Hitman - the Series: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Collection (Alexis Abbott's Hitmen #0)

by Alexis Abbott

  “Oh my God,” I breathe, starting to shiver.

  Leon’s chest is heaving, breathing hard. I glance up at him to see the mingled horror, fury, and despair on his handsome face. His hands are balled into fists and he looks like he might run down to the docks and start swinging at any moment.

  “It’s exactly what I feared,” he murmurs, swiping one huge hand down his face.

  “Who are they? Where did they come from?” I question, tears tingling in my eyes at the sight of their bare feet and battered limbs. Some of the women are crying, and the men have distant, far-away looks on their faces.

  “From all over, I’m sure. Wherever the price of human life is cheapest,” Leon snarls.

  There are multiple containers, at least three from what I can tell. And sure enough, all of them are opened to reveal similarly-disheveled, malnourished, world-weary people inside. The men in suits stand by, emotionless with their hands behind their backs or crossed on their chests, like they’re simply statues-for-hire planted strategically along the docks to guard this illicit deal. And the men in hoodies guide the miserable people down the docks and into the backs of the vans. It’s a horrifying sight. I know they aren’t bringing these people here to give them a chance at a better life. They aren’t rescuing them. They’re herding them like cattle.

  Probably to be used much like cattle. Used up and tossed aside.

  I tear my eyes away from this heartbreaking procession to land on another sight which chills me to the bone. There are two men overlooking the whole thing with nonchalance, one of them smirking and gesturing jovially to the other. One is in a sleek black suit and tie — and I recognize him after a moment of squinting and wracking my brain.

  Agent Doyle. Of course that bastard is involved.

  And beside him, talking and joking with gleeful abandon, is an old, potbellied man in a tacky white suit and red tie. He oozes wealth, the kind of exorbitant, obnoxious wealth that indicates he has no intention of spending his money responsibly. He looks like the epitome of greed and selfishness, like a pig in a silk jacket and a salt-and-pepper toupee.

  “Who’s that talking to Doyle?” I whisper. Leon sighs.

  “Martin Chandler, the rich douchebag who owns the docks. He’s like a festering sore on this town, draining all the resources and sucking the life out of the working folk,” Leon answers with a grimace.

  “Leon, what is going on here?” I ask fearfully, turning to him.

  He bites his lip and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You wouldn’t want to know.”

  “Tell me, I can take it.”

  “Cherry, I — ”

  Just then, he’s interrupted by a loud voice down near the docks.

  A man shouts out: “Hey! Over there!” Everyone turns to look toward where the man is pointing: directly at us. We’ve been spotted.

  “Shit,” Leon whispers, grabbing me so we can both duck back behind the dumpster.

  One second later, there’s the deafening crack of several gunshots.

  16

  Leon

  The metal container to my left rings sharply as a bullet ricochets off it. I grab Cherry by the collar as I yank her down and curse. My hand instinctively goes to the handgun at my side and cock it as more bullets whiz over our heads.

  “Back to the bike,” I growl, “keep low and close to me!”

  Cherry’s gives a sharp nod, and her reflexes prove sharper than I realized as she keeps neck-and-neck with me as we duck out from our hiding spot and start weaving between the large metal containers, the sounds of gunfire behind us echoing throughout the docks.

  We near the opening on the other side of the ‘alley’ we’re running through when a barrel-chested man steps out in front of us, raising his pistol. I raise my gun in response, but before either of us can get a shot out, a bright LED light shines in his face — Cherry is holding her flashlight up straight in his eyes. “Shit!” He shouts and puts a hand up and tries to move for cover, but I’m already on him, and my fist connects with the side of his head hard before he hits the ground with a thud.

  Once we’re out, we crouch down and move through what feels like a maze of metal canisters set out to be loaded and shipped. I can hear Doyle’s voice shouting out across the docks. “I don’t care who it might be, find them and get them before I have your asses packed away with the next shipment!”

  “They don’t know it’s us,” Cherry hisses to me, and I give a sharp nod. I intend to keep it that way.

  A few men were drawn to where I dropped the man who yelled, so I know we only have a few seconds before they turn their attention our way. I grab Cherry’s hand and dart towards where I left my bike.

  My motions are quick, decisive, and without a hint of hesitation. Cherry is surprisingly adept at being able to keep up, but my sudden changes in direction start to throw her after a while.

  “Are you used to this kind of thing?” she whispers.

  “You’d be surprised,” I say back in a low voice. I knew my background would always be there to haunt me as I try to lead an honest life, but never did I think I’d see the day that my past as a hitman would come to serve me like this. Yet the pistol in my hand feels no heavier than the last time I’d used it.

  Finally, the bike comes into view as we crouch behind a stack of crates. But there’s a lot of open ground to there, and I get a bad feeling.

  “Wait here,” I say to Cherry, “I’ll drive it over and pick you up. This will need to be smooth and quick.” Before she can respond, wide-eyed, I press my lips to hers before I pull out a bandana from my jacket and wrap it around my face and ready my pistol as I run out for my bike.

  I’m nearly to it when I hear a voice shout out from behind me.

  “FREEZE!”

  I whip around instinctively and find myself facing off with another thug, a face from out of town I don’t recognize. On the bright side, he won’t recognize me, either.

  “Drop the gun, I won’t say it twice.”

  “Do what he says,” orders a second voice from behind me, and my grip tightens. I’m surrounded, and I hear the click of a pistol from the second assailant as well.

  I ready myself. I’m not about to back down, so my muscles tense as I prepare to shoot and move quickly, praying the next thing I know isn’t a bullet in the back.

  “You deaf? Gun on the ground, hands up, or I shoot!” the first man orders, and when I don’t immediately respond, I see him aim his pistol to fire his weapon.

  Then there’s a crack from behind me, and I glance back just in time to see Cherry, having brought a lead pipe down on the second man’s head, now diving to grab his gun as the thug falls to the ground.

  I look back to see the first man taken off-guard just long enough, and without a second thought I fire a shot into the man’s shoulder, and he staggers back, gun falling from his hands as he lets out a sharp yell.

  I close the distance between us, and as his murderous eyes turn to me, he hurls a punch to my gut, but I catch it with my free hand. He blinks in surprise, and that’s the last thing he has time to do as I bring my forehead crashing down on his nose, knocking him out cold.

  “Let’s go!” I shout at Cherry, and in no more than two seconds we’ve sprinted to the bike. I’m revving up the engine before roaring down the street as more cries of alarm shout out from behind us.

  Cherry’s arms wrap around me tight as we ride. “You did good,” I say back to her, grin on my face.

  “We’re not out of the woods yet,” she warns, glancing back at the headlights behind us. One of the black sedans from the docks is deciding to chase us.

  I laugh. “If these tourists want to go for a ride, I’ll play ball.”

  Gunshots ring out from the sedan almost immediately, but I’ve already started weaving on my bike. It’s hard enough to shoot from a moving vehicle, much more so at a moving target.

  I drive up the docks and towards the city, wondering whether they’ll have the stones to follow me into the streets proper. Either wa
y, I don’t want the police to get involved in the chase, so I decide it’s time to end things early. Without warning, I veer off my path and come screeching to a halt just as the sedan gains on us.

  It goes zooming past, to the astonishment of the men inside, and before they can react, I aim a couple of shots at their back tires. After the shots ring out, I hear the car screeching as the tires go out. They careen to the side of the road, and before they know what’s happened, I’m roaring past them and into the city streets, Cherry looking back on the scene with wide eyes as I feel her heart pounding against my back.

  To be safe, I take us on a ride through the back alleys of the city again, not unlike what I did to give the police the runaround last time. With these men, though, I’m more confident they won’t dare drag this into the city proper.

  “...with Agent Doyle at the helm of that, I’m sure someone’s been paid to turn a blind eye to the cops for the night,” I explain to Cherry, “but take things into citizens’ front yards, and they wouldn’t have a choice. We’ll wait for things to cool off at the Glass.”

  A few minutes later, we make the roundabout and pull up at our bar. It feels like it’s been hours, but it’s not even 1:00 AM yet, and it looks like most of the club has been hanging around the bar, worried about why I haven’t at least checked in yet.

  As I push the door open, Cherry at my side, I see the whole club gathered together.

  Genn and Eva are playing pool in the corner, and they raise their beers to me as soon as we enter.

  “Hey, Prez! Heard gunshots, glad to see you both in one piece.”

  “Genn was just waiting on you to watch the table so I don’t cheat while he takes a piss.”

  “Shaddup!”

  Eva elbows Genn in the side as we stride in, and I hear more greetings from the club.

  “Got any dirt on the feds, Prez?” Anya asks after she downs the remainder of her vodka. “With all Doyle’s goons crawling around, I’m getting kind of impatient patching people up, starting to think I was born to crack heads instead.”

  “Shoulda been with us today,” I chuckle back at her, pulling away my bandana to show off the cut on my forehead where I headbutted one of the thugs. “Got a little closer to the old days than I’d like to admit.”

  Now I’ve really got the bar’s attention.

  “Tell us you’ve got something solid, Prez,” Vasily asks, rubbing his sore bicep after losing an arm wrestling match with Roy, one of the grizzled older members. Given how many beers there are around the table, I figure it’s their sixth or seventh match. “I want to work out these arms on a little more than letting Roy win a few times.”

  “You gonna be six beers in when you ‘let them win’ too, kid?” Roy laughs, and Vasily waves him off with a curse in Russian.

  “I think we do have something, in fact,” comes Cherry’s voice, to my surprise. I give her my attention with a nod, standing back to let her speak, and after my example, the rest of the bar gathers around to listen up. Cherry looks a little taken aback by the deference, but she clears her throat and continues.

  “Right. So Agent Doyle and his lackeys are down at the docks, right now. What’s worse, he’s got what looks like muscle from out of town helping him. They’re working out of an old ship that should have been scrapped years ago, and now we know why — they’re shipping people in that tin can. Packing them in like sardines.”

  There’s a grumble throughout the bar, and I can practically hear people gripping their beers tighter. A few of the immigrants among us are first or second-generation Russians like me, and some of them have very personal experiences with the human traffickers in New York.

  “Looks like most of them come from south of the border. We saw Doyle coordinating with Marty Chandler down there. The dock owner is in on whatever operation’s going on down there. I don’t think it’s a long shot to guess those victims we found buried in the field are some of the men and women who didn’t survive the journey.”

  “Sons of bitches,” I hear Eva hiss in the background.

  “And it makes sense now,” Cherry goes on, pacing around the bar. “If Doyle keeps us distracted with him while they push through the sale of that empty lot, the secret gets buried for good the moment a NexaCo gets built on top of those graves.”

  It feels like there’s a pall over the whole club. Genn spits on the ground in disgust, and Roy looks about ready to storm out the bar and start raising hell that second. Most of the older members look to be of the same mind.

  “I’m tired of these goddamn feds walking all over us with a free pass to do whatever the fuck they want!” Anya shouts, slamming a fist down on the table as she sways in her seat. Vasily nods to her in agreement, cracking his knuckles.

  “We can pound our chests all we like,” Genn says glumly, “but it’s the FBI. We can’t lay a finger on Doyle, and the chickenshit knows it. And if we can’t touch Doyle, we can’t touch his buddies, either. As far as they’re concerned, they’re golden.”

  “That’s why they’ve been so bold,” Eva adds on. “Marty Chandler’s friends aren’t just taking advantage of the FBI’s presence, they know he’ll save their asses when they start pulling off shit we’d bust their heads open for.”

  Cherry crosses her arms and chews on her lip, thinking, but after a few moments, she looks to me, a concerned look on her features. “I don’t know. What’s your take...Prez?”

  Hands on my hips, I think for a moment, brow furrowed, but when I open my mouth to speak, someone calls me to the door behind me. When I turn and head out the door to see who’s there, the ghost of Joe Hill himself couldn’t have shocked me more.

  “The Lone Wolf,” I say darkly to Mikhail. “You’ve got some fucking nerve coming back into this town.” Of all the people in the world I expected to see in the club’s parking lot, he was right around the bottom of the list.

  The man standing by the car is every bit as tall and muscular as I am, with slightly darker hair and a clean-shaven face. A designer jacket hangs on his shoulders, unadorned with any patches or markings of any kind. He’s almost the spitting image of myself, but more clean-cut, his Russian heritage as plain as day. I send a message with my kutte. He sends a message with his eyes.

  I raise my fist to him playfully, and he goes for my ribs before we break into laughter.

  “Leon! You are quicker than ever,” Mikhail says with a smile.

  “Quick enough to put a fright into your Old Woman,” I say, shooting a half-smirk over towards the woman waiting by the car who’d just squeaked like a frightened mouse. Where’d she think he was taking her to that an honest fight would break out right away? “My most sincere apologies, ma’am,” I grin, laying on the charm.

  “I was just playing the role of the audience,” the pretty, young woman says back. She’s quick witted at least, even if she does seem shaken up.

  “Sorry my timid kotika,” Mikhail says, releasing me and stepping around the car to extend his hand to his woman. “Come meet Leon. Leon, this is Alicia,” he says. He puts his arm around her, laying his claim as clear as day. Never thought I’d see Mikhail of all people takin’ a shine to someone like this.

  “Ahh, she is indeed a pussycat,” I grin, and for Mikhail’s benefit, I take her hand, kissing her knuckles. “Welcome to Bayonne, Alicia.”

  I’m trying to stay calm, but I know if Mikhail is here, trouble is following him, and trouble is the last thing we need. Not with the feds, not with these slimeballs trying to take over our city and bringing in human slaves.

  But I can’t say no to him. Not after all we’ve been through. Even if he is bringing the heat down on us.

  “Now hands off of her,” Mikhail says, pushing away my arm before we head on inside. A few of them grin and cheer excitedly for Mikhail’s return, knowing who he is to me and what he once meant to the area.

  “Some people you know?” Cherry asks, stepping close to my side as the man steps in and looks at me with the same familiar recognition that’s on my fa
ce.

  “Yeah,” I chuckle, “it’s been a hell of a long time, but I like to think I know him. He’s the walking, talking reminder of my past, in more ways than one, but dammit, he’s family.”

  Cherry’s eyes widen. “You mean…”

  “Yeah,” I reply, stepping forward to give Mikhail a tight hug. “This towering giant is my brother, both by blood and by the Bratva” I say, looking back at Cherry with a rugged smile.

  17

  Cherry

  I look back and forth between the two of them with my mouth hanging wide open. How could they possibly be related? Brothers? Leon and Mikhail are both stunningly handsome and undeniably Russian, but otherwise so different. Leon looks like a pretty typical — albeit hunkier than usual — working class guy, with his mischievous smile and lowkey style. But Mikhail looks like a mobster. Like an emotionless killing machine.

  “Mikhail, let me introduce to you to my girl. This is Cherry LaBeau,” Leon says, reaching out and taking my hand. He releases his brother and stands next to me, beaming. He looks like an excitable puppy showing me off to his big brother, and the fact that he called me his girl is making my head spin with delight.

  Mikhail is tall and straight-backed, his bearing regal and intimidating. He’s dressed in all black, his clothing neatly pressed and immaculately tailored to his muscular body. By comparison, Leon is much more relaxed and Americanized. Even though I can still sense that Russian resilience and power in him, but Leon smiles and laughs more easily. I get the feeling that Mikhail doesn’t do either of those things very often. Maybe ever.

  He holds out his hand to shake mine. I oblige him quickly, my eyes wide as I look up into his stony face. “Ochyen priyatno, sestra. It’s a pleasure.”

  “Same here,” I reply nervously, giving him a weak smile. He scares the pants off of me.