Hitman's Baby (Mob City Book 2)

by Holly Hart

  I couldn't deny that I admired her reaction right now, even if I couldn't understand it. It showed an unyielding side to the girl that I'd suspected existed deep down within her, a side I'd seen flashes of color from, sparks that illuminated figments and fragments and facets of her personality like a camera flash glancing off a diamond, if not the whole picture. At least, not yet. But right now, we had bigger fish to fry, and if we didn't get out of here in the next few seconds, we'd be the ones in the frying pan. I glanced up, and saw that the two gangsters had quickened their pace now – making no attempt to hide their goal.

  Ellie's eyes widened the moment she saw me, and she jerked back as instinctively as if she'd been burned. "Get away from me," she said. Her voice was low and controlled, yet her flinty, glinting eyes told the real story. She was seething with an icy, glacial rage, perhaps more angry than I'd ever seen her. More angry than anyone I'd ever seen. I knew what her reaction meant. It meant that she knew the truth: the secret that I had been too scared to share.

  But her reaction told me something else. I guessed that she knew less than she thought. A portion, a fraction, just a sliver of the truth. Just enough knowledge to be dangerous – to herself.

  "We don't have time for this, Ellie," I begged, grabbing her arm in an attempt to usher her out of danger. "You need to –"

  She shook me off, interrupting me, and cast a glance at our pursuers over her left shoulder. "I don't need to do anything you tell me," she hissed, diving into the parking garage. "You're sick, a freak! I don't know what you want with me, but whatever it is, you're not getting it. There’s something wrong with you. You need help. I'll," she stammered. " I'll go to the police!"

  I winced and shook my head with frustration. "Listen, I'm sorry I lied to you. I'm sorry for a whole lot of things. But don't cut your nose off to spite your face. You need my help."

  "Stop telling me what I need," Ellie growled, her tone hoarse with exertion. My breath was ragged now as well, coming in fits and starts around sentences. I started planning, casing the joint, thinking through all the angles. It came naturally to me after a life spent in the shadows. You always need a plan, because a man without a plan is as good as dead. I knew one thing beyond any doubt. We didn't have time to fight. Every second spent debating with Ellie was another second closer to a bullet in our backs.

  It didn't matter that she was right. "Just leave me alone," she gasped, pressing her hand against her side. Her face pinched with pain. She was unfit. All those months spent comatose in a hospital bed had carved out their piece of flesh, and now it was taking its toll.

  "You need to come with me," I shouted, my voice echoing around the concrete parking garage like it was a cave. I kicked myself mentally for using the word need. "Those men are killers, Ellie –"

  "And you're not?" She panted. She was visibly slowing now. I knew what I had to do, my plan. I knew what I had to do, but that didn't mean I liked it. I knew that it might cost me everything, might cost me any chance of Ellie ever trusting me again. But I knew that it might be the only chance of saving her life. It was a risk worth taking.

  Fuck!

  This wasn't going how I'd anticipated. I knew that Ellie's words were justified, but the irony punched me in the gut like a sledgehammer. I was trying to save her life, not end it. But I knew that she had no reason to believe me. Any trust that I'd built up with her through saving her life was washing, then flooding away with every second that we spoke. Argued.

  I reached behind myself, to the familiar, hard bulge of a weapon tucked tight to my lower back into the waistband of my jeans. I tugged it loose, fighting the unwilling embrace of my tight leather belt. I didn't want to start a shooting war outside of a hospital if I didn't need to. But I would, if it meant saving her life. Ellie's eyes jumped to the weapon in shock. "You wouldn't!"

  In the event, I didn't have to. Someone made my mind up for me. A shot rang out, punching a chunk in a concrete stanchion not far from my head and a woman screamed, shattering the calm afternoon into slivers. A siren rang out, adding to the confusion, and my adrenaline spiked in response to the familiar sound. To normal people that sound meant fear and confusion. To me it was a lullaby, the soundtrack of my life. An icy chill spread throughout my veins as I settled into a long-practiced routine. Tight, cramped spaces. Rows of cars. Dirty, gray, dented concrete pillars. This was my habitat, where I thrived. Like any predator, I had my own hunting ground, and it was here, right now.

  I turned and loosed a shot. It wasn't meant to hit, just to provide cover – and not to hurt an unlucky bystander. Enough death stalks my dreams at night without adding an innocent to the list. The slug crashed through a truck's windshield, and the glass clouded over as a patchwork cobweb of cracks splintered across it. A few shards of shattered glass fell onto the concrete floor, tinkling as they landed and bringing an unexpected, choral end to the gunshot's violent retort, still echoing round the garage.

  I called out. "Ellie?" But she was gone, twenty yards away already; with her arms pumping like she'd reached the final stretch of a marathon. At least she's out of their range, I thought. But another emotion quickly replaced the cool relief that had barely begun to sooth me – the burning, aching frustration of a painful realization.

  I swore. She was fast, but tiring quickly. Months of inactivity had worn her stamina down to a husk. I knew that catching up with her wouldn't be a problem. The problem would be in convincing her to come quietly. I knew she didn't trust me. I couldn't blame her. I wouldn't either. But somehow I needed to find some reserve of compassion inside me. Some way of convincing her that she could trust me, believe in me, like I did her.

  You could just say it like that, bozo.

  But before any of that, I needed to slow down the chasing footsteps behind me.

  I turned, steadied myself, and fired twice. Two measured, well-aimed shots landed just inches away from the first of the chasing gangsters. They ducked behind the nearest car, a big Ford F150. I cursed, realizing that I wasn't operating at peak efficiency. Normally, I was lethal. It was why the crime families in this city paid me so much. And not just this city, either.

  The reality and finality of my new lifestyle began to dawn. I'd spent my entire life operating as a lone wolf, a man with no tribe, no connections and no ties. And then, just like that, everything had changed. She had changed it. My world was different now, my outlook wrenched away from the simplicity it understood – action and reaction. Life, and death. Payment… And murder. I needed to wake up and smell the bacon.

  Get out of your head, Roman.

  "Ellie, please, wait!" I called out. I lay down a smattering of gunfire to encourage my pursuers to keep their heads down for a few moments longer. If I knew their type at all, and I thought I did, they wouldn't be too anxious to risk themselves. I made a break for it, knowing that even after months of inactivity, Ellie still had the stride and elegant gait of a runner. I'd lose her if I wasn't careful. I looked down at my own frame as I ran, ejecting the spent magazine from my weapon as effortlessly as breathing. The corners of my mouth turned upward in a smirk. Elegant would be the last word I'd use to describe myself. Firm, sturdy, and powerful? Sure. Muscular and devilishly handsome? If I did say so myself… But elegant? Not a snowflake's chance in hell.

  The sight of her disappearing body urged me onto ever-greater efforts. A burst of energy suffused my legs, and I began to close the distance between us effortlessly. She turned a corner, snatching a peek over her shoulder as she span, and her face was black with thunder. She wasn't scared, but furious. Not wavering, but determined.

  But more than any of that, in this world, Ellie was a novice. She was wet behind the ears, and I knew she'd be willing to put her life on the line to save her child – and that because of it, her lifespan would be measured in hours, not days. The people she'd have to go up against would kill her as soon as look at her.

  And put like that, I knew what I had to do. I charged forward, gazelle-like. Reserves of energy I didn't kno
w I had filled my legs with a spring I didn't know existed, at exactly the time that Ellie's began to fail her. I hope I can convince you this is for your own good… I thought, wincing as I imagined how I was going to explain myself. Not easily.

  And then I tackled her against the wall, shielding her body as we fell, legs entangled, to the ground.

  17

  Ellie

  You need to get out of here.

  As I came to, my subconscious screamed a single, frantic command at me. Run. Easier said than done. My eyes flickered open, and my hand automatically jumped to my head, searching for the crack I knew had to be there. But there was nothing, not even a tiny trickle of blood from where my head had bounced off the concrete pillar.

  If anything, I'd fainted more than passed out, long enough for Roman to bundle me up and stuff me into a car. The old vehicle's engine coughed and spluttered as it raced down Alexandria's potholed streets, bouncing off rocks and sending errant stones skipping away at speed.

  Roman. My blood ran cold. My brain was operating through a thick fog – all the exertion of the past few minutes catching up to me after months of laying on my back. My head dropped, and I looked down at my hands. My eyebrows danced with surprise. I'd expected them to be bound. My eyes darted from side to side, filling in the blanks. Roman, my kidnapper, was in the driver's seat. Either side trees and houses and office buildings blurred into one as we sped past. I glanced at the door handle, careful to act as if I was still coming around, yet methodically calculating my options. My good intentions counted for nothing, though. Apparently Roman could read me like a book.

  "It's locked," Roman grunted, eyes scanning left and right in an unceasing, well-practiced drill. His voice rang with a soldier's natural authority, and I could tell he was being truthful. We blasted through intersections, narrowly dodging oncoming traffic again and again until I had to close my eyes to block out the fear. In the darkness my heart beat so hard I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. "And believe me, you wouldn't want to jump anyway. It's not like the movies. You can't just duck and roll and be alright…"

  "Just let me go…" I begged, shuddering at the sound of my own voice – the way it came out in a whimper, not a roar. "I won't tell anyone, I promise. I don't care about any of this, not anymore. I just need to find my –."

  My what? I didn't even know, and the thought ate me up inside. My son? My daughter? I didn't have anything to go on. Not a single lead, not a clue.

  "I know," Roman replied, his voice raw. It was so unexpected, so out of place that for a second I forgot my own troubles and stared at him open mouthed. It sounded like he was hurting too, but for the life of me I couldn't understand why that would be the case. For a second the curious side of me wanted to ask why, to ask what the hell he was talking about, but then I remembered where I was and why I was there.

  Nice guys don't kidnap nice girls.

  It was the kind of slogan that could be printed out and slapped on a coffee cup, or a t-shirt. I grinned in spite of myself, and felt a tiny fragment of the stress I was under wash away. I decided to risk it, to throw caution to the wind. I had nothing to lose anyway – as far as worst-case scenarios go, this one ranked pretty highly. Appealing to his conscience hadn't worked, but maybe pissing him off would…

  It was a high risk strategy, anyway. "I don't know what happened to you," I said, my voice firm and unwavering this time. "Who hurt you, or why. But this isn't right. You can't just go around kidnapping people, and throwing them against walls. Seriously, nice guys don't just go around kidnapping people!"

  He looked at me, his icy, entrancing eyes wide with hurt. An irrational pang of anxiety-laden guilt ripped through me, but I shook it off. Still, something lingered in its place. I didn't know what it was, but my brain wasn't telling me to be scared. That primal core, deep down in the gray matter, the part that tells us not to touch hot things, and to run away when the bushes start rustling – it wasn't telling me to run, not anymore. It was angry, and grieving, and hurt, but the one thing it wasn't was scared – not of Roman, anyway.

  "You don't need to be scared of me," he began, his accident betraying the slightest hint of his Russian origins. "No," he said, cutting himself off. "You do. You're right, you should be. Maybe I am a bad person. I've done terrible things," he said, spinning the wheel with one hand and overtaking a gray Chevy. "But believe me, I'm not going to hurt you. That's the last thing I want to happen. Why do you think I took you, saved you in the first place?"

  I stared at him, meeting his gaze bravely, unflinchingly. "I don't know," I challenged. "Why?"

  18

  Roman

  I didn't answer. Not at first. Not for a long time. Not until I parked the car in a dark, fenced-off alleyway, tossed a mildewed blue tarpaulin over it and indicated for Ellie to follow me back into the safe house. My home. The only place that linked me to this city, a house without possessions, a house without memories, the closest thing to a home that I'd ever had, and simultaneously the furthest away.

  She didn't resist. Her eyes followed me, wary as a beaten dog. I couldn't blame her. I wouldn't trust me, either. Besides, it wasn't like she had a whole lot of choice. This deep in the industrial district, nobody would hear her scream. Not that I had any plans of doing anything to hurt her. I'd seen enough pain and caused enough suffering to last a lifetime, and to know that if I keep doing it, my soul will burn, if my mind doesn't fracture first. I pulled up a section of chain-link fencing, just high enough to duck underneath, and waved my hand. Ellie passed through, and I couldn't keep my eyes off her perky ass –.

  Not now, I thought, shaking my head in disgust at myself. Not while I needed to convince her that I wasn't the worst person who'd ever walked the earth, not while her life hinged on whether or not she accepted my help. Not while our child's future was on the line…

  I gulped, the enormity of my task becoming ever more apparent, and ever more unmanageable. I had no idea how I was going to break the news to her, or how she would take it. I couldn't imagine it going well. After all, I'd misled her, lied to her, lived a lie even as I saved her life.

  Baby steps…

  I almost snorted with laughter at my brain's entirely accidental, and entirely inappropriate pun. I covered my humor up as best I could, forcing a steely calm over my facial muscles.

  I gestured at the couch, but Ellie declined my offer as politely as anyone could, with a single, negative shake of the head. I shrugged. Fair enough. The fact that she was listening to me in the first place was more than I had expected, and more than I deserved, especially after tackling her against a concrete pillar.

  I suspected that if she found it in her heart to forgive me, I'd be living that one down for a long time. But thoughts like that were skipping way ahead of myself. I slumped back onto the forgiving piece of furniture and kneaded my eyelids, trying to figure out how to put into words what I knew I needed to say. I had to give the most convincing speech of my life, but the truth was, I knew I was no wordsmith. Words, with all their double, forked meanings and unanticipated ways of biting you in the ass – they aren't my thing. I'm a man of action, not persuasion.

  Shut up and say something!

  "I have a brother," I said. "Had a brother, I should say. It's still hard, even now. I wake up sometimes and the first thing I think of is telling him what happened in my dream." Ellie didn't say a word, stayed perfectly still, staring at me. I thought I saw her eyes soften, if only a fraction, but perhaps I imagined it. Perhaps I was just seeing what I wanted to see. A man in my line of work has to be like a rock, buffeted every day by guilt and conscience and fear of judgment in the after.

  But for a long time, it was easy to shut all of that out. Easy to ignore it, to hide from it, to drink and smoke and fuck the guilt away. Maybe there comes a time when that doesn't work anymore. Maybe I had reached my line in the sand. Or maybe I'd needed someone to draw that line for me.

  Maybe that person was Ellie.

  I carried on, fighting ba
ck hot, angry tears that were threatening to prickle the corners of my eyes. "We were the same age. Same height. Same eye color. Same everything. We did everything together. My mother died, and my father," I spat the word out, "died to me. He was an animal. No, not even an animal, because animals aren't cruel, they just hunt to survive." A bit like myself.

  "What happened?" Ellie asked, her voice barely audible.

  I'd never told anyone any of this before. Not the disinterested state social workers back in Russia, who only cared enough to pick up their paycheck. Not since the death of my brother, and never to a lover. But that's not what Ellie was to me. Not now, anyway. She was more, and less all at once. The words began to spill out, heedless of the dam that had held them back for so many years.

  "He was an angry man before mama died. But he kept a lid on things, drank himself to sleep in an armchair every night. He didn't work. Of course he didn't work. But she kept him quiet. Of course, everything changed when she passed."

  I paused, a succession of painful memories flashing across the backs of my eyelids. Mama kissing us to sleep at night. Taking us to school. Letting us help pack lunches. And darker ones, too. Taking a punch to the gut one night for standing up to her husband. Cowering in fear as he drained another handle of vodka. The bumps and thumps on the other side of our locked bedroom door…

  "He fell in with a dangerous crowd. The kind of crowd that doesn't need you to turn up at eight every morning to do a day's hard work. The kind of crowd that doesn't care when you turn up to work nursing a two bottle hangover. The kind of crowd that doesn't care that you beat your wife… Organized crime."

  "Didn't you do the same?" Ellie's question hung in the air between us, pregnant with meaning.

  I couldn't deny it. I nodded. Once, slowly. "You're right. Back then, I didn't know what else I could do. The one thing dad taught me," I laughed, the harsh sound seeming to make Ellie's features wince. "Was how to fight. How to hurt. How to kill… Oh, I learned that lesson very well. But I always swore I'd never have kids. Swore that I couldn't bring them into this world. Swore that I wouldn't ever put myself into a situation where my problems could hurt anyone who didn't deserve it."