“By the time I made it back to my car, the car that pulled off with you was gone, but we caught up with them. The problem was getting the backup we needed to come into this place. They were heavily armed and it wasn’t easy getting in.” Wiley got me free and then hugged me. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I had lost you, Nik.”
“Aw, stop it. We’ll find some time to be sentimental later. Right now, we need to make sure this warehouse is secure and that there aren’t any girls here. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that this is the same warehouse Vargas sent us to pick up those girls.”
Wiley tossed me a gun and said, “I was thinking the same thing. Let’s go.”
Blaine was taking shallow breaths, so I aimed the piece at Blaine’s head. “May God have pity on your soul,” I said as I engaged the trigger and put a bullet in the center of his head.
We took his phone and other electronics we found to analyze them for more info about the cell. We took off looking around the warehouse for any other clues that we may have missed. Backup had arrived, so the place was swarming with agents. I walked to the backdoor and oddly it was unlocked and barely closed. I looked outside and noticed a utility building in the back.
“Has anyone checked out that building in the back?” I asked Clanton who was in the back searching through some of the boxes.
“I don’t think so,” he said, after walking over to take a peek outside.
I walked outside and toward the utility building with Wiley and Clanton at my side. The window was up kind of high, so I had to stand on my tiptoes to see inside. But there inside was a group of girls, about twenty of them, sitting around quietly, waiting to be sold.
“There are some girls in there,” I told Wiley.
Wiley shot off the lock and we went in and told the girls to come with us.
We got the girls back out to the front of the building and all but one of them was silent. One girl named Tralise who had only been there for a few days said, “I heard them talking. They were planning to sell us to people, so that they could go in their homes and rob them. They said that was going to be their way of terrorizing America. By stealing their children and then killing people in their houses using the children as decoys. They said that would make them scared for their children and scared for their own lives. They want us all to be scared. But I wasn’t scared to die here. I woulda kilt myself if I had to do the stuff they wanted us to do,” Tralise said bravely.
“You are one brave girl,” I said to her. She kind of reminded me of myself. “Do you mind if we ask you so more questions when we get back to the station?” I asked her.
“I will tell you whatever you want to know. ‘Cause the bad people need to be off the street. One day, when I grow up, I’m going to be a police officer and make sure that people like that don’t hurt nobody,” the young girl said. And, man, I could remember those naïve days of wanting to make the world a better place.
Seeing the light shining in Tralise’s eyes made me very aware of my desire to see my own daughter. To hug her and protect her.
“Yoni and Clanton, I’ll be back to the station later tonight to do my report. Wiley will you take me to the hospital?”
“Sure thing,” Wiley said, and Yoni and Clanton agreed.
Wiley walked me up to Brittney’s unit and embraced me before leaving. Granson came over to me with a mix of emotions in his eyes. “You look like you’ve been through hell and back.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” I said sarcastically and then laughed, until I saw Dr. Dewberry standing at the nurse’s station. I pulled Granson by the arm and approached Dr. Dewberry. “Dr. Dewberry, tell Granson the truth about the blood test,” I demand, fingers itching to squeeze my trigger once again today. All he had to do was say one wrong thing.
“Ms. Jones, what are you ask—?”
By the time he began the last word, my gun was unholstered and positioned between his eyeballs.
“Jones?” one of the guards said, while looking at me perplexed.
“No need for anyone to worry. The good doctor here is going to tell me and Granson what I want to hear and what Granson needs to hear, and then I’ll put my gun away and life will go on.”
“I…I…” The doctor looked around at the terrified looks on the nurses’ faces. “I purposefully gave you the wrong test results earlier today. Brittney is your daughter by both DNA and blood type,” Dr. Dewberry admitted.
Granson cocked his fist back and punched the doctor in the nose. “You motherfucker! You almost broke up my family.”
The doctor fell back onto the counter. His hand flew to his bloodied nose. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice. If I didn’t tell you what that man wanted me to say he was going to kill me. I made sure she got the blood she needed. I’m so sorry.”
“No, I’m the one sorry Nikki. I never should have doubted you.”
“Actually, you were right to doubt me.” I didn’t know where the words came from; they just flew out. I mean, I just got back on Granson’s good side and there I was about to blurt out a confession.
“How so?” he asked.
“There have been times when I’ve done things while undercover that I shouldn’t have done. Things I’m not proud of.”
“I mean, what kind of things?”
I could feel the air leaving my lungs. My heart was beating fast, extremely fast. My palms were sweaty and my scalp was itching. I was afraid of what my revelation would lead to, but I’d begun down this road of truth, so I was brave enough to walk down it. “There have been times when I needed to do mo—”
Granson’s index finger rose and touched my lip. He replaced his finger with his lips. My lips parted, allowing his tongue entrance and we reacquainted ourselves to the very core of each other’s life-force. Granson was saying in that kiss that he didn’t care what had happened in the past, we were starting anew. I was saying in that kiss that I would never defile our bond with another, ever again.
THE END
Why hello there,
Thank you for reading this short while I work on the full length novels that I plan to publish later this year. I’m working hard to get you more great stories soon…so if you think Nicollette’s story was bad ass enough to add to the rotation, drop a few words in a review on Amazon and let me know you want more. Otherwise, I’ll keep it moving with plans to give Montie from the Breathless series his own standalone and work on a brand spanking new 100k urban story inspired by my fetish of watching criminal shows like Forensic Files and First 48.
I also have a BWWM story that will be upwards of 100k (at least that’s the goal). I got the inspiration to write this new BWWM story when I was riding on an Alabama country road to Theresa Hodge’s house one day last year. Once I got arrived to her house, I told her about it and she was like you have to write it. Welp, the storyline hasn’t left me since, so I have to get it out. I’ll share the titles and storylines soon.
Again, thank you so much for your support.
Until the next time my pen crosses your mind….
Be blessed,
Shani (pronounced Sha-nay, like Shanay Nay from Martin)
SECRETS I SHOULD’VE TOLD YOU FIRST
EXCERPT
Prologue
Professional Hit Man
I stare at the round trip ticket in my hand, the glossy letters shimmer from the overhead lighting. Delta Airlines First Class. A sudden calmness comes over me after every kill; it’s an empty, hollow space in the back of my mind that I go to. I’ve just finished another job for a top dog in one of Washington D.C.’s Senate families. Though I’ve taken out a lot of people secretly, this one has to be the most gruesome kill that I’ve done. The British Nobel’s dismembered body will never be found. I’m just that good. I’m far from the average hit man; I make people disappear without a trace and I know my own worth.
Stuffing the ticket into my briefcase, I relish the thought of getting away with a clean slate. I pick up the People Magazine I laid aside earlier
, but hadn’t given much thought to. With it now back in front of me, I notice the image on the cover. A smile emerges behind the grim face I’ve worn for the last few hours. Nothing makes me smile anymore, but seeing this headline has me captivated:
British Noble, Dalworth, Duke of Bromwich meets with the President of the United States next week. Flipping the page, I reject the humor in knowing that meeting will never take place. I’ve become so numb to my emotions. Murder is one thing, but after doing it over and over again, I’ve become immune to feeling heartless.
I yawn uncaringly and scan the glossy pages, trying to pass the time. I glance at my watch and find the hands moving slowly. This flight will take a while. Lunch has been served fifteen minutes ago. The movies I watch on my iPad only increase the boredom tremendously, when I’m forced to watch them. Needless to say, I’m disinterested with the things I used to enjoy.
The next time I look up, a brunette stuffs a pair of headphones into her ears and lays back comfortably into the seat. The stewardess walks by pushing a small cart filled with snacks. I glance at the Luxurman Liberty gold-plated watch on my wrist again. The watch itself is worth a small fortune. I note the time is ten minutes ‘til four and instantly I am delighted. I will make it to Detroit in plenty of time for my meeting with Pete “Snake Eyes” Maseretti.
We land before I notice it. The plane jolts and the tires scream. Passengers sit up, close their laptops, and fold their blankets. Time sure flies. I chuckle under my breath at my own dry humor.
By the time the airplane touches down at the Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport, it’s a quarter to seven in the evening, local time. We all get off. I carry my hand luggage off the plane, knowing there’s another hour drive to the meeting place. There is no need for me to wait around in the airport for any other luggage. When I travel to do a job, I travel light.
I get into my brand new Aston Martin DB5 that’s parked in the private garage at the airport. I am stopped coming out of the parking garage. Security is very tight. In fact, the guard at this gate is indecisive with his gaze. Terrorism is a big threat in major cities, so I roll with the punches. I show my license and hand over my credit card to the attendant who is standing at the booth in order to settle the charges for housing my vehicle. The attendant handles the paperwork in a friendly and efficient manner. A breeze climbs into my window. I inhale the city air and sign my John Hancock. I take my receipt and he hands me back my ID. The still photo of me is only part of the truth; it is, in fact, the image of me, but the name underneath is one of my many aliases. I shove it inadvertently into my wallet and drive through the gate after it’s lifted.
No one knows about the AK 47 in the trunk, the silencer in the glove compartment, or the 357 Magnum on my waist. I weave through traffic. Hired by one of the most powerful mafias in America, I feel totally unstoppable.
I listen to the wind sneak through the crack of my window. I consume the moment with confidence. My Ashton Martin DB5 only has twenty-two hundred miles on the clock, a real power horse. This is one of my many personal vehicles that I rarely drive. I’m glad I decided to drive this one to the airport four days ago. I need the speed to release some of the adrenaline that I have suppressed from the fresh kill.
The skyline buildings fade into a calm illusion behind me. I turn right and merge onto Interstate 80. A strip of pavement lies ahead of me, yellow lines dashing underneath the car. I can see factories on each side, the smog withering from their tops like smoke from a chimney. It’s that calm of the city you never can get anywhere else.
The road is a never ending mirage. The car is navigated to its destination by the most sophisticated system I’ve seen. The destination is already programmed into my GPS. I adjust the cruise control and set it at ten miles per hour over the posted speed limit. In my rearview mirror, I can see cars, trucks, and SUVs getting further behind. Eventually, they become a blur, just like the many murders do in my mind. The lines in the center of the road disappear faster and faster. There is nothing in front of me but the open road.
A surge runs through me. The feeling is more than I can resist. I feel a rush for speed; I am pumped. I press the gas and accelerate even more. The speedometer leans to the right. Everything around me is numb. I could crash, but that doesn’t bother me. I can hear the turbulence, feel the energy of something tangible, just right out of my reach. I can feel it deep down. This feeling exhilarates me. The faster I drive, the more alive I feel, as if it gives me a natural high that I can’t explain. I notice the speed at a hundred and two. It’s still a little light by the time I exit off the I-80 ramp for the second exit to Eisenhower Boulevard.
Pete has a house that he reserves for these types of meetings. One of many luxury homes, or so I’ve heard. He probably wants me to whack one of his golf buddies, push an ex-girlfriend down a flight of stairs, or poison a member of his crew.
Moments later, I arrive. With the help of the GPS, I find the meeting place without any trouble. I cruise aside the elegant home, just outside the gate, adoring all of its beauty. This is one hell of a home: four-door garage, several levels of steel framed windows, and a lawn the size of a football field. As I pull up to the entrance, I’m stopped by the guards outside the gate. They are both heavily armed.
“I swear I have no problem with shooting you guys,” I say as I peer at them through my car window.
Taking out a cigar and lighting it, I gaze at the two hulk-like men in black suits and ties as if they are no threat. They look like G.I. Joes. Both of them have big guns in full visual. These jocks are trained killers, but so am I.
The one with the buzz cut approaches my car but does so rudely. I put the car in park and Mr. Asking for Trouble motions me to slide my window down, while the other guard circles around to the back of my car.
“Aye. Asshole, be careful.” My tone is laced with severity as I glance at the one who is checking out my expensive ride from top to bottom. I would hate to leave Pete’s fake Vin Diesel lying on the pavement for the vultures to feast on his corpse. I grab the gun from my waist. “You put one scratch on my baby and it will land you a bullet in the head,” I say with deadly calmness in my voice. My threat isn’t an idle one, but the man only grunts at my warning.
“Get out of the car,” guard number one says.
I open the door and ease my tall frame from the low seating of the car. I place my hands in plain sight, leaving my gun inside, because I know the drill and, furthermore, because I’d love to wipe the concrete with his face.
“Face forward and place your hands on the roof of the car,” guard number two says. Both of these guys act like they have just crawled out of the deepest pits of hell. I have no problem following the drill, or them frisking me, for now. A person can never be too careful and I know that way of thinking works both ways.
“He’s clean and the car is too,” guard number two reveals to his cohort. His eyes never leave the gun on the seat though.
“You may get back in your car and proceed through the gate,” guard number one says and gives me a hard stare. These guys aren’t as careful as they think. They didn’t find my hidden stash under the false bottom in the trunk of my car. “Once you go through the gate, drive five hundred feet and take a right. You’ll see a black door made of steel. Buzz the buzzer on the side panel. Enter through that side door. I’ve notified everyone. Mr. Maseretti is expecting you.” I bring my attention back to listen to the directions given.
I give a stiff nod before getting back inside my car and driving through the wrought iron gate. I follow the guard’s directions to the letter.
I park and kill the engine. The car door closes behind me. I walk up to the door and press the bronze buzzer. The black steel door slides open immediately as if Pete is somewhere near and watching. I walk through the huge room before me and notice all of the luxurious commodities of this home, the shimmering chandelier above, a Picasso on the wall, and the sleek marble floors that line this baby for as far as my eyes can see. There are gold
knobs and panels everywhere. I really don’t know which way to go. I see a long hallway just ahead and think maybe that’s the way I need to go.
“Hello and welcome. I’m Ava, Mr. Maseretti’s assistant. He’s expecting you, sir. Follow me, please,” a beautiful woman greets me from behind. I turn to face her and she turns on her heels and leads me down a wide hallway to an elevator. There is a rigid moment between us when neither of us says anything. The doors close and she presses the number eight to take us to the eighth floor. There is a dinging sound and the doors open. I hold the elevator door open, gesture with my hand, and allow Ava to lead the way.
“Thanks.” She walks in front of me.
Wow, so fucking awesome! I suddenly notice the hour-glass shape of her body and the sway of her hips in the nicely fitting dress. It’s very elegant and expensive. And then it comes to me. Valentino. It’s a Valentino dress. I suddenly remember seeing one similar to it in the magazine. The long, silky strands of her brunette hair brushes just above her sensually curved ass. I notice that even more as I gaze at her zealously.
Calm and very controlled, she glances back at me and our gazes meet. For a moment, our eyes mutually agree on something, but nothing is said. I smirk and she returns a flirtatious smile before she faces front again, denying me more of whatever that is between us. I don’t know, maybe I’m just building a castle in the sky or making this something that it’s not. Maybe it’s totally ridiculous for me to be thinking about her in such way, but no matter how I try to ward off those thoughts they come back.
I can hear the sound of her heels clanking against the marble floor. Switching her hips like she knows her pussy is good. Ava finally comes to a stop at a set of double oak doors. She swings them open and allows me to proceed inside. Pete “Snake Eyes” Maseretti is standing and facing a window with his hands clasped behind his back.
Covert Page 6
