Plain Jane and the Hitman

by Tmonique Stephens

  Pulse-pounding in his ear, Emmet went deaf for a few precious seconds. "…Repeat." This time with more conviction.

  “We’re going to use her as bait to draw Rogers out.”

  Bailey as bait. The back of his neck went tight, along with his vision. Everything narrowed down to those three words. “No.”

  “It’s the only way, Emmet.”

  “The only way? The only way for what? To save your ass? Or hers?”

  “Emmet!” Hank shouted through their connection. “Boy, you have a better way to handle this, then spit it out because we leaked her whereabouts two minutes ago on the dark web and we’re fifteen hours out.”

  Son of a bitch!

  “How have you secured the house?”

  “Cameras to see them coming and blind spots to stop them before they get to the house,” His voice was layered with the right amount of professional detachment he did not feel.

  Another stretch of uncharacteristic silence. “We do this. We end it. Hold down the fort, we’re on our way.” The phone clicked, and Hank was gone.

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He wasn't alone.

  Bailey slid onto her seat, her face blank, unreadable, her body tense. He didn’t have to ask if she heard. He needed to know how much.

  “Tell me.”

  He dropped some cash on the table and stood. “Not here.”

  Bailey ignored his outstretched hand and climbed to her feet. Eyes so much like Hank's studied him while he examined her pale skin and grim lips. She moved past him, marching to the exit, her stride no nonsense. He grabbed her coat because she'd either forgotten or didn't give a damn about the cold.

  He caught up with her at the door and handed it over. No murmur of thanks. She punched her arms through the sleeves and zipped it up. He stepped in front of her, forcing her to slow her roll as he scanned the street.

  Bailey body checked the door and glided around him. He hauled her back, made her slow down for a sedate stroll to the car.

  A quick walk around the BMW with a mirror to check the undercarriage, then he unlocked it. She didn’t wait for him to be a gentleman and open the door. She plopped her ass in the passenger seat and glared at him as he did the same in the driver’s seat.

  “Tell me.”

  He started the car and backed out of the parking lot. “When we get back to the house.”

  “Goddamnit!” She slapped the dashboard. “What did he say?”

  “When we get home.”

  “That’s not home! That’s a hideout! My home is in Atlanta. It’s a three-bedroom home in a gated community. That’s my home.” Her face twisted in rage as she pointed out the passenger window in a vague direction.

  He had wondered where her breaking point was, and he’d just found it. “I’m not doing this in the car.” Not while driving one hundred and fifty kph. She flipped back into her chair, seething in her silence.

  They pulled up to the house. Emmet had barely coasted to a stop when Bailey yanked the door open and jumped out. He slammed the car into park and snatched her to him before she made it to the first porch step.

  “Let me go!”

  “No.”

  “You said you’d tell me when we got home," she snarled low. "Well, we're home!” She twisted in his arms.

  “We are not in the damn house. We’re in the damn snow. Sitting fucking ducks.”

  “Then let’s go in the fucking house!”

  “After I fucking check it!”

  Some of the fight left her, but by her tense body and the glint in her eyes, she was ready to go again.

  “Why when you have that house battened down tighter than a submarine?”

  “Because I won’t take chances with your safety.” Aww, shit. I just lied to her.

  Bailey folded her arms across her chest. “Fine. Get to it. Go protect me.” She marched back to the car, back to the passenger seat, but left the door open.

  He couldn’t leave her there, not because of the inherent danger, but it didn’t matter where he told her. The car, the porch, the barn, in the snow, she deserved to know, and he had to be the one to tell her.

  His steps deliberate, Emmet advanced, her wary eyes following him, and crouched in front of her. She reared back as if she wanted no part of him to touch her. "I spoke to your—Hank."

  “Glad one of us did,” she snapped. “What does he need from me now.”

  Rip the Band-Aid off and watch her bleed. “He wants to use you as bait to end this.”

  She blinked, then closed her eyes for ten long seconds. When she opened them, the fire inside her midnight blue eyes had vanished. “I want to go inside now.”

  “Bailey…” He needed to explain but kept his trap shut. He allowed her to push him out of the way but joined her at the front door with his gun in his hand. “Stay behind me.”

  Once again, they went room to room, this time twice as thorough as he had when they first arrived. “It’s all clear.” He told her and was surprised she didn’t hightail it to her bedroom.

  Eyes locked onto him, she stood in the middle of the living room, coat and hat still on, leading him to believe she had every intention of fleeing for the nearest exit if she didn’t like what he had to say. Even if he had to force her to stay, he couldn’t let that happen.

  That was the last thing Emmet wanted, to force her, to bend her to his will. No! Not his will. He didn’t place her—them—on this path. The blame lay with Rogers and Hank, yet here they were, Emmet and Bailey, the result of two arrogant bastards whose war would get an innocent woman killed.

  “Do you trust me?” It was important to him now when he hadn’t given a damn before.

  Bailey stiffened. “I did.”

  But not now was implied. “Guess I deserve that even though everything I’ve done has been to protect you.”

  She backed up a step. Her gaze darting to the gun still in his hand. Great, now she was angry and afraid of him. He flipped the safety on and stuffed the gun back in the arm holster. He yanked off his coat and tossed it on the sofa. She didn’t do the same.

  Wanting a drink, but needing to remain sober, grabbed a bottle of water from the bar in the corner of the room. “I will not let anything happen to you,” he said out loud and twisted the cap off.

  Her voice stilted. “What is not going to happen to me?”

  “Hank leaked our location on the dark web to draw Rogers out. To put an end to all of this so you can have your freedom back.” See, didn’t sound so bad. Actually, it sounded horrible.

  Her lips parted, and a strangled sound escaped before she snapped them closed. Her gaze lowered, and she inhaled a long breath. She swayed, and he moved closer to block any exit she may choose.

  “Was this your idea?” she asked, then nailed him with a cold glare.

  “No, Bailey. It wasn’t.”

  “But you are going along with this.” Statement, not a question because she already knew his answer.

  He couldn’t get the words about because it was wrong. All of it was wrong. “Pack your things. We’re leaving.”

  Her chin lifted, and she faced him with palatable determination and pain she failed to mask. “No.”

  His head cocked to the side. “What do you mean no?”

  Her lips peeled back in a sneer. “This is where my father wants me, a lamb for the slaughter, then this is where I stay. Maybe then I’ll finally get a chance to see him, speak to him, if I’m not already dead.”

  “Don’t say that.” But the picture was already in his head.

  “You want to go?” She pointed at the front door. “I never asked you, nor did I hire you to protect me. You are free to leave. I’ll even pay your going rate.” Slowly, she turned. Back rigid, not even the merest sway to her hips, she marched away.

  Going rate? Son of a bitch. “You can’t afford me.” She kept walking toward her bedroom, in no rush at all. “We leave in ten minutes.”

  Not even a hitch in her steps. Emmet wasn’t having it.

  I
ncensed, he caught up with her in the hallway, shoved her into the wall, and kept her there with a hand to her chest. “You are no one’s sacrificial lamb. I won’t allow it.”

  Her sad little smile held all the warmth of an open grave waiting for a fresh body. "This is the best way to save Hank and you. It's the only way. We lure him here and kill him, and you and Hank live happily ever after. Father and son," she said in a low, vicious purr.

  He took her by the shoulders, tempted to shake some common sense into her, put the fear of-of God, if she was a believer, into her. By the fury on her face, that wasn't going to happen.

  “Let. Me. Go.”

  Maybe it was the hint of anguish in her voice, the glint in her midnight blue eyes, no, it was the slight quiver of her bottom lip that fractured her fury and broke through his impotent rage. Emmet's hand dropped as if it lost power all on its own. He backed up and kept going until his back touched the opposite wall.

  Her gaze locked on him as if he were an animal to be wary of, yet she still wasn't afraid, not of him, not of anything. He didn't think she'd ever been afraid of anything or anyone. Just like her father. "You want to stay. Fine. We stay,” he growled.

  Bailey pushed off from the wall and crossed the short distance to her room. She paused to twist the diamond engagement ring and wedding band off her finger. Both hit the floor with twin clinks as loud as sledgehammers striking an anvil. She disappeared inside the bedroom, the door closing with a soft snick signaling the end to more than just this conversation.

  For her sake, he had let her leave.

  For his sake, he couldn’t let her go.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The outrage fueling her in the initial hours after discovering Emmet on the phone with Hank and hearing their plans for her had settled into a low simmer vibrating through her veins. He’d betrayed her. So what if they’d known each other less than a weekend and it shouldn’t matter. She felt betrayed and lied to.

  She hadn't slept with him because she expected loyalty in return. But because she had slept with him, was it wrong to expect him not to drive a spear through her heart and dangle her bloody body over a shark-infested pool? Apparently, it was.

  And that "Johnny come lately" I'm taking you somewhere else bullshit was exactly that, bullshit. From the moment they met, he reminded her of how much danger she was in. Running away from it wouldn't help. So, in some roundabout, fucking up, twisted, karmic, reality, she agreed with Hank. Let's draw the bastard out and kill him, even if meant she happened to be the chum seeding the waters.

  It had been forty-eight hours ago and since that eventful evening, and Bailey hadn’t uttered a single word to Emmet. It wasn’t her style to play the avoidance card. Head-on was how she dealt with things. Not quite true. She buried her head in the sand as well as the next woman.

  Not this time.

  Because after everything, she still desired him. There! I admit it. And he desired her. She wasn’t ignorant to the way he looked at her, touched her. They ignited something in each other. Something combustible that turned all their smoldering heat into a passionate explosion. Good or bad, who knows, and at the time, who cared. For once, she lived in the moment. Maybe because tomorrow truly wasn’t promised. Someone wanted her dead. Yet, in his arms, she breathed, kissed, fucked, and cried. She lived.

  It sucked, especially when he chose her father over her. There was no getting over that.

  I should’ve taken him up on his offer and left with him. Declining in favor of martyrdom was the height of idiocy. Now, it was too late, she realized as she stared out her bedroom window at the activity. No longer was the chalet their private love shack. A guy named Whiskey showed up yesterday with two other men who didn’t bother sharing their names.

  She didn't like whiskey, the taste of the liquor or the man. He had a hard, roughhewn edge, created by forces she could only guess at. With short brown hair and a clean-shaven jaw, he was all sharp edges from the blade of his nose, the slash of his mouth, and flinty dark eyes. Slighter shorter than Emmet's six feet three inches, he made up for the difference by being broader. Dressed in a simple white shirt and jeans, he tried to appear casual and failed.

  He’d greeted her by name. “Hello, Bailey Monroe.” Shook her hand and had even offered a friendly grin while Emmet stood close by, features neutral, yet a glint in his cool gaze. He knew who she was, Hank’s daughter.

  “Mr. Whiskey.” Not his given name, no doubt.

  A dry sound she assumed was a chuckle had escaped him. “Whiskey. No title or chaser needed.” He stared at her with a smirk on his face, as if he knew something she didn’t. He probably did, which further pissed her off.

  From her perch on the window seat, she spied one of the unnamed men exiting the barn. He vanished in the tree line. A usual occurrence since the trio had arrived. She wondered about the activity in the woods but doubted she'd get a truthful answer. Also, she couldn't handle another lie, not from Emmet.

  A knock sounded at her bedroom door. Bailey didn’t move from her curled position, and she didn’t answer. The view from her window was better than the person on the other side of the door.

  The knob turned, and the door opened with a soft snick. She didn’t need to turn around to know who entered. “Lunch.”

  A little late for lunch at three in the afternoon. She heard the clink of a plate and ignored the rumble her stomach let out. Her last meal was breakfast yesterday. Still, she ignored him and the plate. Talk about not playing the avoidance card.

  “Enough already,” he grumbled. “You’re behaving like a child. You have to eat.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Without looking at him, she uncurled from the seat, moved around him for the plate on the dresser. Swedish meatballs and toasted bread with a salad along with a bottle of water. She took the food back to the window seat and dug in.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Her head jerked up, and she gave him the attention he certainly craved to risk even entering her room. "I didn't ask you to bring me food," she said with a mouthful of balls.

  “Chew and swallow, argue later.” He planted his ass on her bed.

  She swallowed and chugged down half the bottle. “You want me to be grateful, well I’m not. Not for the food. Not for you protecting me.” She speared two meatballs and shoved them in her mouth.

  He cocked his head to the side and nodded once. “Understood. But, I never wanted your gratitude.”

  Hard to miss the husky tone his voice had dipped into. She snorted and side-eyed him as she chewed and swallowed. Not falling for it, buddy, was her silent reply.

  “That wasn’t a line.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  Emmet dragged his hand through his hair and down his face to scratch at his five o’clock shadow. He seemed tired with his bloodshot eyes and grim tilt to his mouth. She hadn’t slept much, but she had slept. Feeling something for him wasn’t what she wanted, yet she did. “Have you eaten?”

  His head jerked up. “Yeah. I had a big breakfast. I thought you would’ve left your hidey-hole for food by now, but you are stubborn. I’ve been too busy to notice until now.”

  She’d seen him marching in and out of the barn into the woods with the other men. “Oh yeah, with what?”

  “Finish eating, and I'll show you."

  Bailey didn’t miss the entreaty in his voice, a plea to break the deadlock they’d fallen into. She liked the deadlock, needed it to keep her walls up because he was her weakness she hadn’t expected. Even now, still bruised from his betrayal, she cared whether he’d eaten, slept, how he felt about… All of it was pointless. She had to take care of herself because no one else would. If his guilt pushed him to share information with her, then she’d damn well take it.

  “All right. I’ll meet you in five.” She dipped the bread in sauce and took a satisfying bite.

  He rose and stood there as fine as he could be with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops, gun strapped to his side. Her stomach wasn’t the only thing that n
eeded feeding. Her libido had just peeled open an eye and had taken a prolonged, leisurely look at him.

  “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  She watched him go and had to admit, she liked this softer, contrite version of Emmet. His guilt? Could be all an act. But that wasn’t his style.

  She cleaned her plate, took a quick shower because she’d ignored hygiene while sulking, and dressed in her last pair of clean jeans and fresh underwear. Yoga pants and a Henley were the only items left. Laundry would have to be done after Emmet showed her what he’d been up to.

  She opened the bedroom door to find him waiting, already dressed in his coat, holding hers and an iPad tucked under his arm. “Thanks.” She pulled on her coat and followed him through the silent house to the back deck.

  The sun and fresh air! A deep inhale cleared the cobwebs out of her lungs as she tilted her head up to receive some rays. Staying cooped up inside wasn’t her nature. She ran down the short stairs ahead of Emmet eager to hear the crunch of snow beneath her boots.

  His hand landed on her shoulder. “Careful. We’ve been busy.” He pulled up a schematic on the iPad laying out the current landscape. “I’m expecting a two-pronged attack, from the front of the house and the rear. The isolated nature of the chalet is conducive to a sneak attack from the rear, especially since that’s the logical place to retreat. That’s why we’ve engineered a surprise for Rogers. Landmines.”

  “Landmines?”

  "Small explosives buried under the snowpack."

  She glanced at the snow-covered mountain over her shoulder. At three thousand feet, she considered it a baby Alp; however, it could still kill a person. “What about an avalanche?”

  “I’ve factored that in. The explosives we’ve used are small, but an avalanche could happen. If it does, and we’re buried—”

  “We?” Her attention snapped back to him.

  “Yeah. We.”

  One word said with implicit intent. Wasn’t the first time he’d said in that tone, with that particular glint in his eyes. Also wasn’t the first time heat stirred her blood at hearing it.