Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2)

by Nicole Castle

  “I know what you told him. I asked what you said to him.” Frank turned around to glare at her. Behind her sunglasses she was glaring back. If Casey hadn’t loved him and Vincent so fucking much, she would’ve strangled Frank from the backseat, forced the car to crash and hoped for no survivors. “Were you fucking him?”

  “Technically, he was fucking me,” she spat. “And Vincent knew about it. Now you know how it feels to be lied to.”

  Frank very calmly set his boot against her hip and tipped her over. Normally her balance was exceptional, but her center of gravity was off and she landed on her bare bum in cold yellow snow. She screamed at him. He walked away.

  Bella climbed back to her feet, as close to crying as she’d been in years. Her dress and coat had thawing urine on them. She had to get in the backseat of her car with fucking piss on her, and see her daddy with fucking piss on her, and she’d hurt Casey so bad that she deserved no less than to have fucking piss on her. But it was Frankie’s fucking fault, and as she got in the car she punched him as hard as she could in the head. He turned on the car, and Casey’s CD, and they continued down the road toward home.

  It was dark when he stopped at the base of the hill, too dark to see the sign warning away trespassers in every language that had ever been spoken inside. Frank turned off the music. “What’s the code?”

  Bella was tempted to lie to him, to get the snipers on the roof to fire at them. But this particular code was as risky as driving blind toward eight bored snipers. “Headlights off all the way. Then flash ‘em bright at the gate. Twice.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Aye,” she said with a vindictive smile. She enjoyed driving up that windy road without headlights. And it was even more fun driving down. It had been her idea for the latest clearance code. Unfortunately no one she hated had died trying it. Yet. “You remember the road, Frankie? Or should I take over?”

  Vincent looked worried. For someone who stared at her car like he wanted to fuck it, he was an awfully big pussy when it came to seeing what the car was capable of. She rolled her eyes and pulled out her cell phone, dialing Silva’s number and announcing her presence. “Call off the snipers. Frankie’s with me.”

  Silva laughed, his voice strong even as his body rotted from the inside. She’d missed him like fuck. But she realized with the silence coming from her speakers that she missed Casey even more. “Is Frank afraid of driving without headlights?”

  “Aye. He’s got his husband with him.”

  “Ah, lovely! I was wondering when I would meet young Mr. Sullivan. You sound upset, Isobel. What is troubling you?”

  “Never you mind,” she said, remembering how the doctor advised him not to worry himself. “We’re coming up.” She threw her phone back in her handbag. “You can keep your fucking headlights on.”

  The prick didn’t even thank her.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Driving through those wrought iron gates felt just like it had the first time: like approaching certain death. There was nothing welcoming about Silva’s home. It loomed in the darkness, so massive it was like an extension of the sky; with snipers behind every turret, ready to fire. Even with the knowledge that no harm would come to them while Silva lived, Frank was still wary. After all, he had a written invitation on his first visit, and Silva’s men had still beaten him half to death before he got within twenty feet of the front door.

  Frank had celebrated his seventeenth birthday on the day he and Charlie arrived in Prague. As a birthday gift, Charlie gave him an antique dueling pistol that Frank had robbed from an Englishman several weeks prior. Frank thought Charlie had pawned it and was quite pleased to see it again, as it was a very unique and beautiful piece, but despite its beauty he considered it a grim augury to have it back in his life. Frank was nervous around guns as it was; he’d murdered nineteen men and two women and never once used a gun. At least, not in the way they were designed for. And the piece could be traced back to the original owner.

  Being of an exceedingly superstitious nature, Frank asked Charlie not to pawn the jewelry of their latest victim, to wait until they’d left the country before profiting from her death. Charlie agreed, and unbeknownst to Frank, promptly did it anyway.

  The Czech woman that Frank killed had been under surveillance, marked for death before Charlie even knew her name. She was to be shot and left in a shallow grave. Frank had strangled her and left her on the Charles Bridge in honor of his friend’s name. A friend who gave him up to Silva in less time than it had taken Silva to track Charlie down for pawning her rings.

  Silva’s men trashed their hotel room and left Frank a note from the old man, Come see me written in French with directions deep into the woods added on in someone else’s handwriting. The note was punctuated with two of Charlie’s molars. Frank had absolutely no doubt that whoever had taken Charlie would kill them both. It would likely be painful and it would certainly not be quick but he went regardless, and without the slightest hesitation.

  Frank brought the note with him, not realizing then that it would be a job interview. He crashed through the gates at fifty miles an hour in a stolen taxicab before the snipers shot out his tires and he flipped the car several times across the lawn. He could barely get to his feet after crawling from the wreckage, but that hadn’t stopped him from taking a swing at, and missing the first man he saw. They multiplied quickly, his double vision notwithstanding. They’d kept coming, beating him as much for intruding as for ruining their lawn.

  Now the ground was frozen, and the yard deserted.

  Vincent stared up at the house as Frank parked the car, and it occurred to him that this was probably the biggest house the kid had ever seen in his life. “This is when you keep your mouth shut,” he said.

  Red dots danced over their heads as they got out of the car, sighted by the snipers above despite accurately displaying the entrance code. Frank clenched his fists but forced his fury to subside as Vincent blinked away from the lights, his face an unconvincing mask of calm. Frank knew they were merely bored. The true threat was waiting for them inside, the moment Silva’s death signaled an end to their truce.

  Frank grabbed their bag from the trunk and dismissively tossed the car keys to Bella, who shot him a glare as they bounced from her open hand. The sights followed her head when she bent to retrieve them from the ground, several moving to lewdly aim up her dress. Frank waited for her to remove as many of her shopping bags from the trunk as she could carry, then took hold of Vincent’s arm and they headed toward the house.

  The front door opened into a spacious circular hall, leaving anyone entering the building immediately at the mercy of everyone else in the house, like trying to hide from an airborne enemy in an empty field. Storage rooms surrounded the perimeter on the first level: multitudes of weapons and medical equipment; a vault with cash in numerous currencies, and valuables that knew no currency at all; precious metals and jewels, and travel documents for Silva’s men. The second and third levels consisted solely of bedrooms, occupied by men who’d fallen, injured on or off the job. Most came and went, but there were permanent residents as well, those who were no longer capable of leaving, or fit to be seen in public.

  The floor was marble, with wide, burgundy carpeted staircases to the left and right leading to the second level. Frank had been dragged up those stairs, bleeding and fading into unconsciousness, floor after floor until they reached Silva’s office. It was at the command of a man named Malkolm that Frank had been spared to begin with, out on the lawn while they were beating him. Silva had been expecting Frank, and Malkolm, who was a self-appointed right-hand man to their boss, made certain Frank wasn’t killed before he had the opportunity to introduce himself.

  Ironically, Frank had met Bella several weeks later when she had nearly been killed at Malkolm’s command. She’d arrived home after two years spent abroad, and was unknown to the men currently residing in the house. Frank had come to her defense and been berated by her for his chivalry,
before Silva himself came downstairs to intervene.

  Bella was not well liked among the men, but if harm was to come to her following Silva’s death, it would be at Malkolm’s hand. They had been partners once, and Malkolm still carried the scars to prove it. He had doubted her ability to construct a bomb powerful enough for their purposes, therefore she designed and detonated an explosive that left his face in tatters and took off the majority of his fingers. He wore gloves now over prosthetics, and high-collared shirts that hid the scarring of his neck. The pale hair on his head was artificial, covering flame-seared skin across his entire skull. Only his face was revealed to the world. What was left of it.

  There Malkolm was, as always, waiting by the front door.

  “Somebody shouldn’t have played with fire,” Vincent muttered before Frank could grab his mouth.

  “Frank,” Malkolm purred, his voice as smooth as oil-slicked silk. Frank did not hate Malkolm the way Bella did, but the two of them were far from friends. It disgusted him to see the way he simpered around Silva. It disgusted him in general to see Malkolm.

  Frank nodded an acknowledgment and kept his back to the door. He could already feel more eyes on them, coming to investigate his return. It had been a long, long time since he was in that house, and standing there with Vincent felt like holding an antelope’s bleeding flank in front of a den of lions.

  “Who’s your friend?” Malkolm asked, smiling in anticipation of the answer. Now was the moment of truth, and Vincent, for as big as his mouth was, would never admit to being homosexual in present company. Vincent was not even making eye contact. He was scared, and rightfully so. But Frank had gone his entire life hoping to have someone even remotely as beautiful as Vincent on his arm, and had spent enough time keeping it secret from Charlie.

  Malkolm and the rest of the men were far from worthy of an honest answer, but Vincent deserved it. “Partner,” Frank corrected, keeping a firm hold of V’s arm. He would not be allowed to be alone until they were back in France. “Take off your shoes, V.”

  Vincent stared at him questioningly, then followed his brief glance toward the floor. It was an old Czech custom to wear slippers inside, and Silva, though Portuguese, had insisted upon it. There was a line of mostly filthy boots against the wall where slippers had been, with a few pairs of slippers left. “You have got to be kidding me,” Vincent sighed, slipping out of his blue trainers and into a pair of slippers that were gigantic on him. Frank followed his lead, trying to ignore the eyes he felt on them. “What about Bella?”

  “The dogs would eat my shoes if I left them out,” she said. She walked on by with her hands full of shopping bags, shoving past Malkolm although there was more than enough room for her and her purchases to avoid him entirely. Frank would have preferred that she wait for them, but he knew that she would be safe no matter how far she provoked Malkolm, and his time would be better spent muzzling Vincent.

  “They have dogs?”

  “She means the men,” he said quietly, displaying tact toward their audience where Bella had not. They used to have dogs until the snipers used them for target practice. Silva had never replaced the dogs, although he did replace the snipers.

  They passed more men on the way to Silva’s office, all standing around wordlessly watching, their bodies bandaged and healing or permanently crippled. Vincent kept looking at them, staring exactly where he shouldn’t stare, at broken bones or limb stumps, and then making a face and looking away.

  “Fuck, look at that one.”

  “Behave.” It took enough effort to keep him out of trouble in general, and Frank had allowed him to come where trouble was lying in wait. He would have to make peace with Bella just to be assured that Vincent would have a second bodyguard.

  “Nice stump,” Bella said to the man Vincent was pretending not to gape at.

  “Bitch,” the man muttered. Frank grabbed Bella’s arm with his free hand, pulling the two of them toward Silva as quickly as possible. Bella as a bodyguard may not have been the best idea after all. But there was no alternative.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I’d once asked myself what type of man could employ Frank and Bella, and me, though he didn’t know I was working for him. Now I knew the answer: a man who’d force stone cold killers to wear house slippers.

  It was actually quite cozy. My feet hadn’t been warm since Frank dragged me out of bed that morning. Now he was squeezing my arm so tight it was cutting off circulation, and doing the same to Bella with his left hand as we walked across the house. I wouldn’t be touching her, if I were him. She smelled like pee.

  The house was the size of a museum, with sculptures on pedestals and paintings on the walls to further the effect. It felt the way our library felt, with its old books and heavy wood furniture. Like I was too young and immature to be allowed inside. Hands off, Vincent. You’ll break something.

  The guy with the inside-out face was following us, keeping just enough distance to avoid getting shot. In fact, everyone was keeping their distance, giving us a wide berth even as they looked down their noses. As if we weren’t all in the same line of work: retired or redundant killers.

  I wanted to leave. I should’ve let Frank convince me to stay home. We were being snickered at in much the same way I remembered from walking down the halls at school. What if the men ate my shoes? What if they ate me? Or did more than eat me. I was pretty sure the transition from murderer to rapist wouldn’t be a tough one for some of these guys, and I was quite obviously the prettiest one here. I moved closer to Frank.

  A house full of potential rapists notwithstanding, the scariest person I’d seen so far was the guy behind us. It wasn’t just his flambéed face; there was something in his eyes. I’d seen that look before in Charlie, when I’d spat on him after he’d tried to pimp me out. Past loathing. Past disgust. It was indifference, because in his mind I was already dead.

  The second scariest was standing right in front of us, blocking the way. His mother must’ve been a grizzly bear. He was bigger than Bertrand, with a mop of thick, black fur covering his enormous head. His hands were furry too, and he held them in front of him, clenched together like we’d interrupted while he threateningly cracked his knuckles. “Allo, Frank. Long time no see.”

  It took everything I had not to hide behind my husband. His voice was like thunder. “Boris,” Frank said.

  “Who’s this, the Holy Ghost?”

  “They’re partners,” Ugly said mockingly from behind us.

  “Get out of the fucking way, you ape,” Bella said, and shoved, actually shoved, the largest human being I’d ever seen. She may as well have tried to blow down a mountain for as little movement she got out of him. Then another man’s voice came from behind the door the bear guarded, a voice that although strained, almost reed-like, nonetheless commanded attention. Boris stepped aside and gestured us forward, kissing at Bella. “In you go, princess.”

  She pushed the door open and marched forward out of Frank’s grasp. Frank swung me inside first, then firmly shut the door behind us as if we could only truly find sanctuary in Silva’s office.

  The man himself was sitting behind an ebony desk with an open leather-bound journal in front of him and a pen that looked like it might need a separate pot of ink to write with. He was biblically old, with thinning, shockingly white hair even though his eyebrows retained some dark color. Silva struggled to his feet and Bella ran into his arms like a little girl greeting her father after a hard day at work. Frank actually took a step back, thumping against the door. He’d briefly released me, but now he was holding my arm again, not protectively like he’d been in the hallway, but like he’d gripped my hand for support before we’d gone to kill Charlie.

  Charlie was one of the very few people Frank had ever killed for free, and probably the only one he had an emotional reaction to. The man had been like his father, had manipulated him for over a decade, and had taken secrets only he knew from Frank’s childhood to his grave with him. Letting go of C
harlie would’ve been hard enough, but being the one to kill him had stayed with Frank for months.

  “Frank,” Silva said, holding out his hand welcomingly while he embraced Bella. Frank went forward slowly, suspiciously. Silva affectionately patted his shoulder, kissing Bella on the cheek and then doing the same to Frank. I hadn’t seen Frank that tense in a long time. “And this must be Mr. Sullivan.”

  I hoped I wasn’t going to get a kiss too. I’d been kissed by enough old men to last me a lifetime. “Sullivan-Moreaux,” Frank said, proudly retrieving me from the doorway.

  “Of course. My apologies. I do hope you received the gift I sent.”

  I wasn’t aware of any gift, but Frank thanked him. That meant he’d sent money, which had been hidden from me. As if I needed cash. I wasn’t the one afraid of using our bank account. Or forging Frank's signature for access.

  Silva smiled at me and took my hand, gripping it in both of his instead of shaking it. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “Yeah, you too,” I said uncomfortably. Silva spoke the way Frank did, properly, and better than I ever could, but still ESL. I wondered what his first language was. He didn’t look like the Czechs we’d seen on our way in, on the road and at the gas station. His eyes were dark brown, and his skin, though pasty now, looked like it was once healthily tanned. “What’s with the slippers?”

  Frank smacked me. Silva laughed. “Charming, is it not? I have always found it to be quite comfortable to wear slippers in one’s home. It is a lovely custom of the Czech people that is unfortunately beginning to wane with time.” He frowned slightly, the way all old people did when they were reminiscing. “I suppose that is true of all customs.”

  “I guess,” I said. I was never sure what to say to the elderly, unless it came to discussing soap operas. “You have a nice museum—house.”

  “Thank you, Vincent. I do hope you will enjoy your stay here. Am I to assume it will be a short visit?” He glanced at Frank with a mischievous glint in his eye.