Murder Girl (Lilah Love Book 2)

by Lisa Renee Jones

  I stand up and glance at the number to find Lucas calling. I answer on speaker and set it on the table. “Lucas,” I say, opening a drawer under the table, and sure enough, my backup shoulder holster is still here.

  “I finished the program,” he says.

  “And?” I prod, shrugging into the holster, glancing up to find Kane standing in the archway dividing the closet from the weapons room, listening in on the conversation.

  “I came up with the hits you predicted,” Lucas says. “You and Beth were on multiple cases, but there was also a lab tech with a double hit. He was on the Laney Suthers case and the recent New York City murder.”

  “Can you text me a name, data, and the person?”

  “I can,” he says, “but just so you know, he dropped dead of a heart attack three nights ago.”

  My gaze meets Kane’s, and we share a look of understanding: the man was murdered. “All right,” I say. “Text me the information anyway. What about Greg Harrison? Did you pull his file?”

  Kane arches a brow at that.

  “Shit,” Lucas says. “I was ready to get wasted on that forty-year single malt scotch you brought me. Give me a half hour.”

  “If I don’t answer, leave me a detailed message.” I pick up the phone and end the call.

  Kane is in front of me by the time I’ve set it back down, tugging my holster fully into place and connecting the buckle. And I let him. “A forty-year scotch?” he asks, his hands settling on his hips. “That’s an expensive showing of gratitude.”

  “I stopped by my father’s house and took it.”

  He laughs. “Sounds like you and serves the bastard right.” He pulls a small handgun from the back of his pants and shows it to me.

  “My favorite flavor of Ruger,” I say of the brand, accepting it.

  “And unlike your service weapon,” he says, offering me another ankle holster, “it won’t track back to me or you.”

  “Right,” I say, accepting the strap. I start to turn away, and he catches my hip.

  “Lilah—”

  “Whatever you’re going to say, don’t. I get it. I’m in your world tonight, not mine.”

  “My world is your world.”

  His cell phone buzzes and his jaw flexes. “We aren’t done with this conversation.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and glances at the text. “My men are ready to shadow us to the airport.”

  I nod and squat down, strapping on the ankle holster under my boot and inserting the gun. When I stand, Kane is two feet away, shrugging into a thin brown leather jacket that, while stylish, serves a purpose. It covers his holster. I grab an equally presentable but effective thin black leather jacket and pull it on over my holster. That’s when my gaze catches on my badge that I have yet to return to my belt, and Kane’s words come back to me: Your world is my world.

  Since the moment I met him, that is true, right or wrong, good or bad. I can’t deny that. I’ve tried for two years, and here we are, which means I need to control what that means. I pick up my badge and walk to Kane. “Do I influence your actions?” I hold up the badge. “Do you think about my badge before you make decisions?”

  “All the fucking time.”

  “Did you think about it when I was gone?”

  “Yes. Because I didn’t plan on staying away from you or you from me.”

  “Then I’m keeping the damn badge. Because you don’t get to be your fucking father. I won’t let you.” I turn and start walking toward the door, grabbing my phone and sticking it in my pocket on the way past the table. And I can feel him wanting to pull me back, but he doesn’t. He can’t right now. We have an assassin waiting on us.

  A few minutes later, Kane and I are on the road in his black Mercedes Roadster, which is a new addition to his garage. “Expensive,” I say as we settle into a steady speed on the highway, “but not too expensive.” I glance over at him. “Smart. A man who knows he draws attention and settles in the middle.”

  “I have my extravagant moments,” he says. “You know that I’ve never cared for the spotlight. That hasn’t changed.”

  “But you do enjoy power and control.”

  “I won’t deny that as a truth.”

  “And in contrast, my father craves the spotlight. That made him a target for those people, didn’t it?”

  “Yes. And because of that hunger in him, like many political figures, he will look like he has power and control, but he will be controlled, submissive even.”

  “I can’t save him, can I?”

  “No. You can’t save him.”

  “Could you have? At any point, could you have saved him?”

  “You could theorize that I could have, had I found out before he dived in headfirst, but as you said, he wants the spotlight, and to some, that’s a drug that makes them addicts.”

  “I searched his office at his house. I found a number with no name. I called it and Greg answered.”

  “And?”

  “He said he’s doing contract security right now and he gave his new number to my father for potential work.”

  “Sounds like a bad lie to me.”

  “A lie that he stumbled over,” I say. “And I told you, I all but saw him spoon a Romano, when a Romano bust is what supposedly got him in trouble. I’d like to think he’s just trying to clear his name, but the connection to my father has me thinking he’s one big fucking lying, cheating loser.” That thought pisses me off, and I grab my phone and dial Lucas on speaker again.

  “Fuck, Lilah,” he groans, and then slurs his words. “You’re an impatient hussy bitch.”

  “Yeah. I know you love me. What about Greg Harrison?”

  “He has an open IA case, but the record is blank.”

  My brow furrows. “Blank?”

  “Yes. Blank. As in there is a record, but it’s blank.”

  “Smart-ass,” I snap. “Obviously you’re too drunk to do this now. Call me tomorrow.”

  “I could hack the United States of America ten times more sloshed than I am right now. The record is blank. I’m not going to call you tomorrow to tell you the same thing.”

  “When did he leave his job?” I ask.

  “No documented resignation or termination.”

  And yet Greg told me he quit. I’d have Lucas check for an update tomorrow, but it’s too dangerous, and I can find out this part of the equation through Murphy. Kane pulls us into the airport. “Go drink, Lucas. Celebrate your greatness. Call a woman who isn’t me and get drunk with her. The booze is on my father.”

  “What? Oh fuck. Is this your father’s booze?”

  He’s drunk and can’t remember shit. I hang up on him.

  “Sounds like Greg made a deal,” Kane says, parking us near the door and under a light, no accident I am certain.

  “The question is with who?”

  “I know how to find out,” he offers.

  “How?”

  “A chair and some rope.”

  “If you were anyone else, I’d think that was a joke. But you’re you, so I’m saying this as if it needs to be said because apparently it does. No chair. No rope.”

  “For him or for you?”

  “Kane—”

  “You can think about both or give me a wink and I’ll think about it.” He glances at his watch. “Time to go meet Ghost.” He reaches for his door, and I do the same, and together we walk into the building.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  He indicates a blank sign by a door, and we walk that direction, exiting to a private strip of the airway at the same moment that a chopper appears in the near distance, heading our direction. “You’re sure about this?” I ask.

  “If I wasn’t, you wouldn’t be going with me.”

  “And yet you had me arm myself with an unregistered gun and a knife.”

  “If I wasn’t cautious, you wouldn’t be with me either.”

  I don’t really want to think about what kind of deal Kane has made with an assassin to feel safe with him. Or how much busi
ness he might have done with him to create loyalty, and now isn’t the time to ask for details that might piss me off. The chopper comes in for landing, the sound roaring in my ears, the blades lifting my hair from my neck. The minute the blades hover just above pavement, Kane’s hand settles at my spine and urges me forward. We hurry toward the small industrial aircraft, and there won’t be staff or steps to aid our boarding.

  Kane opens the door and holds up a finger, indicating he wants me to wait, and once he has my nod, he climbs inside, and I watch him move to the front where he leans toward the pilot. Thirty seconds later, he’s offering me a hand, and I’m jumping on board. We head to the snug bucket seats and buckle in. “Where?” I mouth.

  Kane grabs me and presses his lips to my ear. “Forty-five minutes is all he would say.” He pulls back, and we’re already lifting off. I glance at my watch. It’s ten thirty. I start my timer. We’re officially headed into the dark unknown to meet a man who kills for money. My arm flexes over my weapon at my rib cage: technically, I kill for money, too. When I’m given cause. And if Ghost gives me cause, I will kill him tonight. And I might even enjoy it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  As soon as the chopper is in the air, the pilot begins a weave and circle that ensures Kane and I have no opportunity to gauge our travel direction, be it north, south, east, or west. The darkness and absence of city lights that soon follow don’t help matters. Fifteen minutes into the flight, I accept the inevitability of being blind and dumb until our arrival. Leaning into the seat, my leg and hip align with Kane’s and not because either of us is suddenly trying to play the lovey-dovey couple that we’ve never been nor will ever become. Kane and I do this hate/love, throw-a-fist, fuck-to-make-up thing too damn well to screw it up with fluffy bullshit.

  No. Right now, our legs are melded together because we’re crammed inside this hellhole of a chopper that is loud, rough, and sporting only one tiny-ass double seat. I suspect the uncomfortable ride is meant to keep us on edge, anticipating the meeting with Ghost, maybe even fearing him. Or maybe he’s just a cheap-ass bitch. That’s probably it, since Kane’s known to Ghost, and fear for Kane is like fear for me. It works about as well as Eddie and I did at my father’s house for dinner.

  At forty minutes into the expected forty-five-minute ride, the chopper begins a descent. Kane doesn’t visibly react to our arrival, nor do I, but I can feel the slight tensing of his body, the readiness that wasn’t there moments before. Once again, I attempt a look out the window, but still, I find nothing but darkness. No city lights. Confirmation that we’re headed to a secluded location.

  Five minutes later, the chopper officially touches down in what appears to be a field, and the pilot stays in his seat, a silent message for us to get the fuck out of his chopper. Kane unbuckles his belt and moves to the door, opening it and scanning outside. I am behind him by the time he leaps to the ground, and I don’t look for his hand, nor does he offer it. He’s focused on the horizon that includes a farmhouse of some sort. I, too, jump to the ground. Already, my eyes are adjusting to the darkness, the clear night, the full moon and heavy star-speckled sky, the rows of trees circling the large grassy field where we stand.

  The chopper’s engine roars, and it lifts off behind us. Kane and I back up and turn to watch it depart. “It’s going to be one hell of a walk back to your place.” I glance left to what looks like crops and another silhouetted structure. “Hurd Family Farm,” I say. “The trees are apple trees. I remember being here years ago.”

  “And known to accept chopper landings,” he says. “Which places us in Modena, New York, on the edge of the small town Plattekill.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and makes a call. “Chopper. Hurd’s Farm. North side of the farmhouse. Now.” That’s it. He ends the call and looks at me. “‘Now’ translates to an hour to get us out of here.”

  “Or for me to get standby agents here to arrest him if that had been my plan.” The lights in the farmhouse flicker and go dark.

  “He obviously wants us to come to him.”

  “Wonderful,” I murmur. “A bossy assassin with a flair for horror-movie dramatics.”

  We start the short walk, and as our feet hit the dirt leading to the open farmhouse door, the lights inside the structure turn on. Kane catches my arm. “If we play this right, he’ll help us fuck the Society and their assassin. But if he crosses us, shoot to kill. There won’t be a do-over.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you’re confident in that mutual respect,” I comment.

  “I’m cautious and realistic. When a man feels trapped, he will always lean on instincts and what he does best. In his case, that means kill and move on.”

  “And what’s your instinct, Kane?”

  “Kill or be killed.”

  I have a momentary flashback to me driving a knife through my attacker’s chest, a man who Kane restrained with the intent of talking to him. Because apparently, my motto is “Kill because they deserve it.” I can’t blame the Society for making me who I am, but they damn sure woke that part of me up, apparently after they’d already pulled my family into hell. I want them to pay. I’m going to make them pay. And if Ghost can help me do that, I’ll shake the monster’s hand if I have to tonight and come back for him later.

  I give Kane a nod, and we move together, closing the short space to the farmhouse that is actually a barn. We step into the doorway to discover two horses, one left and one right, each enclosed by wooden fences, a narrow walkway beyond leading to more gated stalls. A man—Ghost, I assume—is sitting on the fenced area to our left, his hands balancing his position. His dark brown hair is short but not short enough to read as military, as Murphy seems to believe is his background. His temples are streaked gray, but I don’t believe him to be more than a few years older than Kane, perhaps thirty-six or -seven.

  It feels like an easy trap, and Kane’s flat-footed stance says he’s of the same mindset. We don’t move. We make Ghost come to us. His lips curve as if he’s amused by our hesitation, which he sees as intimidation. Or that’s what he wants us to think to lure us to him. We stand our ground, and he jumps down from the fence, his clothing like mine—all black. No logos that might tell a story about his character. But as he moves toward us, he is tall, muscular, and confident, his grace that of a practiced soldier.

  Kane and I meet him halfway in the center of the barn, a decision we make in unison, the way Greg and I had once played off each other. We halt, as he does, with two feet between us. He gives Kane a nod. “The notorious Kane Mendez.”

  “Ghost,” Kane greets. “You’re looking like the killer that you are.”

  “If only more people knew how to give a compliment,” he says, glancing at me, his pale-green eyes strikingly cold. “Do you like horses, Lilah Love?”

  “They’re a hell of a lot better than most humans,” I say dryly. “Especially those who make their living as assassins.”

  His lips quirk with amusement, his gaze boring into me.

  “If staring at me is supposed to fluster me,” I say, “it won’t work.”

  “You sure about that?” he challenges.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  He arches a thick dark brow. “Unfortunately?”

  “There is something wrong with a person who can look into the eyes of a killer and feel no fear. Don’t you think?”

  “If you don’t feel fear, what do you feel?”

  “Irritated that I can’t kill you today.”

  “You can’t kill me period, little girl.”

  “You sure about that?”

  He gives me a flat two-second stare, his cheekbones high, nose straight, expression carved into stone before he says, “I’m going to help you get your assassin,” he says.

  “Why help me?” I ask.

  “I’m not helping you,” he says. “You’re helping me.”

  “How are we helping you?” Kane interjects.

  He shifts his attention to Kane. “I turned down this job, and in the wake of m
y withdrawal, they chose to copycat me. I want this little prick taken down.”

  “Why’d you turn down the job?” Kane asks.

  “I didn’t at first,” he says. “The payout made it worth considering.”

  “But you got spooked,” Kane assumes.

  “I don’t get spooked,” Ghost says. “I stay smart. They presented me the job, which was cut-and-dry. A list of Society members who were planning a coup of their leadership. And don’t ask for details. I didn’t care to ask myself and don’t have them to give.”

  “If it was cut-and-dry,” I say, “why did you pull out?”

  “They wanted me to sign on as their exclusive agent, with a price tag of fifty million a year. I refused the broader offer but accepted the contract job. I’d taken a down payment, agreed to terms, even started planning, and then they fucked me.”

  “That doesn’t seem smart on their behalf,” Kane comments, echoing my own thoughts.

  “Smarter than you might think,” he says. “At least in the short term. Word got back to me that I was being buzzed about as the new assassin for the Society, as if I’d taken the job.”

  “And with a coup,” I say, “that buzz intimidated Society members.”

  “Exactly,” he says. “An especially effective strategy on their behalf, considering I killed a key Society leader years ago, and when they then sent a half dozen Blood Assassins after me, I lived. They died.”

  Confirmation, I think, that the Blood Assassins exist and that they work for the Society. Additional confirmation, as well, that the Society was behind my attack.

  “It made the Society look bad,” he says. “But hiring me makes it look like they ordered the murder of their own people, then and now.”

  “Which is why the assassin who took the job is copying you,” Kane says.

  “Yes,” he confirms, that one word like a blade cutting through the air. “And that’s where they pushed me too far. I don’t like being copied.”

  “Who do you deal with at the Society?” I ask.

  “Pocher,” he says. “It’s always Pocher.”

  “Is he the leader?” I ask.