As Dixon watched him, it registered that this was the first time his father had turned his back on him since he’d returned. The gun in his shoulder holster heated his ribs like a branding iron. The bastard wasn’t stupid, he knew what he was doing, and Dixon had no doubt it was a test of some sort. Everything the man had put him through since he’d showed up at his door had been a test. Dixon had spent four months doing shit a junior-rated thug would have found coma inducing.
His father turned with a folder in his hand. “Here.” He handed it to Dixon before he sat down in his throne of a chair situated behind his massive desk. Dixon rose out of his seat to take the file and then dropped back down. He didn’t look at it or open it. One of the very first lessons his father had taught him when he’d taken sole custody of him was never act without permission. He’d been beaten until he passed out on more than one occasion for doing so. Childhood memories of days spent with Dad. Good times.
“I want this problem eradicated.” His father nodded at the folder on his lap. Dixon continued to stare at the man. His father relaxed back into the comfort of his throne and held Dixon’s stare.
Eradicated. That was a term Dixon learned, too. So, he wanted whomever was in the folder dead. This was a step in the right direction…at least as far as Guardian was concerned.
“Take Mr. Smith with you.”
Dixon cocked his head at his father. “You don’t think I can do this by myself?”
His father crossed his fingers over a belly that was growing a bit soft in his old age. “Are you questioning me?”
“In this instance, yes. Witnesses are loose ends, which means I’m going to die, or Mr. Smith is going to die.”
An evil smile spread across his father’s face. “You have a very good memory.”
Oh, he remembered, and Dixon tried not to physically react to the violent memories. He remembered watching his father debate who to kill, and he remembered dropping to his knees in relief when his father murdered the teenage boy beside him instead of him. His old man walked over to him and pushed the hot barrel against his temple and hissed, “Witnesses are loose ends. Loose ends will not be tolerated.” Yes, he remembered, and it was another notch on the fucked-up belt that tied him to his old man.
Dixon stared across the expanse of the mahogany desk. He waited. Volunteer nothing, give nothing, do nothing unless told to do it. A mantra to live by…at least while in his father’s presence.
“Go alone. Don’t disappoint me.” The man leaned forward and pulled his laptop across the expanse of his desk.
Dixon lifted to his feet and opened the folder. A name and an address. Another test no doubt. Dixon read the information a second time. He closed the folder and dropped it on his father’s desk and spun on his heel. Turning his back on his old man sent a cold chill up his spine every single time he did it, but he needed to show the bastard he wasn’t the scared boy he used to be. The fucker’s intimidation tactics wouldn’t work any longer. Dixon was literally a killing machine. He’d learned from the best and had trained countless others. He slowly ambled out of the mausoleum of an office. The name in the file was one he already knew. It was one he’d memorized a little over four months ago. He stopped at the front door and retrieved his overcoat and cashmere scarf before donning both and heading out into the chill of autumn air.
The last four months had been hell on earth. The future didn’t look any better, but he’d manage. His father was a peacock, and the fucker was ambitious. When he could, Dixon would encourage the man, provide him an opportunity to strut his imagined magnificence. Dixon was the stronger of the two of them. He knew that now. He’d made it through the hell his father had put him through, and he’d grown strong. His life was filled with examples of men who didn’t need the affirmation of others or financial or political influence. Strength came from within. He’d survive any beating his old man would hand out–mental or physical.
It took fifteen minutes to walk to where he’d left his vehicle. It gave him time to leverage the lessons he’d learned from Dr. Jeremiah Wheeler. The man had been his therapist since he’d taken up residence at the ranch. Dixon wouldn’t have been able to deal with the mental refuse his father drudged up if it weren’t for Jeremiah’s voice playing on repeat in his mind. He wasn’t responsible for the atrocities his father committed. His father was the monster and his father, the man responsible for his welfare, had put him in impossible positions and forced him to make incomprehensible decisions. His father was the animal.
The door shut behind his son. His heir apparent. He leaned back in his chair. The boy had grown into an impressive physical manifestation of a man. He mourned what could have been. That whore was responsible for the events that had separated them. Her cunning and intelligence was the only redeeming quality she’d had.
He had needed time to clean up her fucking mess, so he let her half-witted brother take both the boys. The other one was useless. That one had taken after the whore of a broodmare he'd bred. That twin was weak.
He sighed and dropped his pen. What a useless waste of life. By the time he’d fixed the damage she’d done and put people and resources in place to ensure he was untouchable, Dixon had been in the military and untouchable. A wrinkle he had not foreseen. He needed an heir, a successor.
He stood and moved to the far side of the room. The bookcase unlatched and swung away from the wall. Behind were his pictures of his heirs. He examined each one. His boys didn’t have any idea of the power they would inherit, but only if they learned from him. Dixon was once again where he deserved to be—at his right hand. Dixon had learned his lessons so well as a child. But of course, the time they’d together had been limited and not enough to completely enlighten him. He glanced from Dixon’s picture to that of a ten-year-old boy holding his mother’s hand. Another broodmare, but thankfully, one of higher quality. This boy hadn’t been tested yet. He wasn’t quite old enough. Soon he’d take control of the young one as he had Dixon. Soon…he glanced once again at the images of his oldest heir. They’d been snipped from old video feeds while the boy had been in training. The exhilaration he felt each time Dixon had internalized his corrections and advanced could not be contained. A young mind can be molded, transformed and shaped.
Of course, the training wasn’t easy. Dixon had made mistakes. Children make mistakes. That is why his discipline had been so important. Now, Dixon was back, but his training was incomplete. It remained to be seen what weakness of character he needed to ‘repair’. He glanced at the monitor at the top right corner of the wall. He’d completed the rooms where he’d implement any needed corrections. There would be no interruptions when he took on the younger one.
His brows furrowed for a moment. He’d need to start assembling the props required for both Dixon’s remedial and the young one’s initial training. If he didn’t utilize the pathetic lives he extracted from society for those purposes, there were always other uses for them. He sighed and shook his head. The burden of training his boys was a heavy mantle, but one he’d shoulder even more now that he’d aligned with a wielder of significant power.
He pushed the bookshelf back into place and wandered over to the fireplace. The flames licked the logs. He grabbed another piece of wood from the brass adorned rack beside the impressive marble façade. The organization that had approached him had proved valuable. He was cautiously optimistic that he could use the redundancy and layers of the organization to his benefit. The mirror over the fireplace reflected the image he’d cultivated. He smiled in satisfaction. His image was pristine. There were no flaws. No weaknesses.
Chapter 3
Six hours. That was how long he’d waited. The middle-class neighborhood fell into slumber in a predictable fashion. Dogs were walked for the last time by people who huddled against the cold and waited for their animals to do their business so they could clean it up and head back into the warmth of their homes. Dixon watched from the dark recesses of an alleyway as the lights of the apartment buildings shuttered. T
he windows he’d fixated on had darkened over an hour ago. He wasn’t in a hurry because even though the man was coded, he wasn't an assassin. Killing during an operation was one thing. Singling out a person, tracking them and taking them out wasn't something he’d ever pictured himself doing.
Well, check that. Being honest with himself—because, hey, he was the only one he could be honest with—he had pictured doing just that to his old man. Did he want to be the one to pull the trigger? He mentally shrugged. Sometimes. It had been a constant internal debate since he’d left his initial meeting with Jason. A part of him wondered if killing the old fucker would eliminate the apparitions of the past or if it would send him headfirst into the chasm of evil that had spawned him. He give himself a fifty-fifty chance of going either way. He wasn’t at all certain he’d come out right side up after this.
He inched out of the alley and surveyed the rest of the block. Three apartments with lights still on in the next building over—nothing that set off warning bells. He returned his attention to the mark's building. He could see one light on in what appeared to be a kitchen window in that apartment building. It was dim…the light from a nightlight or small lamp. Distant sounds of vehicles on the main thoroughfare two blocks over provided a white noise that absorbed the sound of a garbage truck and a long lonely wail of a siren. Dixon walked across the street and turned the corner, heading toward the front entrance. He’d reconned the area throughout the evening, keeping to the shadows, avoiding any interaction with humanity. He used the cars parked on the street to hide from two CCTV systems he’d seen on his drive through the neighborhood. There was one further down the street, but the position of the camera made it impossible for him to be picked up on this particular approach. It took about thirty seconds to pick the lock on the front door, a typical hardware store lock that was only good for keeping honest people honest. Criminals and professionals in this business were only delayed momentarily by things like locks.
The ball cap on his head was pulled down over his brow in case there were any cameras in the common areas of the building. The chances of that were slim, but he’d be damned if he’d work for four fucking months shoveling the waste of his father’s illicit activities to end up having a random two-hundred-dollar camera system from a big-box warehouse store blow his cover.
He glanced up the stairs. The apartment directly over his mark’s was under renovation. There was a waste chute constructed from the back window and plastic draped over the windows with what appeared to be plaster splattered over the edges near the wall. Apparently, someone was texturizing the walls or spray painting. Dixon slipped down the hall and turned right. Apartment 1C at the back of the building and the end of the hall was his goal.
The door to the mark’s apartment was cracked open. Every nerve in his body fired at once. Dixon pulled his pistol out and screwed on the suppressor. He wasn’t planning on guests, but if there was someone else who’d broken in, he’d use that as a subterfuge for the kill. A home invasion gone bad, a story that had been told before and would be again. He listened for a moment before he slid into the apartment. A soft thud drew his attention. He visually swept the area around him quickly before he skirted the furniture and headed toward the location of the soft sound.
He rounded the corner and froze. His mark knelt facing him. Even in the muted light from the window, he could recognize the bastard from the files Jason had given him to memorize.
A figure in black, wearing a ski mask held a handful of the man’s hair, exposing his throat. She looked up... she? Fuck, yes, the person behind his mark was a woman. The knife in her hand slid across the bastard’s neck. The sound of cartilage snapping and wind escaping the mark’s severed throat told him what he couldn’t clearly see. The body dropped, and she followed the corpse forward, moving into a fighting stance.
Dixon smiled and edged into the room. He lifted his left hand, his gun still held firmly in his right. “Looks like you brought a knife to a gunfight.” He caught the surprised jerk of her body at his words.
“I don’t need a knife to beat you—gun or not.”
Dixon let his smile grow. Fuck, that voice was sexy. Husky, a little breathy and damned if he didn’t catch a hint of excitement.
“Think you can get out of here without using it?”
“You mean you’d let me walk?” she teased in a low murmur.
“Not a chance, baby, but I’ll give you even odds. Still think you can get by me?”
“I know I can, hotshot. Okay…I’ll put down my knife if you put down your gun.”
An evil chuckle floated from him. “You’ll lodge the damn thing in my heart.”
“Oh, tempting, but I don’t generally kill if there isn’t a profit in it for me.” She lowered her voice and purred, “Why don’t you just let me walk out of here? No more bloodshed tonight.
“Put your knife down first.” Dixon lifted his chin and motioned toward the desk, not more than a foot from her.
“And then you’d shoot me…I don’t think so, Quick Draw.” She casually wiped the blade of her knife against her tight black pants.
“At the same time?” He nodded toward the bookshelf next to where he stood.
“Why would you trust me?”
Her words stopped his thoughts. “Don’t you mean why would you trust me?” He pointed at her and then at himself.
She laughed and shook her head. “No, I meant why would you trust me. I already know I can’t trust you. You are a murderer and all.”
Dixon cocked his head and clicked his tongue. “Nah, that would be you. You killed him.”
“Him? Yes, but you wouldn’t be here, with a gun, at two in the morning if you weren’t after the same thing."
“And so we are back at square one. I needed this kill. You do too. Who gets to claim it?”
The woman adjusted her footing slightly. “My kill. My money.”
“My kill, personal reasons,” Dixon replied.
“You mean to tell me you aren’t getting paid to take this scum out?”
“Not a penny.”
“All right my avenging angel, I’ll play your game. You put your weapon on the bookcase, and I’ll drop my knife on the desk.”
“On the count of three?” Dixon’s body tingled in anticipation. It had been forever since he’d fought with a worthy opponent, and he knew in his gut this woman would be phenomenal. He could tell by the way she moved the fight would be epic.
“One.” She spoke and slowly extended her weapon while watching him do the same.
“Winner owns bragging rights?” Dixon clarified.
“Agreed. I don’t like to lose money. Two.” She dropped her arm again as did he.
“How much are you out when I win?” Dixon loved her low sexy chuckle. So confident and fierce.
“Only ten thousand.” She laughed again. “I can make it up if you happen to be better than I give you credit for.”
“Oh, I’m better,” Dixon taunted her.
“We shall see. Three.”
They both dropped their weapons. Dixon couldn’t have blinked in the time it took the woman to fly across the room. She swept at his legs, and he managed to jump up, just missing her crippling attempt at putting him on his ass. He punched forward, throwing himself into her, knocking them both back into the room. She twisted under him before he could gain purchase on anything but her arm. They both popped up. The woman spun and jumped up, using his clothing to hold him as she moved. He grabbed her shoulders as she arched back away from his grasp, which propelled her legs up into the air. She scissored them around his neck. She curled toward his neck a split second before she whipped herself backward pulling him down. He somersaulted through the open door, landing flat on his back with her hard as fucking iron thighs clamped around his throat.
Surprisingly, she had him in a choke hold, and he was already feeling the effects. There was only one thing he could think to do. It was the only way he’d been able to get Jade the fuck off him when they sparred, and s
he'd used this move. He extended his hands down the woman’s leg, grasped for that portion of ribs just under her arms and dug his fingers in.
She jumped, just enough for him to push his fist between her legs and leverage them open with his forearm. He gasped in a lungful of air and rolled. Toward her, not away from her. His movement pinned her to her back. Her legs were fucking powerful, and he grunted against her strength. He managed to grab her shoulder and twist over her. One of her legs was pinned between his chest and hers, the other slammed down on his back. He grunted against the blow. He’d been kicked by a fucking mule, and it hurt less. She tried to twist under him, but he held her with the weight of his body. She brought her boot down on his back again.
“Fuck!” Dixon twisted just enough to grab her leg behind the knee. He pushed it forward, rolling her and pinning both shoulders. She had one leg pinned between them and the other held to her chest with his arm. She reached up with her hands to try to rake his eyes, but he tipped her leg further, throwing all his weight on both her legs so he could use his hands to capture hers. She struck fast, and a fist landed against his cheek. He turned just as a finger pushed into his eye. He jerked his face away and down, hiding the injury against her chest and blindly gathered her arms.
The second he had both her wrists in his hands, she hissed, “Motherfuckingsonofabitch!”
Fuck me, my thoughts exactly. The bitch had nearly blinded him. A stream of tears poured from his injured eye, and he repeatedly blinked while she squirmed under him. Frustrated, he tightened his grip. He couldn’t see out of his damn eye. He closed it and drew a deep breath.
“Fine, you fucking win.” The woman went slack underneath him.
Dixon didn’t believe her submission for a fucking second. She groaned. “Get off, you’re heavy.”
Dixon Page 2
