Plain Jane and the Hitman

by Tmonique Stephens

  His grip loosened, and he stroked up and down her arms. “He’s not the only person I’d drop everything for, Bailey. You know that.”

  She cupped his face and brought their foreheads together. “I do know that, and I understand. I will never see him as my father, but you see him as yours. And that's okay. At least he was a father to someone, even if it wasn't me."

  He slanted his mouth across hers in a hard, fierce kiss, which was much too brief. “Time is short, and I have to go.”

  “We have to go." He opened his mouth to argue, and she didn't want to hear it. "I'll stay on the plane until you both return. Now, where are we going and is Whiskey meeting us there?”

  “There is no plane, Bailey.”

  "How are we going to get to Hank in time without a plane?" Then it dawned on her that he must be within driving distance. "Okay. Let's get in the car, and you can fill me in on the details."

  She pulled away, but he held fast. “I don’t need a car.”

  What the hell? That makes no sense. Except… She lived in a gated community, which surrounded a more affluent gated community. A community she’d never visited because she didn’t know anyone who lived on the other side of those hallowed walls. Fuck! She lived half a block away from the manned gate. She could see the brick wall keeping her out from her backyard.

  “Hank lives six blocks in that direction.” He pointed out her bedroom window. “He bought his house one month after you purchased your house. You two used the same realtor.”

  Her jaw unhinged, and her mouth dropped open. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” she snarled and wrenched free.

  “He was never far from you, Bailey. He loves you, always has.”

  "Yeah, loved me so much he drove past my house every day, on the way to Casa Murray." She pressed her thumbs to her temples to ease a budding migraine.

  “It’s not like that, babe.”

  “How is it not like that? How can you possibly not see how that’s exactly how it is?”

  Her heart ached. Her father was so close, yet still a thousand miles away. It didn't have to be that way, but it was what it was and hating Hank was draining. "Forget it. Let's stick to what we have to do." Plus, this wasn't about Hank. It was about Emmet. That's who she risked her life for because he'd risked his life for her.

  Emmet let her go and returned to his case full of weapons. "Sometime after you ran, Hank sent a message to Rogers on the dark web. It was an invitation to meet him at his home and settle things. Whiskey is in London where we sent him in case you showed up at Daisy's house. I have no backup and no idea who else Rogers has with him. I'm alone, but I'm going in there, and I'm going to bring him back alive because I have to. He’s the only father I’ve ever known.”

  She nodded slowly, her heartbreaking for him, and Hank. Strange how things come full circle. “You are not alone.” She picked up an H&K, checked the magazine, and chambered a round. “Let’s go save your father.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “You are not going!” Towering over her, in a useless attempt at intimidation, Emmet pointed a finger in her face.

  Hands on hips, Bailey weathered Hurricane Emmet. “You’ve wasted five minutes we don’t have with this tirade.”

  “I didn’t waste anything. In the five minutes since you dropped this idiocy, the sun has set.” He flung a hand at the bedroom window while raking the other hand through his hair.

  She glanced out the window, and he was right. The late afternoon had turned into early evening. "Oh. Well, let's get going." She headed to the bedroom door only to be hauled back, again.

  “Put this on.” He shoved a bulletproof vest into her arms, clearly not pleased, yet giving into her.

  That was easy. Almost too easy, though instead of bringing attention to how quickly he caved, she followed his instructions. Over her head, arms through the opening, the vest was too big, but that didn’t stop him from tightening the Velcro tabs as best he could. She didn’t stop him as he obsessed over it. She studied his eyelashes, envious of their length, and his furrowed brow. Did he know he had a single gray hair at his temple or was it so new, he hadn’t seen it? Then there was his mouth. It was an angry slash, slightly fuller on the bottom and tasted utterly amazing. She hadn’t paused to appreciate his smooth, angular jaw, and did so now. However, she missed his beard.

  Maybe I can coax him to grow it back.

  He handed her another gun, wrapped his arms around her to slip one into the small of her back. A shiver went up her spine at the touch of the cold metal on her warm skin.

  “All right. Let’s go.” Without another word, he was out the bedroom door.

  “Wait.” She ran to keep up with him. “Where’s your bulletproof vest?”

  “Only had the one.” He stopped in the living room to retrieve their coats.

  One vest and he gave it to her.

  “This isn’t Texas, so we can’t walk the streets armed to the teeth.” He pulled on his leather duster and waited for her to do the same with a long wool coat from the hall closet, then ushered her out the front door.

  Early evening, the neighborhood was busy with families arriving. A few of her neighbors waved to her, and they both waved back. Just two people taking an evening stroll with six guns between the two of them. Even with skin to metal contact warming the gun, she'd swear she had a Popsicle shoved down her ass.

  They approached the security hut situated in the middle of the road in front of two black iron gates. One for entry. One for egress.

  “Must be nice,” she grumbled, earning a laugh from Emmet.

  “Good evening, Lee,” Emmet said to the guard, who seemed pleased at his presence.

  “Mr. Streeter. How are you, sir?” Lee stretched out a hand.

  Emmet seemed all too happy to give the guy a shake. “Good, and you?”

  “Fine. Can’t complain. Thanks again for the reservations at the Crown Plaza. My wife loved the anniversary surprise.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Emmet said with a nonchalant shrug.

  Lee glanced at Bailey and back at Emmet. “Umm? No car, sir?”

  Emmet hitched a thumb in the direction they’d come from. “My girlfriend lives around the corner. I want to introduce her to Mr. Murray.”

  "Oh, that's nice. I'll let you in." He punched in a code, and the gate opened slowly.

  “Anyone else come calling on Mr. Murray?”

  “Yes. Two gentlemen passed through about ten minutes ago. Mr. Murray was expecting them. Want me to call and let him know you’re coming,” Lee asked as they walked through the open gate.

  “Don’t, I want to surprise him.”

  "All right. Well, you two have a nice evening," Lee shouted and closed the gate.

  “Four blocks straight and two blocks to the left. It’s the only house at the end of the cul-de-sac.” They took off at a steady pace.

  The night was balmy for late February in the Atlanta suburbs. A comfortable fifty degrees. A great evening to walk the dog as a few people were doing. With plenty of witnesses, it was a great way to be arrested if things went sideways.

  “Stupid question. Are these weapons registered?” Meaning, are they legal?

  The asinine glare he threw her way questioned her sanity. “Go back home, Bailey.”

  She ignored him and asked, “Where do you live?”

  “I have a condo downtown, but I visit here often.”

  “Bachelor pad, huh? Am I gonna have to have a bonfire with your bed as the centerpiece?”

  He scoffed. “Quid pro quo, babe.”

  "No problem. I wanted to redecorate." Her heart was in her throat, and not because of the fast pace. "I'm thinking four posts. Sturdy wood you can tie me to."

  His steps faltered, but he kept his attention focused on the road ahead. "We can do that."

  “Tomorrow, okay?”

  His steps slowed, then stopped, and he captured her face between his cold palms. “Tomorrow we’ll get up in the morning, have a big breakfast, and I will
take you shopping for anything you want.”

  Tomorrow. They were going to have a tomorrow. “You promise.” Not a question, but a plea.

  A glint she could only label as menacing flared in the depths of his brilliant eyes. "I swear to you. We will have a tomorrow,” he said fiercely, and she believed him.

  It may be nothing more than spun sugar sprinkled with fairy dust during a thunderstorm, but it was all she had to hold onto.

  “Excuse me.”

  Hands on her weapons, she spun, only to have Emmet haul her back and block her with his body from a skinny teen with a red mohawk holding up a cell phone.

  “Are you Emmet?” The teen asked.

  “Who’s asking?”

  "Someone paid me a grand to call and let them know when you showed up. Pay me more, and I'll tell them you showed up alone, without your friend." He tipped his head at Bailey.

  The soft click of his safety releasing alerted her to the gun in Emmet’s hand, at his side. That smooth, she hadn’t even realized he slipped one of his Glocks free.

  “What’s to stop me from venting your head and leaving you in the bushes?”

  “I check in every ten minutes. My next check-in is forty seconds away.”

  Emmet took out his wallet and handed him all his cash and a debit card. “Pin number is 4534. You tell your contact I’m not here and everything in the account is yours.”

  “Can’t do that in thirty seconds, man.”

  "True, but you don't make that call, you'll be dead in thirty seconds, so which one will it be? Enough cash to set you for life or death in twenty seconds? Your decision."

  The teen dialed a number, thus ending the shortest standoff in history. “No sign of him. Yeah. Call you in ten.” The teen ran down the street.

  “How much money is in that account?”

  “Fifty K, give or take. This is where we part ways, babe.”

  Her muscles locked onto her bones and she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  “Hank’s is two houses down and around the around the corner, but he has cameras blanketing the area starting past this point all the way to his house. Cut between these two houses to the backyard, then veer left for three more houses to the stone colonial on the left. There’s a shed in the backyard. Enter through the rear of the shed. Code 25958 for the lock. Under the table is another lock. Code 19393 will give you access to the offsite weapon cache, and a tunnel leading to the laundry room in the house. I want you to stay there and guard the escape route.”

  Her head bobbed up and down. “Okay.” His plan seemed semi-decent. She could get with it, except— “You’re coming with me.”

  His blank face gave nothing away. “I’m going through the front door.”

  The man had a death wish. “Oh, no, you’re not.”

  “He thinks I’m at my condo, downtown. A half an hour away, and that’s with good traffic. That gives us some time to work. They won’t expect us early.”

  She gripped his lapels and went up on her tiptoes. "That means you have enough time to come with me through the damn tunnel." He opened his mouth to utter more nonsense, and she covered his mouth with her hand. "Cut the crap. The only reason you're doing this is to protect me. You are not going to walk through the front door so they can use you as target practice," she yelled. "We are going through the tunnel, Emmet."

  He sighed, defeated, and pried her hand off his mouth and off his lapel. “All right. Follow me.”

  Ducking low, they cut between two houses, one occupied, the other dark, they circled around to the back gate where he punched in a code to a cipher lock. Soundlessly, the high gate swung open.

  “No cameras back here?” she asked, darting around a covered pool.

  "The house is in my name. We have a retired couple that lives in Ecuador during the winter and pretends to own the house during the summer. There are cameras, but they're on a separate system, so if one system were compromised, the other system wouldn't be."

  The red and white wooden shed came into view. Another cipher lock and they were inside. Lawn mower, hedge trimmer, along with an assortment of gardening tools. It was an ordinary shed until Emmet pressed a panel next to the light switch and a hidden steel door appeared at the rear.

  “This is very James Bondesque,” she whispered.

  "Tip of the iceberg, babe." He punched in 19393, and the door retracted into the wall, revealing metal stairs leading to a basement. Light flickered on as they descended into a room filled with an array of weaponry and ammo lining the walls. Glocks, Smith and Wesson, H&K, an assortment of AR-15s, and knives captured her attention. She had no idea what everything was—some looked downright wicked—and made a slow turn to take it all in.

  “Should we take any of—”

  The clank of a door opening and quickly closing spun her around. Emmet was gone like he was never there. Son of a bitch! Bailey raised her fists to pound on the door and stopped. She couldn’t risk making a racket, attracting attention that could get Emmet killed.

  “Damn you!” she muttered, the hopelessness of the situation choking her.

  She returned to the rows of shelves lining the walls of the basement. She was in a candy shop, but she had no idea what half of them could do or how to use them. She did recognize the missile launcher. That would get the door open and probably kill her, not to mention alert Rogers to Emmet’s presence.

  She went back upstairs and tried the door at the top. It opened easy enough. He hadn’t completely trapped her. He’d prevented her from following him through the tunnel and into the house. It was two against one, with Hank probably injured, if not dead.

  Emmet counted on her staying put, but she had to do something. Something to help. Anything. Nothing came to her. Until her gaze skipped over the grenades, and the stupidest idea in the entire world lodged in her brain.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The objective was to never bring the job home. What one did outside the four walls of their castle should never affect those inside the castle. That being said, if danger foolishly followed you home, destroy it with immense prejudice.

  Exactly what Emmet planned.

  Seven billion people on the globe and he cared about two. Bailey was trapped safe and sound in the weapons locker. Not looking forward to that conversation when I let her out, but she’d be alive. As would Hank be once Emmet killed Rogers and Ivan. If Hank survived.

  That was the real reason he couldn’t bring her with him. The real reason Hank drew Rogers back to his home, where Hank would end Rogers, even if it meant ending himself.

  “Precaution my ass.” That’s how he sold the insane idea to Emmet. At which he moved out. Being a hitman was dangerous without adding explosive devices to the mix.

  Never thought Hank would be one for self-sacrifice.

  The panel next to the washer swung open with a soft squeak. A quick scan of the room confirmed what he already knew. It was empty. Zelda and her cleaning crew came three days a week and today wasn’t one of those days. Without them bustling around the house, cleaning everything, no one had a reason to be in the basement at the washer and dryer. He paused outside of the room and took in the silence.

  Hank had spent a lot of money soundproofing the house for a scenario exactly like this. One didn’t need a hostage screaming their head off, bringing the cops to the party. Never imagined Hank would be the hostage.

  Soundproofing was great to keep the outside world from encroaching. Not great when the same soundproofing isolated him inside the house. A house Rogers had been inside of.

  Quietly, he climbed the basement stairs and emerged inside of the empty kitchen. Flattened against the side of the refrigerator, he waited for the camera discreetly mounted in the light fixture to circle away from him.

  He ducked on the other side of the island, peered into the breakfast nook, and peered into the empty great room with a panoramic view of the backyard until he timed his movements to the camera focused on the parts of the room the camera in the kitchen fa
iled to reach. He darted through the dead zone to the blackout curtains. Once the great room was cleared, he veered into the formal dining room. Empty and again, he closed the blackout curtains.

  Yes, it let whoever followed in his footsteps know he'd been there, which was better than risking some dog walker stumbling upon the kind of activity their gated community promised to protect them from. Their little war had to remain private.

  The doorbell rang and echoed throughout the house. Who the fuck? So much for protecting the public. Whomever the unlucky bastard was, he’d leave a thank you on their headstone. The soft swoosh of a door opening alerted him to someone exiting the study on the other side of the house. Footsteps crossed the foyer, heavy, male, but he was out of position, on the other side of the room, away from the door, for any kind of shot.

  Quiet as he could, he dashed across the room, guns in both hands. All he needed was a shot and— “Hank! Hank!” Bang. Bang. Bang. "Open the damn door. I know you're in there. You are a sorry excuse for a father, and I'm finally gonna say it to your face."

  “God damn it, Bailey,” Emmet muttered in disbelief. Instead of reading the memo and staying put, she’d handed herself over to the man who wanted her dead.

  Locks flipped, and the door opened.

  “Who the fuck are you and where is my shitty father? Hank! Get out of my way.” Cold air preceded her clipped footsteps marching across the marble, drowned out briefly by the slamming of the front door.

  Bailey came into view. She was windblown and breathless, her coat fanning out around her as if she'd run all the way from the shed. She stomped deep into the foyer, screaming, "Hank!"

  Ivan followed her in and stopped behind Bailey, blocking Emmet’s shot. “Rogers,” Ivan bellowed, “Look who came calling.”

  “I thought you were Rogers,” Bailey said, angling her head for a better view of the second floor.

  “Stupid bitch. You should’ve stayed away. You were going to be dessert. Now, you’re the appetizer.” Ivan grabbed her by the back of the head and slammed her onto the table in the center of the foyer and pinned her to the surface.