CAUGHT: A Hitman Romance

by Noir, Stella

  CAUGHT

  A Hitman Romance

  Copyright © 2016 by Stella Noir

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events 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.

  All rights reserved.

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  Content

  CAUGHT-A Hitman Romance

  CHAPTER ONE - Mars

  CHAPTER TWO - Nike

  CHAPTER THREE - Mars

  CHAPTER FOUR - Nike

  CHAPTER FIVE - Nike

  CHAPTER SIX - Mars

  CHAPTER SEVEN - Nike

  CHAPTER EIGHT - Nike

  CHAPTER NINE - Mars

  CHAPTER TEN - Nike

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - Mars

  CHAPTER TWELVE - Nike

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Mars

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Mars

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Nike

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Mars

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Nike

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Mars

  CHAPTER NINETEEN - Nike

  CHAPTER TWENTY - Nike

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - Mars

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - Mars

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - Nike

  Thank you for reading!

  Silent Daughter 1: Taken

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  CAUGHT

  A Hitman Romance

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mars

  One last hit. It needs to be perfect.

  Clean, quick and no witnesses—like every hit before.

  I squint through the night vision scope, constantly keeping an eye on that one door in the middle of the narrow alley. I know that’s where he will be coming through, just him. No companion, no bodyguards. He will be alone.

  I pull up my scarf until it covers most of my face, all except the eyes. A simple precaution. The scarf, in combination with a simple black skullcap hides my face well enough to make it close to impossible to identify me, in case I get seen.

  Of course, that never happens. I am careful and thorough in what I do.

  Weeks of research and stalking lie behind me. I’ve studied this guy inside out, his habits, his everyday life, his usual hangouts. Wherever he was, I was, too, constantly on his tail. Sometimes he was aware, because we know each other and it’s not uncommon for us to be in the same place at the same time. But most of the time he had no idea, and he certainly had no clue that I was following and watching him.

  There is not much consistency in his life. He’s a mobster, just like all of my targets. A guy like him doesn’t follow a normal routine, a simple life with a job, a wife, some friends, maybe even kids. Luckily, he doesn’t have any of that. It makes eradicating him a lot easier, at least in that regard.

  However, it’s not like he’s an easy target in general. He’s smart, experienced and usually well guarded. This douche has been in the business for long enough to know his way around. Even when there is no imminent threat to his life, he is always prepared. He even hired a bodyguard, but only has him around when he’s close to the club for some reason. The mob’s hangout spot. At least it used to be, before everything went to shit.

  There are just two things that make this a lot easier for me. First, he doesn’t know what’s coming. There is no particular reason for him to assume that someone might be after him, especially me. After all, we used to be close enough for others to call us friends. That’s just them, though. I’ve never seen him as a friend, but more as a necessity.

  I could never call someone like him a friend.

  I straighten up and stretch, relaxing my face for just a moment, before I scan the surroundings down below. Just as I hoped, the streets are still empty. Not many people like to walk around in this neighborhood at night. It was one of the reasons for me to choose this spot. That alley, that door.

  The second thing that makes this job easier for me is his need for women. Cheap and quick women. Why on earth he chooses to come to this particular brothel, I will never understand. It’s not like he doesn’t have the money to go somewhere else, pay for better quality and frequent a better location. Less shady, safer and more enjoyable, I would assume.

  But for some reason, he goes to this place. Twice a week. It’s one of the few constants in his otherwise unpredictable lifestyle. He arrives at eleven in the evening and leaves shortly after midnight. Every single time. There has not been one exception since I started observing him.

  It’s almost midnight now and I’m beginning to get tense.

  Soon. Very soon all of this will be over. I’ll finally be out and free of this shit.

  This job has taken its toll. Every single hit left a mark on my already dark soul, and I hate it with a passion. Truth is, I wanted out as soon as I started it, but that’s not how it works. You don’t just quit working for the mob like you would quit any other job, hand in your notice and be gone a few weeks later.

  A nasty grin finds its way on my face as I think about it. What a silly thought. Quitting the mob. It’s impossible.

  Well, I’m about to do exactly that. Achieve the impossible

  Clean. Quick.

  No witnesses.

  I glance around one more time, my eyes scanning the street fifteen stories below, checking windows and doors of the surrounding houses. There’s light in some of them, but I don’t see a single person. No eyes that are looking up to the edge of the roof where I’m all set up with my rifle, ready to flee the scene once the job is done. Though, tonight is not a job per se, but more of a personal errand. My ticket to freedom—and one fewer asshole in this world.

  I get back into position and continue to focus on the door, squinting through the scope with my heartbeat racing as if this was my first hit. I am nervous, which is weird. My hands are sweaty and my mouth is dry. It annoys the hell out of me. I cannot lose my cool tonight.

  It’s not the hit itself that has me unraveled, but what comes after it. The prospect of a life that is free of this deed. A life that no longer forces me to stain my hands with blood, though I have tried to avoid literally getting my hands dirty for the longest time.

  There were exceptions, but most of my hits have been carried out with my sniper rifle, a loyal companion for years. I have always had a good aim, a special talent that can hardly be used for a good cause. It’s good for killing, and that’s that. Killing from afar with one clean shot.

  After all, why be messy? A good aim, a reliable rifle with a strong suppressor, that’s how I like to operate. That’s how I intend to finish this last blow as well.

  Any moment now.

  I will have to be quick. He will open the door, but won’t step out of the building before checking the alley left and right. That’s what he does. He doesn’t want to be seen here. I have been sitting in this exact same spot again and again, watching him through the scope of my rifle with no intention of pulling the trigger. It was just my way of making sure that he doesn’t change his routine, that his actions will be predictable when I am ready to take him out.

  He always pokes his head out first, looks left, then right, before he steps out, letting the door close behind him while he scurries off to the left, toward the building that I am sitting on. As soon as the door closes shut, that’s my moment. That’s when it will happen.

  My last hit.

  As the tension gro
ws, I do what always do when the circumstances allow it: I whistle a little melody. It’s always the same. The catchy and short refrain of a song that my mother used to sing to calm us down after the yelling stopped. It still works its magic.

  My eyes are glued to the door, and that’s where they’ll remain until the deed is done. Now is the time to focus. I will have to trust my ears and instincts in regards to my immediate surroundings.

  Tonight is the first night where they will fail me.

  I am on my knees, squinting through the scope with all my attention on the back door of a low class brothel, when things are finally set in motion. The door opens, and everything that follows happens extremely fast.

  I see his almost bald head peaking through, looking left and right, checking the dark alley for any passerby, before he dares to step out. He is not even 50 years old, but appears so much older with his hairless head, the round belly and his weirdly old fashioned getup.

  The bullet hits him between the eyes as soon as the door closes behind him, and as soon as I see him fall to the ground, I straighten up, my eyes still on him, but no longer fixated on the scope.

  That’s when I hear it.

  I faint gasp.

  The sound of a person who is scared witless.

  It’s coming from behind me.

  I turn around just in time to catch the pale and frightened face of a young girl, maybe in her early twenties, standing just a few feet behind me. She stares at me through dark and wide eyes for a split second, before she whirls around and makes a run for it.

  Fuck.

  I jump up on my feet faster than I ever have in my life and take up the chase.

  No witnesses. No fucking witnesses.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nike

  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  What just happened?!

  Did that guy just shoot someone? Did I witness a murder happen right now?

  I cannot believe this. I don’t want to believe this. But I could see him jump up out of the corner of my eye when I turned around to run away. He didn’t yell, he didn’t try to calm me down or explain himself. Instead, he started running after me, indicating that I am to be silenced before I can rat him out.

  I am fleeing across the roof, aiming for the fire escape at the other side. Luckily, this is one of the few things that I am good at. Running. I have been a passionate runner and sprinter since high school, and I am fast, not only for a girl. Back in school, most of the fastest boys in my class couldn’t keep up with me and running has even paid for my education, because I got through college on a generous athletic scholarship.

  However, never in my life would I have expected my running to come as an advantage in a situation like this.

  I might be running for my life right now. Literally.

  Is he still following me? I can’t hear his steps behind me, but I don’t dare to turn around to check. It would slow me down too much, and would give him a chance to catch up.

  The curiosity is killing me, but I don’t give in to it. I am still sprinting, running for my life, panic spreading through my entire body. All I can hear is my own breath, my own motions, my clothes crinkling as they are adjusting to my rapid movements.

  I storm down the fire escape, pretty sure that he must be on my heels, close, far too close for comfort.

  While panic and fright are the fuel for my running, they do not cloud my judgment and ability to make decisions. I know this building well. There is more than one secret passage that leads up to and down from the roof, and I opt for one that is potentially the most dangerous, but also the best hidden. Two stories below the rooftop, the fire escape gives way to two routes, left or right, and while one of them leads to another staircase that continues downstairs, the other option seemingly leads into nowhere but a thirteen story fall.

  Unless you know better.

  I don’t have time to hesitate, to reconsider my decision. Without looking back or pondering, I choose the path where there is no staircase to be seen. When I reach the edge of it and the deadly abyss opens up in front of me—I jump.

  I don’t jump straight forward but to the left around the corner of the building, where I know another ledge is waiting for me. The jump itself is not very far and I have done it before, but that was without being chased and after good consideration. It is safe, as long as I manage to reach the little handle that is attached to the wall of the building and designed for just that purpose. I don’t think anyone was ever supposed to risk this dangerous jump around the corner to reach the other ledge, but it is intended for people to walk on, leading to another fire escape at the other side of the house.

  A rush of terror runs through my spine for the split second that I am flying through the air with nothing but death beneath me.

  But I make it. I reach the handle and land on the ledge with surprising ease, only having to adjust my position briefly, before I can continue running.

  Now, all I have to hope for is that he doesn’t know about this specific characteristic of the building. That he is less familiar with it than I am and that—if he is indeed following me—he did not see me turning this way and would never choose to do so on his own.

  I continue my way downstairs, still without looking back, even though I don’t hear him and am heavily relying on him to be thrown off the track by my unusual maneuver.

  As soon as my feet hit the ground, I can feel a deep sense of relief taking over me. I indulge in the feeling for just a moment, before I dart off to the street, bringing as much distance as possible between me and the building before I finally dare to risk a quick look back over my shoulder.

  He’s not there.

  I don’t see him running behind me on the pavement, nor do I see him on the fire escape.

  “Yes!” I gasp, turning around without losing my speed.

  I make sure to run around the opposite side of the building that he was facing while looking through the scope of his rifle. I don’t want to run into whatever he was shooting at.

  Or whoever.

  The shot was surprisingly quiet but still sent a shock through my body. I don’t think I have ever heard a gunshot before, in real life that is. What a terrible sound, even when it was muffled by a suppressor. At least I think that’s what he was using if he was shooting with a real rifle.

  Maybe he wasn’t? It could have been some kind of warning shot.

  Or maybe he was just practicing. He could have been aiming at a lifeless object.

  Or pigeons! Maybe he was shooting pigeons.

  But who does that in the middle of the city?

  And why did he not say anything? Why did he not explain himself?

  He could be a police officer, even though he did not look like that at all. Plus, if he were police, wouldn’t he have said so?

  Instead, he stared at me through narrow eyes, his face mostly covered by a scarf and his hair hidden beneath a dark beanie. His getup screamed criminal.

  Murderer.

  I keep spurting across the pavement and decide to do so until I am running out of breath. It hasn’t happened yet, but I know it will soon. I need to be as far away as possible from that building, that rooftop.

  The streets are completely deserted and I hate it. This neighborhood is scary to begin with and I shouldn’t even be here. I don’t know why I keep coming back, why I need this timeout I set for myself once a month. It’s stupid and dangerous. A habit I should have gotten rid of a long time ago.

  But I can’t. I still need this. Or used to need it. I sure as hell won’t be coming back any time soon after what happened tonight.

  I have been running straight ahead for an eternity, but realize that the street I am aiming for is to my right, running parallel to the one I am in. I will have to cross through one of the dark and narrow alleys to get to the liberating main street.

  The thought of diving into another deserted darkness doesn’t sit well with me, but I decide to get over my fear for just a few seconds. There’s another alley coming up ah
ead of me. If I make it through there, I will be safe. Or at least feel safe.

  I turn right at the next chance, swallowing the instant fear that overcomes me as I fly into the blackness in front of me. It’s certainly not a route I would normally choose, but then again, I’ve never run for my life before either.

  I ignore the creepy rattling sounds, mixed with squeaks that undoubtedly come from the mouths of rats—many of them—and literally head for the light at the end of the tunnel. I can see life and bright lights flickering from the far end of the alley. It promises safety, company, eye witnesses to whatever the murderer might plan to do with me once he catches up to me.

  If he is even behind me, that is.

  I let out a sigh of deep relief when I finally jump into the safety of the main street, embraced by lively noises, bright lights and the first group of people, who let out drunken complaints as I almost run into them.

  Strange, dark and tired faces meet mine, but at least I am not by myself anymore.

  It is now that I dare to slow down, turning my sprint into a jog and then a calm and steady walk, showing no sign of what I have witnessed just a few minutes before.

  I look back over my shoulder again, relieved to find that still no one seems to be following me. A wave of terror overcomes me as I realize that I wouldn’t even be able to recognize him. If he did indeed follow me here without me noticing and took off his beanie and scarf, he could be anybody. It was too dark to see what kind of clothes he was wearing. I just know that they were dark, just like his beanie and his scarf. He seems to be rather tall, but even that I cannot say for sure.