Plain Jane and the Hitman

by Tmonique Stephens

  “I’d rather stay busy.” She opened the rear door and grabbed her luggage and the weapons bag. She slung one crossbody over one shoulder and hefted two other bags up the stairs and into the house.

  Bailey may be slim, but the woman had strength, and not just in her body he’d come to realize.

  Two more trips and they’d completed the task. They worked well together.

  “Do you have a preference over the bedrooms?” she asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

  She’d taken off her coat and his gaze skimmed over the formfitting sweater and the jeans hugging her long legs and tight ass. Yeah, he had a preference on bedrooms, but that wasn’t gonna happen. “The one closest to yours, for your protection.”

  “Makes sense,” she murmured, fingering the handle of her luggage. “I like the one with the brass bed. I think it’s the master bedroom.”

  She’s rambling, he noticed. Nerves would do that to a person. What she had to be nervous about, he had no idea. He hadn’t kept much from her, told her what he could. What she didn’t know, she just had to trust him.

  “What’s in the boxes?”

  That, he could tell her about. “I wondered when you’d ask.” He flicked open his switchblade, sliced open the first cardboard box and pulled out a handful of the tiny cameras. “Surveillance equipment. I’ll place these all over the grounds and house, sync them to my phone, and voila, I'll know who's coming before they get here."

  “Nice.” She took one of the gadgets and rolled it around in her palm.

  “I need to place one or more in your bedroom.”

  Her head jerked up. “Excuse me?”

  “To watch the door and the window. Not to watch you.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  “Come on. You can watch me place them.” He placed one opposite her bedroom door and chose a sensor on her window that would alert him if it were opened. “You’ll have your privacy.”

  “What about the rest?”

  Together, they placed cameras at all the entries and blind spots in the house. By the time they’d completed the job, night had fallen. There was still so much to do to secure the house.

  “I’m starving. I wonder if they have takeout here?” She headed to the kitchen.

  He stopped her with a touch to her arm. “No one comes to the house.”

  A rebellious streak crossed her face, and he prepared himself to be the bad guy, again. A role he'd always relished, until now.

  “Well then, I’d better get to the kitchen and start cooking,” she snapped. “Just so you know, you are damn lucky I know how.” Back rigid, she marched away, and he did enjoy the view.

  ◆◆◆

  “Report,” Hank ordered.

  “We’re in. Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey are on their honeymoon in Switzerland.” Fifty yards from the house, peering at the structure through a copse of evergreens, Emmet gave Hank his GPS coordinates.

  “Any difficulty getting there?”

  Had to drug your daughter, but other than that, “None.”

  “Good.”

  In the background, Whiskey’s muffled voice came through. Emmet gritted his teeth. He hated that arrogant asshole but couldn’t deny he knew how to handle himself. If he couldn’t be there protecting Hank’s back, Whiskey was the next best choice. “What’s the latest on Rogers?”

  “He’s on the run. We tracked him to Seattle, think he’s headed to the Philippines.”

  “Why the Philippines?”

  “There are seven thousand islands to get lost on.”

  “Shit.” They may never find him.

  “That’s not the worst of it. If we don’t find him soon, Lebold will pull our contract. You understand what that means?”

  Yeah. Their shadow connection to the Pentagon would be done, and their necks would be on the chopping block.

  “Loose thread must be snipped. It’s him or us.”

  “No. It’s just him. Do what you got to do. I’m good here.”

  “I’ll call you in forty-eight.” Hank ended the call. And once again, he hadn’t asked about his daughter.

  Emmet entered the house through the mudroom and paused to take in the scent of rosemary chicken. His stomach rumbled, and he kicked off his wet boots and padded into the living room in his socks.

  In the hour since he left to check the perimeter, place a few cameras, and call Hank, Bailey had started a fire in the fireplace, set the dining table for two and by the red light on the oven, dinner was mission accomplished.

  She emerged from deep inside the pantry carrying a bottle of white wine which she waved at him like it was a trophy. “We have a wine refrigerator, fully stocked.”

  “Sweet.”

  “I picked a chardonnay to go with the chicken.”

  “Sounds good.” He headed for the stove for a peek in the pots.

  “Oh no. You made me cook. Don’t think you’re gonna help me now and get out of doing the dishes.”

  “There’s no dishwasher?”

  “Nope. We’re roughing it.” She handed over the wine for him to open and pour while she served two plates of rosemary chicken paired with grilled purple potatoes and asparagus.

  He held out her chair for her to sit, then took his own across from her. “This looks…exquisite.” Was that a blush on her cheeks? Her head dipped so he couldn’t be sure about the blush or the slight curve to her lips yet was sure he’d seen both.

  “Save your praise for after you taste it.” She speared a potato and popped it in her mouth.

  He cut into the moist chicken and moaned, loudly, when the piece hit his taste buds. “It’s as good as it looks. Thanks for taking care of dinner.”

  Now, she didn’t hide her smile and damn if she wasn’t sexy with her pixie haircut, magnetic blue eyes, and tempting pink lips. Drink your wine before you make a fool of yourself. She’s like a sister to you. Like a sister.

  “Don’t think I’m cooking three squares a day, every day. My skills only stretch so far.”

  “I can cover breakfast and burgers. We won’t starve.”

  “How long are we staying here?”

  He shook his head. “Too many variables to predict how long, but we have the house for a week.”

  “And after that?” She met his gaze over the rim of her glass.

  He had plans in place but wasn’t ready to share them. “Things are fluid.”

  She snorted and sipped her wine. “Not ready to tell me, huh? It’s fine. I’m used to being left out of the loop.”

  “There is no loop, Bailey. I keep things close to the vest. It’s my way.”

  Lips thinned into a mulish line, eyes flashing with anger, she snapped, “Did Hank order you to keep me in the dark?”

  Emmet exploded. “What the fuck is it between you and Hank?”

  Chapter Nine

  Bailey dropped her fork onto her plate. The clank as loud as church bells. Her hands curled slowly into tight fists. This wasn’t a memory she enjoyed visiting or topic she liked discussing. Tempted to yell it was none of his business, she paused. It was about time she popped Emmet’s Father of the Year impression he had about Hank.

  "I've met my father five times in my entire life," Bailey whispered, the emotions clogging her throat too much to process. Each of those five moments, snippets of time, were ingrained in her head.

  "The first time, I was on the playground at my school in London. I was about seven and the new kid with an American accent, so a target. They lured me behind the playhouse, and one kid punched me while another pushed me down and kicked me. I don't know where the teacher was when it happened." The pain was still fresh.

  “I’m lying there, bleeding, crying, and suddenly I wasn’t alone. A man appeared. Don’t know how he was there because it was a school for the children of diplomats. We had security, but he was there, leaning over me, watching me cry, not helping me.” And I wasn’t afraid, not that time.

  “We’d been trained about terrorists, stranger danger. Before fear could take root…
Once I saw his eyes, saw they were the same color as mine… I knew he was my father.”

  “What did he say to you,” Emmet asked.

  Bailey sighed. “Nothing. He looked me over, I guess to see how injured I was. He waited for me to get up, didn’t help. I ran back inside the school and didn’t say anything to anyone. The next day my teacher was replaced, and the kids were gone. That weekend I started learning Taekwondo.”

  He frowned, and she waited for him to ask about her training and skill level. He didn’t. “And the next time you saw him?”

  The memory rushed to the surface. "I was twelve and had moved to incorporate karate into my training. It was my first match, and I spotted him in the stands. I got nervous and lost. When I got up from the mat, he was gone. I was so angry with myself, but he was there when I exited the locker room."

  “Nerves had me trembling when I walked up to him. He looked down at me. No warmth on his face. No greeting for his daughter. You know what he said?” She didn’t pause for Emmet’s reply. “‘No distraction is worth the loss. I expect better from you.’ Then he was gone. I lost other matches, but it wasn’t because I was distracted.”

  Emmet sipped his coffee. “When was the next time?”

  "I was fifteen and feeling rebellious. I'd stopped training, started drinking, smoking, arguing with Mom. I met a guy." Her voice dropped to a scandalous whisper. "He was nineteen and had a Mustang."

  Emmet's brow dropped low, and his voice roughened. "Oh really."

  She smirked as memories teased her mind. “I’d cut school to be with him. Then I started sneaking out at night. Staying out all night.” Emmet’s face turned dark, but she continued. “Mom was furious. I actually told her to go fuck herself.” She closed her eyes and shook her head at her stupidity. “I was a badass…until I crawled back through my window. I’d eased it closed when my lamp flicked on, and my father was sitting at my little computer desk, dressed completely in black. I almost shit myself."

  Emmet snorted.

  "‘I'm disappointed,' he said. Two words. That's it, and he got up and left. Didn't make a single sound. The next day my boyfriend's legs were broken, both, in some freak accident. As were his father’s legs and his uncle’s. Both legs. Each man.” She’d never forget how little he looked in that hospital bed, legs in casts, an IV in his arm and tubes everywhere. He said he never wanted to see her again, and she couldn’t blame him. She wouldn’t want to see her either.

  “The next night, I knew he would come. I was wide awake when my bedroom door opened and he strolled inside. He stopped at the foot of my bed, and we stared at each other, sizing each other up. He was not impressed." Her mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. "Then he said, ‘Cutting school ends. Disrespecting your mom ends. Martial arts training resumes.' He tossed a business card down on the bed between us. Dicks Weapons and Range. ‘Be there on Saturday. Ask for Roy.'"

  “‘I don’t go in and ask for Dick?’ I asked. I couldn’t help it.” Emmet choked on the last of his drink. She’d finally got him to crack. “The look my father gave me peeled an inch off my ass, but I was still feeling like a badass. I asked him why? Why should I go back to school, go back to training, go to Dicks and find Roy?”

  Emmet leaned forward and waited for her answer.

  "‘Because I'm the only thing keeping you alive and I won't be here forever.'" She mimicked his deep voice. "Then he left. I saw him one more time at my high school graduation seven years ago. I thought he was dead, and then you show up with the news. Not that he died years ago, as I had hoped, but that he was alive and well, and now someone is after me. Can’t say my father hadn’t warned me.”

  “By my count, that’s four times. What was the fifth time?” His words clipped.

  Bailey drained and refilled her wine glass to the brim. Eyes downcast, she cleared her throat. In nothing more than a broken whisper, she said, "I turned eighteen three weeks after graduation. He showed up the next day. I'd partied all night with a few friends. We were stationed in Singapore. I had a blast, drinking, eating, smoking weed, fucking." Down another rabbit hole, her memory went until she reeled them back in. "Anyway, I woke up and there he was, at the foot of my bed in broad daylight. Suit, tie, he was dressed as a businessman. I never realized how handsome he is. Kinda startling for a daughter to realize her father has sex appeal. Maybe because I'd never seen him as my father." Down another rabbit hole. Avoidance only worked for so long.

  “Anyway. He tossed a folder onto my dresser,” and destroyed the little bit of security she’d ever had. “He said, ‘Your mother died when you were sixteen months old. Everything you need to know about her is in this file, including all of her assets, which now belong to you.’ I jumped out of bed, almost threw up my head hurt so bad. ‘Mom’s in her bedroom,’ I yelled. I knew she was in the bedroom because I checked on her when I sneaked in at six a.m.”

  Bailey paused to breathe. Seven long years had passed since she allowed herself to wallow in this memory.

  "‘Theresa Clark was hired to be your mother. She portrayed a role I paid her to play. And did a better than average job. But now you're eighteen, and the contract she signed is complete.'" She mimicked his voice again.

  “I was a contract. A name on a piece of paper. A paycheck. I didn’t cry. I think that surprised Hank. I think he expected me to be hysterical. I wasn’t. I picked up the file and skimmed the paperwork. Turns out I had enough money to be very comfortable, if spent wisely, for the rest of my life. No picture of my mother, not even her name. I didn’t want to know, to see. Didn’t have the courage to face what I’d lost.” She sighed, the pain fresh. “When I closed the folder, Hank was still there, analyzing me with those flat eyes of his.”

  “‘How did she die?’ I asked. That’s all I wanted to know. Not her name, not her picture. ‘Car bomb set for me.’” She mimicked Hank again and had to pause at the fresh onslaught of pain. “I asked him if he’d loved her. The question slipped out, but I had to know, was critical that I know.”

  “‘Once, she was all that I loved.’” Even after all this time, the pain in his voice lingered in her mind. “I understood, then. I understood him, why he couldn’t love me. And I hated him more for it.”

  “Thank you, Henry. Please make it a point to never see me again.”

  “That will not be a problem.”

  "So, you see, I never had a father or a mother. I was someone's responsibility. Not someone's child." Another long gulp of wine soothed some of the pain.

  “And Theresa?” Emmet demanded. “What did she have to say for herself?”

  “She cried. Told me she loved me. Begged me to understand. Her life hadn’t been easy. Hank finagled the job for her in the state department. It got her out of the country, away from some dangerous men. I forgave her, but it’s not the same. I see her differently now. I can’t call her Mom anymore. She wants me to, but…I can’t.” She rose and took her plate to the kitchen. For her, the day was finally, blessedly over. Her evening plans included soaking in the tub and crawling into bed alone.

  Emmet blocked her path. Oh, she could walk around him, but she sensed it would be a wasted effort.

  “I’m sorry, Bailey. I didn’t know.”

  She snorted and shrugged. “How could you? You weren’t there.”

  “Except I was. Well, kinda, sorta.” He sighed and dragged both hands through his hair.

  Puzzled, she shook her head. “I don’t understand. What do you mean kinda, sorta? What are you going on about?”

  His ice-cold blue eyes met hers and seemed warmer as if reaching out to offer her comfort she didn't want or need. "Bailey, I was there. Hank…I've known him over twenty years. He raised me since the age of twelve. He's been a mentor and a father to me. The father I never had. He's saved my life in countless ways I could never repay."

  Her insides congealed. “What do you mean he was a father to you? Explain that shit.”

  His hand landed on her shoulder and squeezed ever so gently. "He took me in, and I live
d with him until I turned twenty. He trained me, taught me everything I needed to know. How to fight. How to kill. How to survive. Without him, I'd be dead or wishing I was dead. I owe him everything."

  Every word out of his mouth chipped away at the wall she’d built around her heart. “I always suspected he had another family. Thought it was a wife and kids he was protecting from his mistress and bastard child. Now I know it was just me he didn’t want.”

  She had to make it to the bedroom. Make it there where she could break down in privacy.

  Bailey knocked his hand off her shoulder and broke to the left. She had to get around him and make a dash for her bedroom before the dam burst, but his arms circled her waist and pulled her into his hard body. The wall she built around all the hurt and loneliness, against the abandonment and disappointment, crumbled.

  She clung to him, crying out her pain all over his shirt. Stopping was impossible. Every time she tried to rein in the hysterics, it got worse. Her nose clogged, then ran, mixing with her tears. She tried to suck in a deep breath to steady her nerves and ended up stuck in a series of hiccups. This was why she didn’t cry. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t dainty. There was no dabbing at the eyes with a tiny tissue. She produced enough snot to float a boat and blotches sprang up all over her face.

  Emmet cupped her cheek and brought her head up. She tucked her head tighter into his chest. He couldn’t see her like this when she was an unmitigated mess. He wouldn’t let go and kept at her until he had both her cheeks cupped in his rough hands.

  “Don’t,” she cried. “Just don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  She couldn’t breathe. He needed to fuck off for a minute so she could breathe. Instead, he did a great impression of a helicopter mom and hovered, and she was too upset to enjoy the moment.

  He took a napkin off the counter and mopped up her cheeks and nose. “Tears and snot don’t bother me.”

  “It bothers me.” She sniffled and grabbed her own tissue to scrub her face. “I don’t do this. I don’t cry.”