Three Hitmen: A Triple Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 2)

by Alice May Ball

Hendricks’ voice was like a minor earth tremor. “You called him by name.”

  Wiley’s face flinched. He said, “The monkey suit’s got a name tag.”

  “Yes,” Jackson said, “Which you didn’t read.”

  Jackson’s tag said, ‘Vincent.’

  Hendricks asked him, “Did you ever find yourself a Vincent?”

  Jackson smiled, pleased that Hendricks recognized the name of the vintage foreign bikes that he had a passion for. “I found a Black Lightening that I’m restoring. It’s going to be a long project.” He spread his hands on the table, “Guys, it’s great to see you, but I can’t chat now.”

  Wiley scowled but Hendricks rested a huge hand on his shoulder. Before the men left, Jackson wrote his cellphone number on a card, in big numerals for the cameras to see, and he handed the card to Hendricks.

  “I’m starting in law practice next week and I may need an investigator now and then. Call me if you’re interested.”

  When Chay came by to pick up the chips, he asked about the two men. It was standard procedure. Any time a dealer had a conversation with a guest, security would follow up on it.

  Jackson told him, “Hendricks is a man you’d be glad to see in any combat or field situation. In the four years I knew him, he always did what he said he would do and he never once told a lie.”

  Chay’s brow furrowed as he looked up from the ledger. “never telling a lie is a good thing, right?”

  “With Hendricks, things don’t always mean what you’d expect them to mean.”

  Jackson remembered the intricate red patterns on the ornate rug in the tent, and the cracking of the tent flaps on the cold hillside near the Syrian border. Hendricks led the mission, and he had brought a goat farmer to the tribal warlord. The warlord sat, in a chair draped in rugs. He wore robes with intricate decoration and embroidery.

  An arc of men stood behind him with bullet-belts crossed over their robes, massive curved daggers in their belts. All of them carried Kalashnikovs. All of them wore sunglasses by Porsche, Ferrari or Hermes.

  Hendricks negotiated, and Jackson could just about follow the conversation. Hendricks’ Kurdish dialect was perfect. The warlord claimed that the farmer had molested children in nearby village.

  Rumors around the hillsides had confirmed it, but the evidence was far from conclusive. Jackson believed it, although the fact that the farmer’s land was right between two patches of disputed territory made him suspicious.

  Right in front of the warlord, Hendricks lifted the farmer by the scruff of his neck. The farmer’s eyes popped wide as his feet left the floor. “You promised I would be safe.” He babbled, “You swore I’d come to no harm.”

  Hendricks’ voice was as dry as his coal-black eyes. “You didn’t listen. I promised that he wouldn’t harm you.” With his other hand, Hendricks drew out a long combat knife. “He won’t. You’ll be safe from him the rest of your life.”

  The men behind the warlord’s chair all jumped forward. They seized the edge of the rug and dragged it away. Jackson and Hendricks had to jump back. Hendricks put the farmer’s feet back on the floor. His face broke into a sweat of relief. Then Hendricks reached down and swung the little man up by his ankle.

  His blood splashed onto the sand and dirt, the way that a goat’s does, when it’s slaughtered in the Halal tradition. Jackson didn’t share that story with Chay, and he shook his head to try and lose the recollection.

  As Chay sorted the chips into neat piles to count, Jackson told him, “Hendricks was the only man I knew who could tell you he was working an intelligence detail and you wouldn’t have to stifle a laugh.”

  It was strange to see men that he knew from the corps out of uniform. The Blades patch on Wiley’s back was unsettling.

  Chapter 6

  Jackson’s first cases with Ellis, Francis and Crane consisted of defending men, all men, whom everybody referred to as ‘assholes.’

  Men just like his old dad.

  Men like McGhee.

  McGhee’s rap sheet read like the plot of a cheap, sordid thriller. Crimes of violence and against property, possession and dealing in the sleaziest kinds of drugs and a long list of vehicle felonies. The violence stood out, though.

  Charges of assault with a deadly weapon and the attempted homicide of a biker named Bo Treacher were what brought McGhee’s boots dragging into Jackson’s cramped, windowless office. McGhee was sneering, arrogant and forceful, a big, bearded man in leathers and worn denim. A biker with the look of a man that a jury just loves to convict.

  McGhee stomped and jangled across Jackson’s office and scraped a chair in front of Jackson’s desk. His manner was to show that he’d done this all before. He’d hired lawyers. He was onto their game.

  “Just tell me what it’s going to take to make this bullshit charge go away, lawyer.” Jackson’s office door opened behind him as he spoke and she slipped in.

  She slid against the wall with her hands behind her back. Didn’t say a word. Jackson’s mind raced and he tried to ignore her. His body wasn’t ignoring her though. One particular part was rising to point at her so hard Jackson though it might bang the bottom of his desk.

  He kept his eyes off her at least, as he took McGhee through the standard terms and conditions speech. It boiled down to, if you tell me anything that implicates you in a crime, I can’t defend you for that crime.

  She leaned against the far wall, out of the light. Her soft hip cocked, her plump red lips pursed as she bit on the inside of her cheek. Throughout the meeting she didn’t speak. Her eyes fixed on Jackson when she walked in. They didn’t move off him.

  A faint mauve patch under the skin on her cheekbone looked like a bruise that was healing. Jackson guessed that the dark circles around her eyes were not all mascara and lack of sleep. The look was still on her face, in the slight purse of her lips, like it hadn’t moved in five years. Show me.

  Jackson told McGhee, “If you want a cast-iron assurance that you’ll be acquitted or that the charges will be dropped, it’s going to cost you the high end of five figures.” He saw that he had McGhee’s attention. “You won’t get that assurance from me, and I couldn’t tell you where you will get it. I will tell you this, though, Mr. McGhee. Anyone who guarantees they can get these charges magicked away will have to be a liar as well as a thief.”

  The big man sagged. Now, for the first time, Jackson felt what he’d seen in his father’s lawyer. He was certain nobody else talked to McGhee the way that he just had. McGhee looked up at Jackson, “What are my chances?”

  “With the evidence as it stands and without the weapon, I’d say they’re not great, but it’s not a sure thing. If the weapon shows up, then that will probably clinch it,” Jackson watched McGhee’s eyes flinch as he finished up, “one way or the other.”

  He watched McGhee pretend to make a choice. Whether he appointed Jackson as his lawyer or shopped for a much more expensive defender was a decision that had already been made. Jackson knew it. McGhee did, too.

  McGhee hunched like a customer who wanted to haggle about something. Crack a deal that made him look good in front of the lady he’d brought along to impress. Jackson hadn’t any optional extras, yearly service or insurance deals to offer him.

  Late that afternoon the phone on Jackson’s desk rang.

  As soon as he heard the quiet voice, “Jack?” he knew it was her. “Can we meet somewhere?” All he could think of was her eyes. The way they were on him from behind McGhee all that time that he’d been in Jackson’s office. Sat across the table while his woman stood in the shadows

  Jackson started to wonder how McGhee had come to choose Jackson for his defender in the first place. It could have been just by chance. Or it could be that somebody thought it would be a good idea and told it to him. Her voice in the phone was like raw silk. Dirty raw silk. “Somewhere private?” Everything told him that meeting her was a bad plan.

  Well, nearly everything. One part of him rose to the sound of her voice, like it had
risen to the memory of her. Time and time again.

  He knew that this could turn out very badly. There were a thousand ways that meeting the client’s partner could be the wrong thing to do. And he heard criminal intent on her breath. Definitely a bad idea.

  Jackson arrived early at the barely-lit downtown bar he’d named on the phone. He picked out a dark booth in a far corner to wait for her. When he’d crossed the carpet that clung to his shoes, she was already there with two glasses of bourbon.

  Maryette sat back in the corner and spread her arms along the tops of the banquette. Under a tasseled black leather vest she had on a soft cream blouse, open down to her deep butterscotch cleavage. Her black leather skirt was short enough for the tops of her fishnet stockings to peek out.

  Jackson tried not to think about what went on above the tops of her stockings.

  She shifted to give him space to sit. Not enough space to sit very far from her. As he slid in, his leg brushed against hers and his heart pounded. She gave him a smoky look up and down. “You’ve done well for yourself, Jackson,” her eyes were luminous and they shone on him.

  “You didn’t come here to congratulate me on how I’ve turned out.”

  “Your daddy always said you’d do well.”

  “I didn’t come here to talk about my father.”

  She had her face turned so the mark on her cheek was towards him. She looked down at her drink. Then her eyes flicked back up at him. “Jackson, I don’t want McGhee to beat the rap.”

  “Like I told him, he’s not likely to.”

  “Can you make sure that he doesn’t?”

  Under the table, her hand rested on his thigh. His body lit up as if it had been in hibernation.

  “No, Maryette. Not even for you.” He hadn’t meant to say that. Not even for you. When he saw her reaction he wished all the more that he hadn’t said it.

  She left a beat before she got back to it, “I want him to go away, Jackson.”

  “You’re in good company. So does the DA.”

  “You could make it happen.” Her watery eyes were not quite pleading but they definitely wanted. She leaned forwards. Do women ever do that unconsciously? Is it always calculated? The thought came to him only later.

  At the time Jackson wasn’t thinking about very much at all, other than her breathy voice and the delicious scent of her. He was almost overcome by the urge to start a different conversation with her. Right there. A conversation that began with something crass like, “What is your relationship to McGhee?” and that ended, almost certainly, in a misconduct of some kind.

  He could not start, encourage, pursue or allow a relationship with the partner of a client. Not under any circumstances. To the Nevada bar, that almost certainly would be as bad as a relationship with a client. Maybe worse.

  Across the small table, she was near enough that he could taste her breath. Her head tilted as her eyes goaded him. In the darkness, they shone, and they were all that he could see. Except for the patch of mauve skin below her left eye.

  Jackson’s whole body felt as though it were pulling towards her. Like his flesh and sinew, his pecs and his biceps were drawn to her with a tug like magnetism. In his groin, a part of him pointed at her and reaching out as far as it would go.

  Holding his mind in check, he thought like he would think in a client conference. What is she really after here?

  Then his hand was on the back of her neck. His thumb rested on the soft skin below her ear. He pulled her face to his. She said, “Oh…” softly as their mouths met.

  There was a moment that Jackson wanted never to end. He felt like he had everything. Everything that he ever wanted was here. She was here in his hand, here in his breath. Here in his mouth.

  The warmth of her body called to him as their breaths combined to acquaint themselves to each other. Her need became his desire. His need became her. He wanted to feel the pulse of her throat with his thumb forever.

  Her lips opened to him, soft, moist and warm. Her arms opened to pull her body to his. It seemed like a lifetime before he made it stop. Then, when he did, it felt like it had been less than a second. He wanted nothing but to do it again. More. Longer and harder.

  Her face lit with trust and pleading. Her eyes were half closed and her lips were still apart.

  He said, “This never happened. I shouldn’t have done that.” Her face tilted, like she was listening and at the same time not listening, “We can’t see each other. Not now. Not ever again.” He said, “I’m very sorry,” as he moved to go.

  Her hand was on his. He said, “I’ll let Mr. McGhee know in the morning that I can’t defend him.” He slid out of the booth. One look back at the soft glow of her face and he saw it all.

  If he told McGhee that, McGhee would know why straight away. He saw in her eyes that’s how it would go. And what would happen next? How could he have let himself be such an idiot? He would have to think of another way out of it.

  Was there a way that wouldn’t involve him involving her? He wanted her so very badly, but he knew that if he let it start, it wouldn’t end.

  “Goodbye, Maryette.”

  She didn’t say a word and he felt her eyes on him as he left. He walked as if he was trying to remember how to do it, to remember which foot moved next. How high to lift the knee. Jackson fumbled at the door handle.

  By the time he was outside, she was through the door with him. She stood in front of him with her feet apart. The fingers of her left hand drummed nervily on her hip. He had trouble hearing her smoky voice, “Have you been thinking about me, Jack? All of this time?”

  His mouth was dry. She pressed a hand against his shirt, over his heart. Her voice was even quieter, but he heard her fine when she said, “I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “We met for what, about half a minute, eight years ago.” His voice was hard and hoarse, “And you’ve been thinking about me all this time? I doubt that very much, Maryette. You don’t seem like the type.” He grabbed her wrist.

  Her eyes flashed and her teeth shone as her lips widened. “Wanna smack me, Jack? Tell me I’ve been bad?”

  He pulled her hand away from his chest, but he jerked it. He saw her wince. “I have, Jackson,” she said, “I’ve been awful bad.”

  She stepped closer. Her scent enveloped him. He had to get away while a tiny part of him still wanted to. Trouble was, that tiny part was locked deep inside his brain.

  All the parts of him on the outside, the parts that could see her, hear her, the parts that smelled her, the parts that felt the warmth of her rising breasts and her heat too close in front of his pelvis, none of those parts wanted to go anywhere.

  They wanted to take her by the wrist, bend her over the hood of a car, press him into her breasts and yank that little skirt up. He wanted to taste her again. Taste more of her. He was off-balance wondering whether she had been thinking about him or if she was just messing with his head?

  He felt a rage boiling inside him. Her eyes widened. He still had a hold of her wrist and he realized he was holding way too tight. When he let go a patch of red remained where his fingers had been.

  She reached out to put her hand back on his chest.

  “Stop it, Maryette.”

  “Going to make me, Jack?” The look in her eyes was a challenge, like she wanted him to strike her. Wanted him to or maybe just expected it. His blood pulsed in his veins as he watched her.

  Now she was right up against him. Her chest rose against his. Her heart thudded through their clothes and beat a tattoo on his breast. Her hair smelled like fresh strawberries in grass. Her body felt like a cat, stretching along the length of him. She laid her cheek against his chest.