Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2)

by Nicole Castle

  “Good enough.” Vincent sniffled in a way that indicated the end of this particular bought of tears. “How did it feel?”

  Frank raised his eyebrows. “Killing Silva?”

  Vincent nodded, then stopped because it hurt. Frank rubbed the back of his neck, the muscle so tense there was no differentiating from his protruding vertebrae. “Apart from the fact that he was like a father to me…and the first man I truly respected—”

  “Yeah, apart from that.”

  He smiled. “It felt good.”

  “I want you to admit, out loud, that you missed killing.”

  Frank glared at him. “Yes, I missed killing.”

  “Do you regret retirement?”

  “I honestly thought we’d do all right with it.”

  “No.” Vincent emphatically shook his head. “We suck.”

  “We do suck,” he laughed. “We’re dreadful at this.”

  “Awful!”

  He took Vincent’s hands in his. The kid’s fingers were like ice. “I love you, V.”

  “Je t’aime, Frank,” he said, and he smiled so fully that Frank realized just how much light had been gone from his eyes. “Bella’s gonna kill you when she finds out about Silva.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe Casey can talk her out of it.”

  “If anyone can, it’s him.”

  “Told you they’d get together,” he boasted. Frank was about to punish him for being insolent when a gunshot echoed through the woods. Followed quickly by another. And another.

  He held tightly to V’s hand and started racing toward the house as more gunfire erupted, echo upon echo, from one centralized location. He imagined the worst: his houseful of guests being executed one by one. Only there were more shots than guests, and when the porch came into view Maggie and Gideon were standing there in one piece, looking annoyed with their hands over their ears.

  “They went that way,” Maggie called out when she noticed that she had an audience. She pointed away from the house. “Tell my son that if he shoots off his hand, I am not sewing it back on.”

  Frank frowned. “Casey never wanted me to teach him how to shoot.”

  Vincent shrugged. “You don’t have tits.”

  “Neither does she.”

  “I’m going inside,” Vincent said, heading toward Maggie’s welcoming arms. He had his soundproof headphones that he could wear until the noise stopped. If Casey and Bella had borrowed them for their improvised shooting range, Frank was going to shoot them both.

  He walked toward the sound of gunfire, his body tensing with the volume of each shot. Casey was visible long before Bella, wearing a bright green shirt and his even more vibrant, ugly woolen hat. Frank was surprised that she hadn’t forced him to use it for target practice.

  Bella was pressed against his back, straining on her high heels to peer over his shoulder. Her hands were over his ears while her own ears were plugged with Casey’s earphones, the gunfire drowned out by her music.

  Looking at the lack of contact damage on the tree directly in front of him, Frank wondered why Bella would use a blindfold as a teaching tool. But Casey was not blindfolded. He was just unsettlingly bad.

  Frank’s presence had gone unnoticed and he stood watching them, Bella’s affection for Casey plain to see. They looked happy, the two of them seemingly so incompatible. Bella squealed suddenly, proclaiming “I love this song!” and Casey turned, asking “Huh?” her words lost under her grip of his ears. Frank sensed danger, a quick flash of awareness like a forgotten match burning down to his fingertips. Casey was not usually so easy to startle but the events of the past months had affected him. Made him jumpy.

  Before he experienced any pain, Frank felt a sense of relief that Casey had hit something, anything, even if it had been him. He glanced down, a hole in the glittery leather of his left boot.

  “Your shoe!” Bella gasped.

  Frank looked up. Casey was pale, nearly as white as Bella, and looked as though he may faint. Without taking his eyes off the damage he had done, Casey handed the gun to her. She was smiling.

  “Vincent has a headache. You need to use a silencer,” Frank said. Having fulfilled his duty as devoted husband, he turned to limp away. He had never been outright shot before; mere grazes like the sting of a sharp knife. It was quite painful. And he had not liked seeing Casey armed. There was something inherently wrong with him using a weapon. Although, he was thankful that it was Bella doing the teaching. He would hate to be embarrassed of his own student. Vincent had always made him proud.

  Casey ran after him, stringing together every apologetic word in English and French, trying to get Frank to lean his weight on him. Casey looked like he was barely able to stay vertical himself.

  “You okay, Frankie?” Bella called out from behind them, a clear lack of sincerity in her voice.

  “I’m so sorry,” Casey said again, grappling clumsily at someone who did not want or need his assistance, proving himself more of a hindrance than a help.

  Frank hopped back to the house with Casey at his side, holding him so tightly that he would not have been able to walk straight even without injury. Bella followed them, stifling her laughter.

  “Oh, my dear God!” Maggie exclaimed, coming down from the porch at a near-sprint with Gideon at her heels. It occurred to Frank that they must have thought Casey was injured, until she started scolding her son. “Casey Matthew Evans, what have you done?”

  “It was an accident, Mamma,” Casey said.

  Frank took the opportunity of distraction to hop away from him, stating firmly that he was perfectly fine and hobbling to the porch alone. He lowered himself onto the steps and carefully pulled off his boot. The inside was filled with blood, and Frank’s sock, with two holes to be sewed, was completely saturated. He was fortunate that she gave Casey a small caliber to practice with.

  “We have to get you to a hospital,” Gideon said.

  “Absolutely not,” Frank told him, peeling the wet sock from his foot. The bullet had gone clean through the center of his foot. The pain was substantial. “Is Vincent asleep?”

  “I don’t know, honey. He was heading in that direction.” Maggie settled beside him on the steps. “Are you all right? Should I wake him up?”

  “No. Go boil some water and bring clean towels. I’ll also need gauze.”

  Maggie dragged Casey and Gideon with her inside, delegating the search for supplies for maximum efficiency. Bella picked up the boot, reaching her hand in and prying the bullet out of the thick rubber sole with her fingernails. She held it up to him with a smile, her hand smeared with his blood. “Not bad, eh?”

  “He is the worst shot I have ever seen.”

  “Fuck, I know,” she sighed. “We’ll have to call Deaglan.”

  Seeing her ex-boyfriend again was the last thing Frank wanted, but after Bella got her new boyfriend to shoot him, he had no choice but to return to Prague. He needed medical attention and an honest doctor was not an option. “You’re still intent on going to the funeral?” She threw the bullet in his face. He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand. “I’ll take that as a yes. You do realize that they will never let us inside.”

  Bella sat beside him and rested her head on his shoulder. “Do you miss him?”

  Frank put his arm around her. “Yes.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “As much as you would expect.”

  She bent forward and examined the hole in his foot. He watched her closely, ready to shove her down the steps if she tried to stick her fingers in it. “Those shoes are ruined.”

  “It will be months before I wear heels again.”

  Bella smiled. Even though she had laughed at him for getting shot, and was inching closer to touching his foot, it felt good to have her there with him. Good to have her away from Silva’s house, safe and happier than he had ever seen her. “What do you suppose Casey’ll think of Degs?”

  “I’m more concerned about what Degs thinks of Casey.”


  “Who?” Maggie asked, standing in the doorway holding a large pot of water.

  “Deaglan,” Casey said from behind her. “He’s an old friend of Bella’s.”

  Frank watched Casey’s face. He was smiling, no sign of distress or even the slightest jealousy. How much had Bella told him?

  “Boyfriend?” Maggie asked.

  It had to be a difficult question for Bella to answer while the woman held a pot of steaming water above her head. But Casey just laughed, and said with some excitement, “I get to see the competition.”

  “He’s hardly competition,” Bella said, standing to kiss him passionately. That was more daring than answering the question. Frank was glad she was no longer sitting beside him. He did not feel like adding scalding to his list of the day’s wounds.

  Maggie grumbled and set the pot of water down, taking Bella’s place on the steps and snatching a towel from Gideon’s hand the moment he appeared. Frank took it from her before she could dip it in the water. “I can handle it,” he said, letting the towel cool, something Maggie in her fury likely would not have done, and dabbing at his blood.

  She dipped her own towel and started working on his arm, the skin raised and caked with dried blood from Vincent’s screwdriver. Gideon and Casey went off to find a stick worthy of being used as a crutch, and Bella left to call Deaglan.

  Frank glanced up to see Vincent standing in the doorway, gazing down at him. He looked like he was in pain, but there was anger simmering under the surface.

  “You okay, babe?”

  He nodded. He was nowhere near the realm of okay. “Et toi? How’s your head?”

  Vincent watched Casey and Gideon as they approached, their arms overloaded with different lengths of sticks. “I’ll live,” V said. He glared at Casey with an expression like he was about to significantly increase the value of his art.

  “It was an accident,” Casey said somewhat fearfully, as if seeing V as he truly was for the very first time.

  The mostly empty threat of physical harm to his favorite family member and the substantial pain in his foot notwithstanding, Frank was quite pleased. Vincent was never more beautiful than when he was being murderous, and the smile that spread over his face from finally being threatening was one of pure gratification. It certainly helped to take Frank’s mind off of things.

  V sat beside him and began to carefully bandage his foot. “There’s a doctor at Silva’s, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “A real doctor?” he asked skeptically. “Not a Charlie doctor?”

  Frank nodded.

  Vincent leaned down to seductively tear off the end of the gauze with his teeth. For about ten seconds, Frank completely forgot that he had feet, much less that one of them was excruciatingly throbbing. Then Vincent gave his foot a quick pat to remind him, and to let him know he was finished playing doctor. “So you’re going then?” he asked, making no attempt to mask his discontent.

  “Will you call Bertrand? Tell him to stay out of Paris until we tell him otherwise. I’ll call Alan.”

  “I can call Alan.”

  “But you won’t.”

  Vincent smiled demurely. “I might.”

  “Will you do me another favor, s’il te plaît?” he asked. “Switch the plates back.”

  The murderous expression was even better when it was directed towards Frank. It would be just enough to get him through the funeral. And if he kept pissing him off, Vincent may not even miss him.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Frankie made some phone calls. So did Bella. Frankie warned his friends, a man named Bertrand and that fucker Alan Barker, to leave Paris. Bella called Deaglan. He’d be there that afternoon, no questions asked. Then she called her favorite former handler, a man named Hector Scholl who was now half blind but whose CV as an assassin read like a roll call for the United Nations.

  Hector met her at the airport before Deaglan’s flight got in. He offered sincere condolences and gave the information she’d requested, before asking if something was different about her. It was nice that someone noticed her tits were bigger. Casey hadn’t.

  “You can’t even fucking see,” she said, and kissed his cheek. “Now fuck off.”

  He nodded once and headed back the way he’d come. She slipped the address into her purse. Deaglan might prove useful, but she regretted calling him. If only Casey could fucking shoot.

  She shut her eyes and breathed deeply like Casey had taught her, calm, calm, fucking calm! It was just a precaution. Temporary. Very, very temporary. She and Frankie would be back sooner than Deaglan could find a way to break Casey’s candy shell.

  He was standing still amongst the herd of bustling travelers, a wolf amid a flock of sheep, unlit cigarette already in his mouth. He wore dark jeans and a wrinkled white shirt, with the black leather Burberry motorcycle jacket she’d bought for him years ago. His dark hair was slicked back, his pretty face clean-shaven and pale. His bright blue eyes were hidden behind Yves Saint Laurent sunglasses that were likely stolen from Belfast airport. You only ever needed sunglasses when you were leaving Ireland.

  Deaglan was a habitual thief like her. She remembered when she first saw him, leaving the police station in central London, walking down the steps and using an officer’s stolen lighter to spark his cigarette. She was there to pick up her boyfriends Alfie and Roy in a stolen red convertible.

  The car matched her dress. She couldn’t help herself. She really had planned to take the tube. Or a less flashy car she found unattended.

  She’d lain across the hood, waiting for them to be released from the lineup. Roy wasn’t coming. They’d busted him. Not for the plot to blow up the Old Bailey, which was what Deaglan and the brothers had been taken in for, but because one of the witnesses recognized Roy’s face from when he’d mugged her the week prior.

  Alfie had yelled at her when he saw the car, “You’re fucking stupid driving a stolen car to a police station!” Yelled at her just like her brothers would when they took her out stealing. He had refused to get in. But Deaglan didn’t. While she and Alfie were screaming at each other he hopped in the passenger seat, saying “If you won’t take her up on it, I will.”

  Seeing Deaglan again reminded Bella why she’d fancied him to begin with. And why she’d dumped him. She shouted his name and waited for him to spot her. He smiled, tossing his paper coffee cup nowhere near the bin. Bella walked away. Frankie was right. This was a crap idea.

  She paused briefly to let a taxi speed past, and nearly started to walk again when a leather-clad arm grabbed her around the shoulders. “You’ll get killed crossing here. Fucking Frenchies can’t drive.”

  “Keep your hands to yourself,” she said. He'd had his hands on her in one way or another for the past twenty years. Sometimes he was fun but mostly he was just familiar. She'd never forgiven him for leaving her, and she never would.

  He scoffed at her and lit his cigarette. “Want one?”

  “I quit.”

  “Right,” he said. “Want one?”

  “I fucking quit!” She shoved him into a parked taxi. “Let’s go. You have to help me with something.”

  “Isn’t that why I’m here?”

  “This comes first,” she said. He looked good. Like he’d just blown up a building. Fuck she wanted a fag. She needed to take those fucking pills before it was too late.

  She drove back toward the city, wanting to keep right on going, all the way back to Silva's to put him to rest.

  “You gonna tell me why I’m here?” he asked, flicking his cigarette out the window.

  Her voice quavered as she told him, “Silva’s dead.” Casey’s sandwich. Cookie cutter crust. “Frankie and I are going back for the funeral.”

  He sneered. “How did I know this was about Frankie?”

  “Because we’re in fucking France, aren’t we?” she growled. “Idiot.”

  “You wanna shag?”

  “No.” She pulled over outside of Frank’s apartment. She was tempted
to do some retail therapy since they were in the area but there wasn’t time. She waved to the security camera and typed in the code Frankie had reluctantly given her. Deaglan made a lewd gesture to the camera and attempted to follow her. She shut the gate in his face. “I’ll be right back.” She handed him a gun. “If you see anyone worth shooting, shoot them.”

  Deaglan slouched against the gate and started looking for someone to shoot. She’d have to be quick.

  There were only half a dozen items in the entire apartment that could be identifiable, and they were all by Casey. Paintings and sketches, mostly of Vincent except for one of him and Frankie together. She pulled a sheet from the bed to wrap around Casey’s art, but abandoned the thought when she saw the state of it. Men. She took one from the hall closet instead.

  Deaglan was pointing his gun at a squirrel when she came back. She put the paintings in the backseat instead of the trunk. They had more errands to run, and she felt comforted to have Casey’s art in the car with her.

  “What was that about?”

  “Malkolm’s looking for me. He may or may not know where Frankie lives.”

  “That fucker you blew up?”

  “Aye.”

  He laughed. “That’s my girl.”

  “I’m not your girl,” she said resentfully. “Do you remember Boris?”

  Deaglan glowered. Boris had beaten the fuck out of Deaglan on the night they broke into Silva’s home. The beating would’ve been less severe if Deaglan had just stayed the fuck down but Degs had always been a fighter. That was something else they had in common. They wouldn’t submit. “Boris the fucking bruiser. I’m gonna kill that fucker someday, you mark my fucking word.”

  “You might get the chance. He’s with Malkolm.”

  “So that’s why I’m here.” He smiled like she’d given him a present. “You still love me then?”

  “I never fucking loved you. You’re doing me a favor, not the other way around.” She parked several blocks from the address her handler had given her. “Still hate the English?”

  “Fuck kind of question is that?”

  “Let’s go.” She put on a Hermes black veiled hat and got out of the car. She’d planned to wear the hat to the funeral, but she knew Silva hated when she wore black. She’d have to buy a blue one.