Hitman's Baby (Mob City Book 2)

by Holly Hart

  Her words battered into me with the force of a boxer's punch, each knocking me back half an inch, tearing the wind from my God, silencing me. The last blow rocked me to my core. And yet I knew that I couldn't blame her for it. She was right. I needed to redeem myself with her, by her side, in full view. It was the only chance that I had of winning her back.

  "Okay," I said, with a voice choked with emotion. "Okay. We'll go together. But when we're out there," I said, meeting her gaze fell on. "You do exactly what I tell you to do. The kind of men we are up against won't hesitate before pulling the trigger. You're a liability to them. Understood?"

  She glowered in front of me, her petite body trembling with anger, and for a long, painful second I thought that she would refuse. An option flickered through my brain of locking her up for her own safety, but I dismissed it as soon as it crossed my mind. An acts like that would destroy her fragile confidence in me forever, and for good reason.

  As she dragged out her decision, each second felt like a minute. When she finally acquiesced, with a tight nod, a tidal wave of relief broke against me with the force of an explosion. My posture softened, and tension I didn't know I was holding flooded away.

  "Good," I said. "Now we're agreed, shall we go get our baby back?"

  It was corny as hell. But it was necessary. It got Ellie to crack a smile. And maybe it gave me the opening I needed to start to win back her trust.

  Maybe.

  21

  Ellie

  There's fear, and there's worry, and there's terror.

  And then there's what I was feeling as I sat in the passenger seat next to Roman – helplessness. It sapped away at my energy, swallowing it whole, draining my life force. I felt the tendrils of depression creeping up my spine and I felt powerless to resist. It was like the worst of my days under Rick's reign of terror, when I was afraid of so much as sneezing while he slept, in case I awoke the beast. But it was different, too. At least in one way. It wasn't the man I could see that I was so scared off.

  It was the ones I couldn't.

  Roman drove as though he were conducting an orchestra, not driving a car. His body was a hive of seamless, graceful, balletic movement. His eyes never stopped moving, flicking from right to left as he drove at the very edges of the speed limit, weaving through cars and maneuvering past huge, plodding trucks. I wanted to scream at him, to urge him to drive faster, and to hell with the law, but I knew he was right. Speeding might feel like the thing to do, but it was anything but. We had to operate inside the law, nipping around the edges perhaps, but coloring inside the lines until the very last moment.

  When we would bring hell down upon the men who had taken our child.

  Our child. Even thinking about it was crazy. I couldn't quite believe that things had moved this far, this fast. A month ago, my biggest worry in life was strengthening my legs enough to walk. Two weeks ago, mastering something as simple as how to write my own name. A week ago, getting to grips with the idea that the neurons in my mind were beginning to knit themselves together once again, that I was healing faster than anyone had expected – and that I could go home soon.

  I almost laughed out loud. That prediction seemed so far away right now that it could easily have been made in another century. My mind was spinning, whirling. The outside world appeared as a blur, cars and trucks and buildings flashing past so quickly I couldn't take them in before they disappeared. The only constant, in fact, was Roman. In all this, he was the only one who had remained by my side. Even when I ran off, he came to find me. To save me. Once, twice, and now a third time lucky. Even if it was a funny definition of luck. My eyes settled upon him, watched as he drove, his eyes narrowed and focused only on the 20 yards of tarmac dead ahead of him.

  In the zone.

  Roman was the ultimate professional. His mouth was set with grim determination, his brow furrowed. He had but one goal, and just looking at him I knew that he would achieve it. He made me believe again, hope again, enough to pray again. I knew that with him by my side, we had a chance. No matter how great the forces stacked against us, we had a sliver of hope. Even though it seemed as though there was no way we could possibly fight through, or even survive ourselves, he gave me hope. And not just hope, either.

  Roman was an all in one role model, the kind of man that I felt I should strive to copy. In any other age he would have been a leader, a general or a chieftain. His skills were timeless – strength, deadly accuracy, and the courage of his convictions. They weren't modern. He was almost a man born out of time. But right now, there wasn't anyone I'd rather have by my side. The way he acted was almost inspiring – not because he was showy, because Roman had spent an entire lifetime learning how to disappear into a crowd, not play to it, but because his deadly professionalism shone out. I knew that the half bit, sloppy mafia crooks who swarmed Alexandria like ants had, this time, bitten off more than they could chew. And the thought of them suffering at Roman's practiced hands warmed me up inside.

  "Thank you," I murmured under my breath. It was meant just for me, but he heard. Of course he heard. His eyes snapped to face me, just for a second.

  "Don't thank me yet," he said. Growled, more than spoke. "I haven't done anything."

  I decided not to challenge him. I knew he had, because I'd be dead, not sitting by his side if he hadn't. But Roman clearly wasn't the kind of guy who needed his ego massaged, stroked or managed. He wasn't weak, far from it. That he wasn't into bling, diamond chains and golden rings didn't mean a damn thing. Not to me, and not to him. I changed topic. Focusing on the task ahead was the only thing keeping my mind off the enormity of what was at stake. "You trust this guy?" I stared dead ahead as I spoke, watching as Roman ate up the miles. It was a cheap trick, one I only used in a pretense at acting casually. I kept staring at him out of the corners of my eyes, straining to see the expression on his face, desperate to monitor his reaction.

  "My source? Not as far as I can throw him," Roman muttered, a fatalistic grin tickling his cheeks. "In fact, I'd be surprised if that worm wasn't running to Victor right now and vomiting out everything he knows."

  I stopped pretending I wasn't staring. My head snapped to face Roman, quick enough that it could have been mounted on a spring. My blood ran cold as I spoke, and the little hairs on the back of my neck all stood up as one. My brain dumped enough adrenaline into my blood to outrun a pack of chasing hyenas, yet strapped into the passenger seat of an old car, I couldn't actually do anything. "What," I choked. "What do you mean – he knows?"

  Roman nodded grimly. "If not now, then soon. I –," he paused, correcting himself. "We didn't have any other choice. We're out of options, Ellie. It was either that, or nothing. And I'm not in any mood for nothing."

  I gripped the car seat's hand rest, the thin flesh on the back of my hands turning white with the effort. I gulped. "Okay, okay, I trust you. But get us there fast, whatever you do."

  Roman pulled a hard left, turning off the main street and down into a residential neighborhood. "Way ahead of you," he said.

  "We're here?"

  He nodded. "We're here. Number thirty-seven, it can't be far away."

  Going against every one of my better instincts, Roman slowed the car down, almost to a crawl. He kept one hand on the wheel, and the other wriggled somewhere out of sight.

  "What are you doing?" I begged. My legs were burning with impatience, as though a thousand tiny, poisonous fire ants were crawling up and down on the backs of my thighs. "Come on, hurry up, we've got to get there, to stop them!" I couldn't understand why he wasn't speeding, knocking men, and women, and children aside, powering past parked cars and driving on people's front yards to get there, even if only a few seconds faster. Okay, perhaps not the first bit, but didn't he know what was at stake? Who is at stake?

  Roman pulled into an empty parking space and turned to face me, killing the engine as he moved. He took his right hand off the steering wheel and placed it on my shoulder, where it hung heavy. His voice was dee
p, and rumbled as he spoke. "Listen to me, Ellie. Don't mistake patience for inaction. Don't mistake action for results. And don't you ever think that I want this any less than you."

  I cringed as he spoke, but he wasn't done.

  "Rushing in there could get both of us killed. And then who does our son have? No one. This is me. This is what I do." His voice softened. "Can you trust me to do it right?"

  I nodded, masking a tear. "I can, I'm sorry. It's just –."

  He stroked my arm as he spoke. "I know." He lifted his hand off my shoulder, twisting his body as he reached to fish something out of the passenger seat footwell. "Put this on," he said, handing me something – a heavy, navy-blue something. My brow furrowed together as I stared at it, my brain trying to match it against anything it had ever seen before.

  "What is it?" I said, noticing a Velcro strap on the heavy package. Roman was already moving, his body reaching in a hundred directions at once. He opened the glove compartment, pulling two fresh, black magazines of bullets out and tapped them against the dashboard before stuffing them into a back pocket. He checked his handgun's action. He was fast, smooth and efficient.

  "Bulletproof vest," he grunted. He was economical with his use of words now, as if his brain power was in use somewhere else. Focused on solving the problem. Focused on saving our son. I hope that was the case. I knew it was.

  "Where's yours?" I asked, flipping the vest over now that I realized what it was, and that it was upside down. My aching muscles protested as I pulled the heavy Kevlar-plated garment over my shoulders.

  "You're wearing it," Roman said, shooting me a quick, caring smile as he tightened up. "Come on, let's go. Whatever happens, stay behind me. If I get shot, run. And go to the FBI, not the police. Maybe they'll be able to help."

  His door was open before I had a chance to reply to this new barrage of information, and I followed his lead. My head was spinning, but I knew I could figure out the details later. I closed the car door quietly, and as I turned I bumped into a letterbox bearing the number thirty-five. Next door's letterbox. "We're here," I whispered to myself.

  Roman had his weapon up, pointed at number thirty-seven. It was broad daylight, and anyone could have seen. It was a white picket house in a white picket neighborhood. I knew that something was already wrong. I choked out the question, desperate not to hear his reply. "What is it?"

  He didn't speak, perhaps couldn't, just poked his chin towards the house. I didn't need a second explanation. The front door was ajar, and shards of orange-red porcelain and clods of dirt littered the porch. There had been a scuffle.

  We were already too late.

  22

  Roman

  I looked at Ellie, my throat seized with worry, but kept my expression blank. The last thing I needed was for her to panic. I didn't think she would, but she was a mother, and her child was in danger. I thought she was a fighter, not a worrier, but I hadn't seen any proof. I motioned with my eyes for her to stay behind me. She nodded, the only sign of her fear the slightest of tremors in her hands. I was impressed.

  I crept towards the house, checking that nobody was watching. I didn't see so much as the twitching curtain of the neighborhood gossip. Good. The last thing I needed was the police turning up.

  I checked my weapon one last time, making absolutely, abundantly clear something I already knew – that the gun's safety was on. My son might be in there. And the good Samaritans who'd taken him in when I hadn't been there for him. I wasn't going to be the one to put all that at risk. But my gut was telling me what I already knew to be true – danger lay ahead.

  "Stay here," I whispered to Ellie. "I'll call you when it's safe." I glanced at her, but even as my head strained to look over my shoulder, I knew what I was going to see. She shook her head resolutely, her jaw clenched shut. I was about as likely to convince her to stay behind as a high tide was to knock over the Statue of Liberty. She was coming, whether I liked it or not. In this case – not. I was nervous, both of her getting hurt, which I didn't know I'd be able to bear, and of what she might see inside.

  I sighed but didn't try to fight her. My stomach was a nervous sea of acid, rumbling every time I took a step. I kept moving forward, eating up the newly cleaned flagstones that made up the path to the front door. I stepped over a shard of the broken plant pot. It was a good ten feet away from the door. However the scuffle had started, it had got violent. I pointed down, glancing at Ellie as I moved forward. She nodded, and stepped lightly over it.

  I crept up to the door, nerves growing in my stomach with every inch. The crack in the opening was only a couple of inches wide, but it felt like a chasm. Two inches that might mean everything for me. Two inches that might change my life forever.

  I paused, sniffed. Something wasn't right. My stomach growled. I doubted anyone would be able to hear it, but to me it sounded like a bomb going off. I tested the wooden door, shifting it a fraction of an inch, checking whether the hinges were oiled. The last thing I wanted was to give anyone inside even a second's warning. This was going to be tight, even without my enemy having even the slightest advantage. My heart skipped a beat, but it moved silently.

  I pushed against it, harder this time, and fashioned an opening. The hinges didn't betray me, and I slipped through, weapon high and at the ready. I pointed it ahead, moving the barrel in an elegant dance that took it to every point of the compass in half a second. "Clear," I muttered, as quietly as possible. Ellie followed.

  The sense of foreboding was rising in my stomach. Something was wrong. The house didn't feel occupied, not fully. There wasn't so much as the squeak of a floorboard, or hiss of breath – the usual rhythm of life. Kidnapped?

  The house's layout was simple, probably the same as hundreds of units in the neighborhood. Stairs next to the front door, a short corridor leading to a door both left and right. An over-burdened coat rack on the wall to the right, a bright yellow raincoat that seemed entirely out of place in the otherwise plain neighborhood now lay on the floor. I took another experimental sniff of the air, and figured that the door to the right was the kitchen. It smelt of baking. Something sweet. I inched forward, but the further I delved into the house, the more I dreaded what I was going to find.

  I grabbed Ellie's hand and pulled her close. I walked through into the kitchen, cleared it in an instant. Empty. No threats, no targets. Like the rest of this house. It linked to the living room. I didn't have a chance to prevent Ellie seeing it, a scene that I knew would haunt her for the rest of her life. I was no stranger to death, to violence, but it shocked even me.

  Devastation. Blood spray patterned the walls in an elegant, bone-chilling display. A man lay on his back, slumped over a woman, his hands open in one last, desperate attempt to beg for his life. No, not his – his wife's.

  Ellie shrieked, and I pulled her into my chest. I didn't want her to see it, to relive it forever. The scene told its own story, at least to someone who knew how to read it. The couple had retreated to a corner, the man with his wife behind him, just like Ellie had followed me. The woman's face, what little I could see of it, was streaked with tears mixed with black trickles of makeup. They had known they were going to die. Ellie's tears wet my shoulder, her body shook with shock, and fear.

  Not fear. I knew what fear felt like, and it wasn't this. She was stiff with anger, with rage, with the desire to strike back and hurt whoever had done this, to ruin them.

  The man had died protecting his wife. Backed into a corner, his last act had been to throw himself towards the weapons that had streaked fire, sending bullets tearing through his body. Two bloody holes peppered his chest, and blood had bloomed forth, soaking his white and blue check shirt. It now lay dark, one color, and sticky with a life force that was now congealed in a thick puddle on the floor. One final bullet marked his forehead, a thin trickle of blood the only sign marking an otherwise still face.

  "They're at peace now," I murmured as Ellie fought her way out of my embrace.

  Her face wa
s black with thunder, and tears streaked her face in a chilling reminder of the woman lying in her death throes on the floor. "This is my fault," she said, weeping silent tears. "They wouldn't be dead if it wasn't for me."

  "It's not," I protested, gripping the handle of my gun so hard I could barely feel my fingers. "It's not your fault. You didn't do this. You didn't kill these people. Victor Antonov killed these people, or ordered their deaths, not you."

  Ellie's eyes flickered, as though something had broken free in the depths of her brain, a shard of memory, or understanding. "Victor…" She breathed. "I know now," she said.

  "You know?" I said, my forehead wrinkled with confusion.

  "It doesn't matter, I'll tell you… After," she said, her own brow furrowed. "I'm not sure yet."

  I didn't press, just glad that her mind wasn't entirely focused on the horrible sight before her. Glad that she was distracted from the enormity of it. The living room stank of death, oozed that cloying, sweet scent that didn't make any sense. It was too early for decay, for rot to have set in, the bodies were still warm. Yet something had changed, almost as though the universe was recognizing the horror of what it had seen – and was protesting it.

  The house was empty. I didn't know how, but I knew. Years of experience, perhaps. But that meant something terrifying – horrifying. Victor's men had made it here before us, and that meant they had our son. I'd realized the truth the second I saw the broken plant pot, but there's a difference between knowing, and knowing. The creeping realization that I had failed my son, and failed his mother hit me like a battering ram to the gut. I wanted to sink to my knees, to vomit, to weep.

  But instead I clenched my jaw, shut my eyes tight to ward off any stray tears, and let my head sink to my chest as I processed it. It was a moment to myself – the acceptance, and resolving never to fail this way again. But in my grief, my self-involvement, I didn't feel Ellie's hand breaking from mine. My ears barely registered the sound of her footsteps padding against the carpeted floor, the creaking of stairs, or the sound of a door pushed too energetically and impacting the drywall.