Forced Assassin

by Sam Crescent

  A Total-E-Bound Publication

  www.total-e-bound.com

  Forced Assassin

  ISBN # 978-1-78184-048-1

  ©Copyright Natalie Dae and Sam Crescent 2012

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright July 2012

  Edited by Stacey Birkel

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2012 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-burning and a sexometer of 2.

  This story contains 144 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 8 pages.

  FORCED ASSASSIN

  Natalie Dae and Sam Crescent

  Fallan and Bishop are thrown together when she’s his mark on an undercover government operation. Will he manage to tame the feisty redhead?

  Bishop is a government agent, sent to prevent messes before they splurge into the news and wreck lives. His latest mission is to intercept a package before it gets into the wrong hands, and as he sits in a hotel dining room watching his target, he knows if he has to make her his first kill, he’ll be changed forever.

  Fallan Jones is that target—an unsuspecting innocent sent to drop off the package in return for a free hotel weekend and ten grand to pay off her mounting debts. When sexy-as-hell Bishop follows her after she’s secreted the goods then forces her into his car, she realises she’s in a whole world of trouble.

  Taken to his secret hideaways, Fallan finds herself overly attracted to the gorgeous Bishop and wonders if fear plays a part in how much she wants him. But if he’s going to kill her, she may as well enjoy great sex before she dies…

  Other forces are at work, though—the government and the men who offered her the deal—and she’s a risk. If she talks, she’s dead. If she keeps quiet, she may still end up dead.

  Their sexual affair turns into something more, though neither can afford to be with the other. But love is a strong emotion and doesn’t plan on letting them be apart. However, the government has other ideas…

  Dedication

  It was a pleasure working with you, Natalie.

  You’re an amazing writer and I look forward to many more projects like this.

  —Sam

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Waitrose: John Lewis Partnership

  Asda: Asda Stores, Ltd.

  Mission: Impossible: Paramount Pictures

  Mickey Mouse: The Walt Disney Company

  Ford Mondeo: Ford Motor Company

  Renault: Renault S.A.

  Windows: Microsoft Corporation

  Prologue

  Waterman settled more comfortably in his leather office chair. It squeaked until he found the right position. “Each woman will put the goods in the requested location. Each woman will receive ten grand for doing it. Each woman will live the rest of their lives thinking they got lucky. End of.”

  Kemp sat opposite, swivelling in his seat, one foot on the floor, the other resting on his knee. “What if they look in the bags? We won’t know if they do.”

  Waterman sighed. Kemp got on his nerves when he acted like this. “If they look and we find out, then they’re fucked, simple as that. We have all their addresses. We know which woman has what information. Anything leaks, it won’t take a scientist to see who peeked.”

  “I still say it’s a risk.” Kemp pinched his beard-covered cleft chin.

  Sunlight coming through the window behind Waterman made Kemp’s black hair shine. Waterman wished he had a full head of hair like that, instead of his bald nut. Still, he had everything else he could possibly want—money, prestige, the ability to put the fear of God into almost everyone. What was a bit of hair loss compared with that?

  “No risk,” Waterman said. “They signed contracts not to open the bags. The people who want the goods think they’ll get them—that’s what they’re paying us for. They know there’s a risk of their misdemeanours being made public, but they think we’ll do our best not to let that happen. Frankie let the women know, in that lovely way of his, what might happen to people who poke their nose where it isn’t wanted.”

  “Jesus!” Kemp shook his head. “Any one of them could go to the police if he’s used his usual threats.”

  “Nah. He did it in the right way. Said it but didn’t, know what I mean? Got a way with words, that one. The lure of money means a lot to women like them. They’re all skint, all need to pay off a few bills hanging over their heads. Bailiffs coming to the door—amazing what ten grand can stop. Worry, sleepless nights, all that. The chance to start again. That’s why I picked them. They’re desperate, living on edge all the time. My offer was like a gift from God.”

  “But still—”

  Waterman leant forward, slapping his hands onto the desk. “Are you questioning me, fucker?”

  Kemp sat upright, both feet planted on the floor. His face reddened, and he loosened his tie. “No. No, I just—”

  “I just nothing, right? Those women were checked out. Thoroughly. I’d bet my old dear’s pearls not one of them will look in those bags. Now, if you’d rather I call the whole thing off and send you to deliver the goods, you’ve only got to say the word.”

  Kemp snorted. “Fuck no.”

  Waterman chuckled. “Didn’t think so. Don’t like the idea of the government sniffing about and finding you, do you? Them knowing you know what’s on those microchips?”

  “No.” Kemp closed his eyes and shuddered.

  “As far as they’re concerned, I don’t even know what’s on them, but, if I send you to deliver—because lately you keep querying every fucking thing I do—well, Frankie might let it slip you’ve looked on the chips, know what I’m saying? It’s easy for them to get rid of you.”

  “Why are we even going through the charade of dropping the bags off when we’re sending our own people to steal them back? We’re not even keeping to our end of the deal. It would have been cheaper if you dropped them off, would save you paying the women. Why don’t you do it?”

  “Why have a dog and bark yourself?”

  “I suppose…”

  “We need to make it look like someone else entirely has taken the goods from their hiding places, not us. Those government agent fuckers are dangerous to mess with.”

  “I know, but—”

  “There you go, then. Shut the fuck up.”

  Chapter One

  Bishop. He rolled the word around in his mind, testing whether it fitted. He quite liked it as names went. It wasn’t a bad one, better than some of the others he’d had, but it wouldn’t be his long enough to matter, anyway.

  They
never were.

  He stared across the hotel dining room—with white cloths draped over round tables big enough to seat six—to the woman sitting in the far right-hand corner. She hadn’t clocked him watching her since yesterday—or at least he didn’t think she had—and ate her Beef Wellington in delicate morsels, gaze fixed into the far distance as though she had a lot on her mind. And she would have, if the other marks were anything to go by.

  He looked at his own plate, the food there unappealing, and wished he’d opted for the Wellington himself. A pork chop—undercooked, the fat around the edge soggy and unappetising—seemed to mock him, the mashed potatoes next to it just as sloppy, just as stomach-churning. He pushed his plate aside and reached for a glass of water, catching a glimpse of his reflection owing to the harsh lighting from the chandeliers.

  Bishop sighed. He appeared in sore need of sleep, those dark circles beneath his eyes the bane of his life. The inch-long scar on his cheekbone from an assignment last year had at last faded from deep pink to a paler shade, but it still marred his otherwise handsome face, still reminded him he’d failed.

  The one who got away…

  He grimaced, placing his glass on the table, turning it this way and that for want of something to do. Occupying his mind on occasions like this was always difficult—he watched, he noted, he waited, over and over again, until his marks did what he’d been told they would and he had to finish them.

  A lock of his black fringe caught on his eyelashes, and he shook his head. Focusing on the woman again, he wondered why she’d been chosen for the job. That long auburn hair of hers would get in the way if she didn’t tie it up, and her slender figure brought forth thoughts of a ballerina rather than an athlete who could cope with running for her life if the need arose. It would, too, if things went to plan…and she’d be running from Bishop, lungs straining, leg muscles screaming.

  That’s if she ran. He might get lucky and catch her before she had a chance to flee, but things rarely worked out like that when he was on a job. He’d had to fight for the end result every time, Fate or Lady Luck poking her big nose in, stirring things up so he failed to get an easy ride…

  He laughed. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d ridden a woman. Relationships were few and far between in his line of work. It was pointless trying to have one, his long hours, days away from home—weeks, sometimes—didn’t bode well for keeping a woman happy. Still, he had his right hand, and that had been enough. Until he’d set eyes on Fallan Jones. Was that her real name or was she hiding, the same as him? He shouldn’t care, hadn’t in the past, but then his marks weren’t usually so bloody…attractive.

  Fallan. He rolled that name around too, liking it more every time it echoed in his mind. He imagined calling it out when he came, when she clutched him to her, legs clamped about his waist, crossed at the ankles, heels driving him deeper inside a cunt he imagined would be tight. Soaked.

  His cock twitched—the last thing he needed if Fallan got up and left the dining room. He willed it not to grow fully erect, thankful when it didn’t. He needn’t have worried. It looked as though she was going for three courses tonight. A waiter whisked her plate away, and another came by with desserts on a trolley laden with sweet delights.

  She ought to be on that trolley, sweet delight that she is.

  No, he mustn’t think of her like that. She was a mark, nothing more, someone who needed taking out before she did any more damage.

  She pointed to a high mound of profiteroles, and the waiter spooned several into a white dish, pouring melted chocolate over them with such skill that the brown liquid didn’t dribble down the side of the jug. With the bowl before her, she nodded her thanks and the waiter moved away, pushing the trolley out of the dining room. Odd, that. He usually visited every table.

  Suspicion took hold, twisting in Bishop’s mind, a nasty coil of barbed wire that pricked all his senses, putting him on high alert. He stood, casually tugging the hem of his black suit jacket, and walked across the room to the doorway the waiter had gone through. The trolley stood in a corridor, abandoned, all shelves below the top covered with another of those white cloths. He smiled, thinking of every bad action film he’d watched, where a gun-wielding man hid behind the material, ready to pounce.

  Double doors with circular glass at the top let him know the kitchen lay behind them and that he didn’t have much time. Someone would come out of there in a minute, plate-laden hands held aloft, food piping hot, steam billowing like London fog. He sidled up to the doors and peeked through one of the windows, noting the busy staff in their sauce-stained white uniforms going about their business.

  Letting out a sigh of relief, he went back to the trolley and lifted the cloth on one side. Desserts, the same as those on top, filled the two lower shelves—muffins, cheesecakes, and some pastry confection that had God knew what in the middle—but nothing else. He crouched, that barbed wire poking him some more, and shifted a few plates around.

  A small jewel bag lay under the lip of a large plate, the requisite black velvet, a drawstring bunching the neck tight. He picked it up and slipped it in the inside pocket of his jacket, standing to settle the cloth back in place. His heart rate accelerated from him having bagged the prize so easily, and he thought about the coming days he would have for free time as a result.

  One of the kitchen doors swung open, startling him, although he hid it well. The waiter who had pushed the desserts out here stared at him, mouth dropping open at the same time as his gaze raked over the trolley.

  “I took a wrong turn, it seems,” Bishop said, his voice, through years of practice, coming out steady and bold.

  He turned abruptly and strode back into the dining room, using his peripheral to check whether Miss Jones was still wading through her profiteroles. She’d finished and was sipping from a wine glass half full of water, staring his way. Bishop reached his table and retook his seat, ready to make a swift move if the need arose. He’d chosen this table for the French doors behind him that led out on to a terrace, the edges lined with square marble planters, flowers a riot of colour in the centre and ivy hanging over each corner, the final leaves on each vine kissing the wooden deck. The terrace gave way to a vast lawn, its outskirts boasting tall conifers. This place, in the middle of the English countryside, was the perfect hideaway for what Miss Jones had been contracted to do. For what he’d been contracted to do.

  The waiter barged through the doorway, trolley in front of him, and made straight for Fallan’s table. He conversed with her, and anyone watching might think nothing untoward was going on, him taking her empty bowl and placing it on the trolley top. She didn’t widen her eyes, nor did she exhibit any telling body language. She smiled, nodded, and twisted her wine glass around by the stem.

  Oh, she’s good.

  As the waiter walked away, his strides clipped, his head darting this way and that until his gaze landed on Bishop, Fallan rose. She smoothed down her short black dress—a ridiculous outfit considering the nature of her job—and picked up her red clutch bag from the table. She tucked it under her arm and made her way towards him, hips swaying, those legs of hers going on forever. Lush, full breasts shamelessly sat above a low neckline, giving every man in the room more than an eyeful, and, Bishop suspected, a few lecherous thoughts.

  She appeared unaware of the attention she gained—definitely not a woman who knew how appealing she was, how incredibly alluring, and pretty in a sophisticated way—and walked past him without a glance. Her perfume lingered in her wake, a combination of flowers and something spicy he couldn’t work out, and he took a deep breath, imagining how intoxicating that aroma would be in a sex-heated room. Cloying. Erotic. Sexy as hell.

  Stop thinking about her like that. You’ve still got work to do. Get it done, then get the fuck out of here.

  He knew he should, knew he ought to fulfil his obligations, pack his small bag and check out, taking the goods to his boss. Have a few days off before another assignment came his way. But h
e couldn’t resist getting up and following her, a hound dog chasing the scent, across the terrace and around to the front of the hotel.

  She stood leaning against the building beside the semi-circular front steps, talking into a mobile phone. He stopped short, mind whirling with options, and decided on staying where he was, her spotting him be damned. She grew agitated, talking in sharper tones, pressing one hand to her free ear as if she needed to hear better. She nodded, glanced up and spotted him, then muttered something before cutting the call.

  He smiled, wanting to put her at ease, but it clearly hadn’t worked. She stared at him, eyes wide, that caught-in-the-act face he’d seen too many times to count. He sighed at having such a delicious mark—it made his job more difficult—but he had to take her out whether he found her attractive or not. If he didn’t… Well, it just wasn’t an option.

  In three long strides he was beside her, gripping her elbow and steering her to the other end of the hotel, where darkness cloaked the side of the building and the trees looked nothing more than black blobs against the inky sky. Cloud coverage was nil, and the moon hung behind them, giving him the perfect setting to perform his last task here.

  She struggled, quite the hellcat, but didn’t say anything, walking beside him until they reached the far corner of the building. He let her go, bracing himself for her to turn more feral, into some kick-arse woman who knew martial arts and could take him down without a second’s thought.

  She didn’t, instead leaning against the hotel, her face hidden by shadow and the night.

  “What do you want with me?” she asked.

  He savoured her voice—such a shame she wouldn’t speak ever again after five minutes with him—and clenched his teeth, knowing what he had to do. Sometimes he hated his job.