THE HITMAN'S CHILD: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance

by Nicole Fox

  “I want information,” Chopper was saying, bringing Kelsey out of her moment of introspection. “I want you to tell me everything you know about the Mongols: what their chain of command is, how they do their meetings, how and when they decide where to get their drugs. And I want to know everything Spike has ever told you about his business. I know he’s a chatty asshole, and I know he must have let some stuff slip after getting what he wants from you. I’ve been told he treats you like a treasure, so you must have some of his secrets in that pretty little head, yeah?”

  The comment made Kelsey bristle at first, but somehow, in Chopper’s voice, the condescension she always heard when Spike talked to her seemed to melt away. Chopper spoke like a biker, but he did it with a certain smoothness that soothed her ears. No wonder he’d been able to get her into bed so fast; he made negotiations sound like a love poem. Not that she was about to give up easily. If he thought he could just sweet talk her into submission, he was wrong, and Kelsey had never been more determined to show it.

  “What makes you think he told me anything?” she retorted. “Spike thinks my brain is made of fluff. He thinks women are good for sex and looking good.” It felt good to say those things out loud, opinions she’d held unvoiced for months.

  Chopper laughed. She hated him for it; the sound was like candy to her ears. “Sure,” he said, “but Spike is as dumb as a bag of goddamn bricks. I won’t believe for a second that he hasn’t told his old lady a single thing about that drug trade. He’s just too fucking proud.” He leaned back in the chair. “Look, Kelsey. I’m putting you on the spot right now, okay? I know that. And I know it’s not fair of me to nab you like that and expect you to rat on your boyfriend. But you know what else I don’t believe? I don’t believe that you actually like him. I don’t believe he treats you right, and I don’t believe he’s worth a sack of shit in bed.”

  He was right. She could see in his face that he knew it, too, the cocky bastard. She tossed her hair defiantly, balling her hands into fists in her lap. “Say I tell you what you want,” she said. “What do I get? This has to be a two-way street, you understand.”

  Pre-biker Kelsey would never have said anything like that to a man like Chopper, and as she said it, that placid, normal part of her nearly screeched in disbelief. But she had a sense that Chopper was expecting it from her, and even more so, that he appreciated it.

  “Of course, darlin’,” he said. “You think I’m gonna go to all this trouble and not make sure you’re taken care of? That’s not how the Outlaws do things. You help us, we’ll help you.” He lapsed into silence then, thinking deeply for a minute. “All right,” he said finally. “How’s this? Give me what I want, and I’ll make sure you can get the fuck away from Spike Lawler at the end of it. I’ll buy you any ticket to anywhere you want — plane, train, bus, I don’t care. And, you can have a cut of the money we’re gonna take from him. Consider it payment for your services.”

  Kelsey chewed her lip. The deal was better than she’d expected —almost too good to be true. She examined Chopper searchingly for any hint of insincerity, and surprisingly, found none. “What’s the catch?” she said suspiciously, in a tone that made it clear she knew there was one.

  “Aw, c’mon,” he said. But he winked. “Fine. Since you want one so badly, the catch is that you’re gonna stay here until we win. No ticket out until the fight is over. And while you’re here, I expect you to pay your dues, and I want you to do it by getting in bed with me. That fair?”

  She didn’t answer right away. For some reason, the clause regarding Chopper’s bed took her a little bit by surprise. Information dealing, she could do, although she wouldn’t grant him total access to everything she knew. Her reporter’s instinct told her she had to leave herself a safety, a way to get back in with the Mongols in case the opportunity presented itself. This was a world rife with double-crossings; there was no reason for her not to participate, especially now that she’d gotten wrapped up with both sides of the rivalry. She couldn’t conceivably abandon the Mongols for good. They were too close to the heart of her original purpose. They knew too much.

  But sleeping with Chopper would be crossing an invisible line — even she understood that. Technically, it was a line they’d already crossed together, but she’d had no knowledge of who he was then. Now, it would be a knowing betrayal of Spike and everything Spike stood for, a decision from which there would be no returning if the truth came to light before Spike was out of the picture. Was she willing to risk severing the Mongol ties that she was simultaneously vowing to preserve? If she lost favor with the Mongols, her chances of solving Hannah’s murder were all but gone unless she had some sort of miracle windfall. And if they blacklisted her — well, she’d get to see Hannah again.

  The choice was surprisingly difficult, and Kelsey wrestled visibly with it for some minutes. In the end, her body won out over her mind and she nodded her consent. “Whatever you want,” she told Chopper, carefully keeping her tone neutral. Wouldn’t do her any good to inflate that already-enormous ego. “But if Spike finds out, there will be hell to pay.” This was something she did not have to tell him, but it made her feel better to get the issue out in the open.

  Chopper laughed again, genuinely. “Who cares?” he said, grinning. “If Spike wants to keep you, he’s gonna have to fight for you. Besides, I want you to enjoy yourself while you’re here. And I know you enjoyed it the last time.”

  So he did remember. Kelsey felt herself blush hotly. Her jeans suddenly seemed too tight, and she was hyper-aware of the dampness between her thighs. “I wasn’t going to bring that up,” she muttered. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”

  “It wasn’t,” he agreed. “Until now.” He got up, moved the chair back, and stood waiting. “Come on. Let’s go someplace a little more comfortable. This room is basically a cell.”

  Kelsey moved reluctantly from the bed. “Thanks for putting me in it,” she said dryly. With the acknowledgement of their hookup out of the way, it felt to her like the dynamic between them changed somewhat. She dropped some of her distance and allowed herself to begin to relax for the first time. Plus, now the promise of amazing sex lingered on the very near horizon. She told herself to forget about Spike, for now, at least.

  Chopper led her to the other end of the floor, to a door that stood by itself, unmarked. “The master bedroom,” he intoned with a measure of endearing camp, as he unlocked it and swung it open. The inside was much more comfortable; it was more like an apartment than a room, complete with living area, kitchenette, and full bathroom.

  “This is better than Spike’s,” she told him honestly. He grinned.

  “You sure know how to make a man feel good,” he said.

  Kelsey laughed. She couldn’t help it. The weirdness of their encounter had fallen away in the last thirty seconds, and she felt strangely as if she was on a date, seeing his place for the first time. All the reservations she’d had were still there, but they were further away, dulled by a bizarre sense of security. She felt safer with Chopper than she ever had with Spike.

  He motioned for her to follow him into the bedroom. “This is the bed,” he said, gesturing. “I want to see you in it.”

  “Now?” she asked.

  “Yep.” He turned his back on her to pull out a drawer of the bureau, the matter clearly settled. Kelsey sat down on the edge of the mattress and sighed slightly as she sank into it. When Chopper faced her, he had a box of condoms in his hand. “You’re not allergic to latex, are you?” he wanted to know. The question seemed so sweetly out of place that Kelsey giggled.

  “No,” she said, still smiling. “But —” Suddenly, she stopped herself, nearly clapping her hands over her mouth. She had come within half a second of telling him about her pregnancy, which might have broken the deal.

  Chopper raised an eyebrow. “But?” He smirked. “Listen, as hot as you are, and as much as I’m looking forward to getting in bed with you again, I don’t know where Spike’s been, other than
in you.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Did you have to say it like that?” Relief flooded her system. A near miss, but a miss nonetheless. Sitting up straight, she pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it aside.

  “Okay, Chopper,” she said. “How did you put it before? Let’s talk business.”

  Chapter Five

  Chopper

  Spike had started out dealing marijuana, but as business picked up, he escalated quickly into methamphetamines and cocaine. Now, he was getting into heroin, and the first shipment was due to arrive in three days at the Mongol compound, according to Kelsey. She didn’t know how much it was worth, but she knew the size, and Chopper figured the price to be half a million dollars. It was music to his ears. If he could deny Spike this very valuable haul, it would change the game right off the bat. Of course, Lawler would know immediately who had done it, but that was of no consequence to Chopper; the drugs were yet another bargaining chip in the simmering war between the clubs. A greedy bastard like Spike would do everything he could to minimize the loss, and if the drugs were in danger, his hands would be tied until he figured out a workaround.

  Chopper planned the interception in less than a day. He put his biggest, meanest men on the job and told them to be as quick as possible, but not to back down in the event of a scrap. Using a map that Kelsey drew, they pinpointed the best point of attack and drew up a plan to lie in wait and ambush the drug mules when they arrived. It would be best if the Mongols didn’t see them at all, but Chopper knew that was almost an impossibility. He advised his men to arm themselves, but not to use their guns unless they absolutely had to. Even bad neighborhoods had nosy neighbors in them, and the last thing they needed was for the cops to be called. Still, he felt good, and as the adrenaline mounted over the next two days, he could tell his boys felt good too. They’d always been gluttons for even the possibility of a fight.

  “Good luck, Hoss.” Chopper sent him off with a firm handshake, and Hoss was smiling as they pulled away from the compound in the dead of night. It was too bad that they couldn’t go in style on their bikes like they wanted to, but the nature of the mission demanded a car. Not even the Mongols were dumb enough not to notice a group of Outlaw bikes at the curb.

  The boys with him were all a little younger, and all fired up. A couple were fresh blood, and Hoss could tell they were as amped as he had been on his first official club mission. This one was going to be easy as pie, but he didn’t tell them that. Their rambunctious excitement filled him with nostalgia. The darkened landscape of the city sped indistinctly past the windows, their headlights pooling on an empty road. It was a perfect night for a heist. Those jackasses wouldn’t know what hit them.

  In a rundown neighborhood just outside of downtown, the driver slowed to a stop and let them out. Hoss, feeling like a school librarian, shushed his rowdy squad, but he was pleasantly surprised to find that they had their shit together. They followed him like shadows for a few blocks to the abandoned house where it was agreed they’d set their trap. The mangy lawn hadn’t been mowed for months; it stood knee-high in the deepest places. When the boys lay prone, Hoss couldn’t even tell they were there. As they waited, a bank of clouds rolled in to smother out the moon. Pitch blackness fell upon the desolate house. They couldn’t have manufactured better circumstances.

  At a quarter past one, Hoss heard voices down the street, heading steadily toward them. He nudged his men, felt them bunch up into coils like snakes ready to strike. The voices inched closer, and when they were within range, Hoss and the boys fell upon them. The mules dropped like flies under the fierce assault, quickly rolling over and covering their faces. The one carrying the package fought back, but he was hampered by his unwillingness to leave five pounds of smack unprotected. Hoss dropped him with a swift, well-placed pistol whip, but his valor inspired the others, who rallied. It was a comically quiet fight, neither side willing to raise their voices, for fear that the police might be summoned. The drugs, encased in a nondescript black backpack, sat at the feet of the fighters, occasionally tripping them up.

  Hoss was the first to hear the motorcycles. At first, it was only one, droning gradually into the foreground of his consciousness like some huge insect. Then he became aware of the others — many others. The engine voices seemed like a roar to him, so much so that he dropped the sad sack he was grappling and hissed at his compatriots, “Mongols!” They all looked toward the mouth of the street and saw it clogged with bikes. How many were there? Hoss couldn’t count exactly, but he saw at least eight. It made no difference that the headlamps were off; he knew they were grossly outnumbered. A single thought flashed through his head. Why hadn’t Chopper warned him?

  The silhouettes of the bikes began to morph. Hoss realized the Mongols were dismounting, and soon they’d be heading toward the site of the impromptu service. “Come on,” he growled at his boys. “We need to get the fuck out of Dodge.” It pained him indescribably to retreat from a fight, but Hoss knew a lost cause when he saw one. If they stayed, the Outlaws would be full of holes in less than two seconds.

  “Hold them!” a voice called out suddenly, the words cutting clean through the almost reverent hush of the deserted street. “Don’t let those fuckers get away!”

  A pair of hands fell on Hoss’ arm and spun him around with alarming force. But he was a giant of a man, and putting his elbow backward, it landed on an unseen face, resulting in a crack and a howl. The grip loosened, something sticky dampened the sleeve of his jacket. Wheeling toward his men, Hoss bellowed, “What’d I fuckin’ say? Get out of here!” He lurched into a lumbering run toward the dead end of the street, and as he ran, he did a silent head count. Where there should have been three, he found only two. He turned around just in time to see one of the young ones dart forward, toward the phalanx of Mongols, for the drug bag. Playing the hero, Hoss thought wildly. The young ones always gotta play the hero.

  The kid had one arm through a strap of the backpack when Hoss heard the bullet. It was a pithy, snapping sound, the kind produced by a high-end silencer. In the dimness of the street, he just barely made out the telltale bloom of blood on the kid’s back, but he did see the body spin, limbs flailing. The inertia flung the drugs toward Hoss, the backpack landing hard in the grass. Quick as lightning, he picked it up and ducked. Another bullet sang past him, and another, but it was too dark for the shooter to aim. Hoss headed for the shelter of the back of the house, wading through the grass. Somewhere behind him, he thought he could hear the kid gasping. He didn’t let himself stop.

  The Outlaws — three of them — ran as soon as they drew level with the back wall of the house. Hoss was counting on the unkempt state of the lot to protect them from their would-be pursuers, and as he listened to engines revving in the street, he thought for a moment that he had read them drastically wrong. Then the sound of the motorcycles was interrupted by a familiar wail. Immediately, the Mongols turned tail. There was no way they could come out on top of a scene like the one that had just been left behind.

  Hoss had never been so glad to hear the police. The trio of Outlaws hopped the decaying fence at the rear of the property and looped their way through the grimy backstreets of the neighborhood. No one here thought twice about the sirens — it was a daily occurrence. Were it light enough to see the patches on their club jackets, the three men might have looked out of place, but cloaked as they were by the dark, they passed unseen. Two miles or so from the abandoned house, Hoss called in for a pickup, and five minutes later, they were on their way back to the compound. The drugs sat in the empty spot where the dead kid should have been.

  They didn’t say a word.

  Chopper was waiting for them. The others balked when they saw him, and Hoss sent them away. “I’ll deal with it,” he said gruffly. They disappeared from his side, and he walked up to his boss alone, the pack slung over one shoulder. He put it down in front of Chopper. Then he said, “Ray’s dead.” It was the first time he’d ever said the kid’s name out loud.
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  “What?” Chopper’s eyes lingered on the backpack, but soon they moved to Hoss’ face. “What do you mean, Ray’s dead?” He craned his neck to look past Hoss, but the rest of the crew had long since dissipated — and Hoss knew Ray wasn’t with them anyway.

  “Dead,” Hoss repeated. “Didn’t have a chance.” He frowned slightly. “The fuck didn’t you tell us there were gonna be so many, Chop? I woulda called it, and we could’ve come back another time. Ain’t like Spike’s gonna stop running anytime soon.”