in a black T-shirt, jeans, boots, and my leather riding jacket. I pull my motorcycle helmet over my head, and then exit the motel room once again. This time, instead of the dark sedan—a rental that I plan on returning bright and early in the morning—I hop onto my motorcycle.
In just a few minutes, I’ll have a glass of whiskey in my hand, and I can drown out this disaster of a night once and for all.
Secret Daddy Surprise is available on Amazon now!
CLICK HERE TO GET IT
Also by Layla Valentine
ONCE A SEAL, ALWAYS A SEAL
His Baby Secret
Hot Pursuit
SEXT ME
Secret Daddy Surprise
SAN BRAVADO BILLIONAIRES’ CLUB
Second Chance Twins
Nanny For Hire
The Baby Bargain
Accidental Triplets
Take My V-Card
BABIES FOR THE BILLIONAIRE
Triplets For The Billionaire
Quadruplets For The Billionaire
Baby, ASAP
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My Protector (Once a SEAL, Always a SEAL Book 5) Page 16
