Further Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman

by JB Lynn

  Further Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman

  JB LYNN

  Dedication

  For Doug

  I dream alone, but it is with your love and support my dreams become reality

  Acknowledgments

  THIS BOOK WOULD NOT have been possible without the support of many people (and my two dogs):

  The fans of Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman. Your support made writing this book a joy.

  My agent, Victoria Marini, for all her sparkly goodness.

  The amazing Avon team who make this series possible, especially Lucia Macro, Esi Sogah, Pamela Spengler-Jaffee, Jessie Edwards, and everyone else who toils behind the scenes (and are thus spared my myriad of emailed questions).

  My critique partners, writer friends, readers, reviewers. and book bloggers, who prove over and over again how supportive a community can be.

  And last, but not least, Doug . . . who puts up with my neurotic self.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  An Excerpt from Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  About the Author

  Also by JB Lynn

  An Excerpt from The Forbidden Lady by Kerrelyn Sparks

  Chapter One

  An Excerpt from Turn to Darkness by Jaime Rush

  Chapter One

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  YOU JUST KNOW it’s going to be a bad day when you’re stuck at a red light and Doomsday is breathing down your neck.

  In this particular instance Doomsday happens to be a seventy-pound Doberman pinscher. Instead of having the voice of doom, she sounds an awful lot like an air-headed, bimbo-y blonde. “Way that! Way that!”

  Did I mention that Doomsday has really lousy grammar?

  “Not that way,” Severus Snape drawled from the front passenger seat. Okay, not really Snape, but God . . . zilla, a talking brown anole lizard with an attitude to match his namesake.

  Have you followed all this so far? The superior talking lizard is in the front passenger seat, the breathy Doberman is in the back, and I, Maggie Lee, am in the driver’s seat, even though it doesn’t feel as though I’m in control of this wild ride we’re on.

  I know this whole thing sounds crazy. I know animals can’t talk, but ever since I was in a terrible car accident a month ago, I can understand them. Of course I haven’t mentioned this little side effect to anyone, because I’m afraid they’ll lock up my crazy ass in the nuthouse (hell, with my luck, they’d probably make me room with my mom, who’s a long-term resident), and I’ve just got too much to do to let that happen.

  Which brings me to why God and Doomsday were arguing about which direction we were headed. I needed to kill someone at a wedding.

  It’s a toss-up which I hate more: killing people or weddings.

  Unfortunately, I’m getting pretty good at both.

  Chapter One

  “I SEE A disco ball in your future.” Armani Vasquez, the closest thing I had to a friend at Insuring the Future, delivered this pronouncement right after she sprinkled a handful of candy corn into her Caesar salad.

  Disgusted by her food combination, I pushed my own peanut butter and jelly sandwich away. “Really? A disco ball?”

  If you’d told me a month ago that I’d be leaning over a table in the lunchroom, paying close attention to the bizarre premonitions of my half-crippled, wannabe-psychic coworker, I would have said you were crazy.

  But I’d had one hell of a month.

  First there had been the car accident. My sister Theresa and her husband, Dirk, were killed; my three-year-old niece, Katie, wound up in a coma; and I ended up with the ability to talk to animals. Trust me, I know exactly how crazy that sounds, but it’s true . . . I think.

  On top of everything else, I inadvertently found myself hurtling down a career path I never could have imagined.

  I’m now a hitwoman for hire. Yes, I kill people for money . . . but just so you know, I don’t go around killing just anyone. I’ve got standards. The two men I killed were bad men, very bad men.

  Before I could press Armani for more details about the mysterious disco ball, another man I wanted to kill sauntered into my line of vision. I hate my job at Insuring the Future. I hate taking automobile claims from idiot drivers who have no business getting behind the wheel. But most of all I hate my boss, Harry. It’s not the fact that he’s a stickler for enforcing company policy or even that he always smells like week-old pepperoni. No, I hate him because Harry “likes” me. A lot. He’s always looking over my shoulder (and peering down my shirt) and calling me into his office for one-on-one “motivational chats” to improve my performance.

  I know what you’re thinking. I should report his sexual harassment to human resources, or, if I deplore the idea of workplace conflict (and what self-respecting hitwoman wouldn’t?), I should quit and find another job.

  I was getting ready to do just that, report his lecherous ass and then quit (because I really do despise “helping” the general public), but then the accident happened. And then the paid assassin gig.

  So now I need this crappy, unfulfilling, frustrating-as-hell clerical employment because it provides a cover for my second job. It’s not like I can put HITWOMAN on my next tax return. Besides, if I didn’t keep this job, my meddling aunts would wonder what the hell I’m doing with my life.

  Harry, thumbs stuck into his suspenders (cuz everyone knows that suspenders are the height of fashion in a place where the typical dress code is T-shirts), strolled over to the table Armani and I occupied in the back corner of the break room. “Ladies.”

  Neither of us answered him. I took a giant bite of PB&J while Armani speared a piece of candy corn covered with anchovy-laced salad dressing.

  “Don’t forget we’ve got a team meeting tomorrow morning.”

  “How could we forget?” Armani asked. “You’ve sent five freaking e-mails about it.”

  Ignoring her, Harry focused his lusty gaze on me (I guess he thinks nothing is hotter than a woman with cheeks like a chipmunk). “We’re going to have breakfast.”

  He made it sound like it was some sort of intimate date, not a meeting with a dozen other people present.

  I just kept on chewing, waiting for him to take the hint and go away.

  He transferred his gaze to Armani. “We may have to let some people go.”

  She raised her arm and waved her stump of a hand, the tragic result of not paying attention to her own premonitions a
nd an out-of-control Zamboni hurtling across the ice. She wore her disability like it was some sort of magical amulet allowing her to break the rules of Insuring the Future without repercussions. She knew damn well that if someone was going to be fired, it wasn’t going to be her.

  I, on the other hand, wouldn’t be surprised if I was on the short list of possible employees to dump. Working at a call center, listening to the umpteenth caller claim to have swerved to miss a deer at three-thirty on a Saturday morning, wears on me, and I’ve been known to make a snide comment—or two dozen—about drunken deer. While the audits of my recorded calls show I do an accurate job, my numbers for “customer support and empathy” swirl around the bottom of the toilet.

  And they’ve only gotten worse since I started killing people. I’d like to blame it on the insomnia that kicked in just before the second hit I pulled off, or the fact that I’m stressed out because my niece, Katie, is in a coma, but the truth is my tolerance for bullshit is at an all-time low.

  “Don’t be late.” Harry and his stinky breath cleared our airspace.

  “He makes me sick to my stomach.” The fact that Armani said this while spearing a mouthful of candy and salad turned my stomach. It was all I could do to swallow my bite of sandwich.

  I never did get the details of the damn disco ball because an IT guy had an allergic reaction to something he ate, which necessitated a lot of oohing and ahhing and wringing of hands from the lunchtime crew as everyone waited to see if he was going to make it, or if his obituary would read, “Random tech guy from Insuring the Future passes on after brief battle with a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.”

  There wasn’t time to ask Armani about her latest premonition after work because I was on a tight schedule. I had to run over to Apple Blossom Estates, the premium care facility where Katie receives treatment for the brain injury she sustained in the car accident that killed her parents and left me responsible for her care. It had to be a quick visit, because I’d promised my Aunt Susan that I’d swing by for a family dinner. After that I was scheduled to sit down with my best friend, Alice, since we were supposed to be in full-throttle wedding-prep mode.

  Rushing through the all-too-familiar hospital corridors toward Katie’s room, my mind was occupied with horrendous images of chiffon and lace and tulle and beading, which is how I careened into the alleged local crime boss, Tony Delveccio. (Or maybe it was his identical twin brother, Anthony . . . if the justice system can’t tell them apart, I shouldn’t be expected to either.)

  It is not a good idea to collide with a well-connected crime boss for many reasons. The one I was most concerned with is Vinnie, Delveccio’s newly acquired, ever-present muscle. I didn’t even have time to hit the ground after smashing into Tony/Anthony when I felt my arm being yanked out of its socket.

  “Ow!”

  I glared at the thug who’d done his best to dislocate my shoulder as he’d pulled me away from his boss. He stared down his nose, which had been broken so many times it looks more like a ragged mountain range than a facial feature, unmoved by my considerable outrage.

  “Let her go, Vinnie.”

  The brute slid his gaze in the direction of his boss before he released my arm.

  Rubbing my injured limb, I offered an apologetic smile to the nice mobster. “Sorry about that, Mr. Delveccio. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  He shook his head. “Let me buy you a chocolate pudding.”

  I hesitated, casting a longing look in the direction of Katie’s room. My time with her was limited enough as it was, but I was pretty sure turning down a request from Tony/Anthony Delveccio was a bad idea. “Okay.”

  Together we walked toward the hospital cafeteria, with Vinnie following a few paces behind. Anyone watching us would think we were two strangers who spent time together waiting for our respective family members to recover from the traumas that had landed them here.

  We were that.

  And we were so much more.

  “How’s your grandson doing?” I asked. Delveccio’s grandson, a small boy who occupied the room next to Katie’s, lay in his hospital bed courtesy of a beating from his father, Delveccio’s son-in-law.

  Actually I should say his former son-in-law since I’m the one who killed him last month after Delveccio hired me to do so.

  “He’s the same. No change.” There was no mistaking the sadness in the tough guy’s voice. He might be a hardened criminal, but he obviously loved his family. “And your niece? How is she? I’ve heard rumblings she’s improving.”

  “She seems to be responding to audio stimulation. It’s an improvement, but she still hasn’t woken up yet.”

  Reaching the cafeteria, Delveccio sat down at a table near a door. I tried to shake off the sense of disappointment that settled over me as I realized I wouldn’t be getting any chocolate pudding after all. This was obviously not going to be just a friendly chat. There was business to be discussed.

  Delveccio held up two fingers in Vinnie’s direction. The paid muscle moved away from us.

  “What’s with the bodyguard?”

  Shrugging, the crime boss examined the diamond in his pinky ring, which was closer in size to a golf ball than a pea. “Can’t be too careful. Lotta people wanna know who offed Gary the Gun and why.”

  That would be me, because he tried to collect the money I earned for killing Delveccio’s son-in-law. That and because the greedy son-of-a-bitch tried to blackmail me.

  Delveccio knows this. At least the part about Gary claiming credit for work I’d done. “Figured if everyone else is acting nervous, I should too. Makes me look less suspicious to my competition.”

  “I see.” Actually I didn’t. Delveccio was the one who had suggested I off Gary the Gun, not that he paid me for that job . . . cheap bastard.

  Vinnie lumbered up to the table and put two plastic bowls of chocolate pudding down, magically restoring my sense of well-being.

  Delveccio sighed heavily. “Spoons, Vinnie. We need spoons.”

  The thug turned away.

  “Two spoons. One for each of us.” Delveccio shook his head as his henchman retreated. “And napkins! Don’t forget the napkins!” He pushed a bowl of chocolaty goodness in my direction. “He’s my uncle’s kid. Dumber than . . . dumber than my uncle was, which, believe you me, is sayin’ somethin’. But he looks the part. Spends all his dough on ’roids and all his time in the gym.”

  “Might as well get his money’s worth.”

  The mobster chuckled. “That’s why I like you. You’ve got an interesting way of looking at the world.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Which brings me to my reason for this little powwow.”

  I held my breath. I’d known that it was only a matter of time until Delveccio was going to ask me to kill someone else. I’d just been hoping I’d get a longer reprieve. Even though I’d taken money for killing two very bad men (okay, I was only paid for the one job, but had to do the second to collect my fee, cuz in case I haven’t mentioned it, Delveccio’s a cheap bastard), I haven’t exactly embraced my new hitwoman identity.

  “Have you ever heard of Jose Garcia?”

  I closed my eyes. Heard of him? We’d been family once.

  For just under a week.

  “Hey, doll, you listening to me?”

  I nodded.

  “He’s a drug dealer. Gang leader. Kind of guy that fits the criteria you’ve laid out for our . . . relationship.”

  Thankfully Vinnie returned just then with the spoons and napkins. The distraction he provided gave me the chance to get a grip on myself.

  It wasn’t like I had a real relationship with Jose Garcia. I hadn’t seen him in years. He probably wouldn’t even recognize me if he saw me. The only reason I would recognize him was that, like my current tablemate, he spent an inordinate amount of time making a mockery of the justice system. As such, his face showed up in my morning paper or on the local news with sporadic regularity.

  Back when I’d known him he’d been a low-l
evel dealer. Somehow the guy with the black handlebar mustache that made him look like a cartoon villain went from being the pot supplier for my Aunt Leslie, to the husband of her twin sister, Aunt Loretta. Even for Loretta, who’s been married more times than I cared to count, and is currently engaged to the man I have christened Templeton the Rat, Garcia was a strange choice of life mate.

  That’s probably why she’d had the union annulled six days after they got hitched.

  Delveccio shooed Vinnie away like he was a pesky pigeon. Once the bodyguard was out of earshot he continued. “Anyway, rumor has it that there’s a big contract coming down the pipeline to knock him off.”

  I made a show of stirring my pudding, but didn’t actually eat any. “No way. I’m not going to help the competition get him out of the way so that someone else can take over his territory. I’ve got certain standards. We talked about this.”

  Delveccio raised his hands defensively. “I know. I know. Take it easy. It’s not his competition that’s ordering the hit. In fact, word is, it’s a fine, upstanding, law-abiding citizen that’s gonna take out the contract.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “It does if the said businessman’s son was killed by Garcia. You can understand that, can’t you? The need for a family member to avenge their loved one?”

  He waited silently, allowing me to mull that over.

  Not that I needed to think about it. I’d already spent too many years contemplating that very issue. Long before I’d become a hired killer last month, I had wondered/fantasized about killing the monster who had taken my sister Darlene’s life. I’d come to the conclusion that, given the opportunity, I’d do whatever it took to make him pay. Last month when I’d pulled the trigger and executed Alfonso Cifelli, I knew for certain that when the day came to avenge Darlene, I wouldn’t hesitate.

  “So whaddya say?”

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  Delveccio shoveled a spoonful of pudding into his mouth. “Okay. Job hasn’t been contracted yet. If it does become reality I’ll contact our mutual friend and you can let me know.”