Angel of Death (Broken Mercenaries Book 2)

by S. Massery

  It’s why I kept coming back to her time after time.

  She turns toward me, and I touch her cheek. Her lips part as she watches me. But she doesn’t stop me. My fingers slip down, across her neck, and into her hair. I wind the silky strands through my fist and tip her head back. Her eyes go to my lips.

  I lean down and press my lips to hers. I feel her down to my toes, and I have to stop myself from deepening it too quickly, from rushing her. Her arms wind around my neck, pulling me flush against her. I jolt when her tongue runs along the seam of my lips.

  Who are you now, Hadley Quinn?

  Our tongues clash, and suddenly everything escalates. Her soft whimper undoes me. My hands slide down her back, and I lift her by her ass. Her legs wind around my hips. I carry her inside and set her on the kitchen counter, and we get to know each other a little more.

  Her hands move to my chest, and the light pressure makes me take a step back.

  She squeezes her eyes shut. “Oh my god.”

  I want to apologize, but I don’t feel sorry. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to never tell lies to people I care about.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. My thumb glides over her cheek again, catching a tear.

  “I can’t start anything like that,” she murmurs. “I can’t…”

  “Why?”

  She blinks. “What?”

  “It’s already started, Hadley. Why can’t you finish it?”

  She shakes her head.

  I’m so tempted to try and drive away her misery, that I miss my heart starting to crack open. But when I feel it, God, it hurts.

  11

  HADLEY

  I take a deep breath and catch his hand as he starts to back away from me. I am flayed open, burning with desire and longing and so much pain. My body hates me. It’s confused. My brain says one thing, and my heart is chanting another.

  Don’t trust him, my brain says.

  My heart disagrees. It already feels way more than I thought possible for one man.

  “If you fall in love with me, you’ll try to fix me,” I say, swallowing my fear. “And if that doesn’t work, then I’ll die, and you’ll be alone.”

  He stares at me, lips parted, before he starts chuckling. “Wow.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. I can still taste him on my lips. “What?”

  “You’ve really thought this through.”

  I shake my head. “I’m just a realist, Griffin.”

  He frowns. “You’re afraid,” he says.

  I keep shaking my head.

  “You are, HQ,” he says in a soft voice. An old nickname brings back how I used to feel around him. Wild. Desperate. “I don’t think you’re telling yourself the truth.”

  “Stop it,” I say.

  “You’re afraid of someone seeing you that way, aren’t you? Weak? Helpless?”

  I can see it: I’m laying in a hospital bed with a tube down my throat, breathing for me. The helplessness makes my skin crawl. And the idea of my mother crying over me makes my bones ache. I’ve had years to work up to this moment, and here I am, just as scared as the day the doctor diagnosed me.

  Only then, you were in the hospital for a slew of other reasons, too. That was just the longest-lasting trauma.

  My fingers tighten on his hand. “I am not doing this with you.”

  He slips from my grasp and turns away, back to the balcony. Dusk falls quickly around here. He closes the glass doors and turns on a few lamps. “I don’t know what you want from me, Hadley,” he says in a low voice. The creeping darkness amplifies his words.

  I swallow. “I want you to promise that you won’t try to fix me. Leave, don’t leave—at this point, I won’t be crushed. But if you stick with me, you can’t leave again.” The last wish is an accident I’d rather have not spoken.

  Being trapped panics me, even sitting on this counter. My legs are still splayed open. My lips tingle. I pat my hair smooth, embarrassment knotting my stomach, and jump off of the counter.

  He just shakes his head. “For the first time ever, I’m jealous of Dalton’s smoking habit.” He shakes out his arms. “I’m going to go for a walk. You can take my bedroom.”

  I look out the window. Night fell in the blink of an eye. “You’re leaving now?”

  He runs his hand through his hair, walking around the couch and toward the front door. “I’m not leaving. I’ll be back soon. Make yourself at home.”

  He closes the door behind him, and it feels as constricting as the panic room.

  To distract myself, I take the opportunity to snoop.

  I start in the kitchen, pulling open various drawers and cabinet doors. The place is full of pots and pans, various sizes and colors of plates, bowls, glasses. The fridge is empty, which isn’t a huge surprise. There are a few condiments. The pantry is packed with nonperishable goods. It’s all the sort of thing I wouldn’t guess Griffin likes.

  And then I remember that he said he took it as payment. It makes me wonder how much time he actually spends here—or if he has changed so much that I don't recognize him anymore.

  With that in mind, I start to see the apartment in a new light: more someone else than Griffin. Even though he may have lived here for some time, this isn’t his home. His imprint isn’t as solid.

  As move away from the kitchen and toward the bedroom, that clutter fades away. Maybe Griffin rarely cooks, preferring to leave the kitchen untouched. The living room has one desk-like table that I can snoop through. The drawers slide open smoothly, and although there’s no paper on the desk, there is a stack of white lined paper in the top drawer. Black pens lay next to it. I move down to the next one, hoping for any sort of hint of Griffin’s life.

  The Angel of Death.

  I’m hoping for a sign of that, too.

  He always left a feather for me, which I took to mean guardian angel. Ironic, how two sides of one coin can look so different.

  When I’ve exhausted my search of the main room, I dare a glance toward the french doors that probably lead into a bedroom. I take a moment in the middle of the room and take my pulse, remembering the feel of Griffin’s fingers on my skin, doing the exact same thing.

  And then I move.

  I pull the doors open and step inside, mouth dropping open. The balcony view was stunning, but this room… it’s like home and vacation wrapped in one. I take a deep breath, comforted by the fact that this room is completely Griffin. It even smells like his cologne.

  “Wow,” I murmur, moving through the room. The queen-sized bed is low to the ground. There’s a tall, dark oak dresser in the corner next to a walk-in closet. The walls are pale mint green, and the wall facing the water is mostly glass. It’s dark now, but during the day, this room would be glorious. It would be like being caught in the middle of a piece of sea glass.

  I peek into the dresser drawers—underwear, socks, folded crew-neck t-shirts—and step into the closet. Dress shoes, boots, sneakers. A wide variety of dress shirts hanging in a row, a selection of ties beside them. Slacks. My eyes light up when I realize there’s a safe in here.

  A giant safe, easily twice my width and just as tall.

  I step up to it and look at the combination lock. I’m tempted to try my birthday, just for the hell of it, but…

  No, that would be crossing a line I’m not ready to step over.

  If my mother could see me now, snooping around Griffin’s luxury apartment in Amsterdam, she’d combust.

  Griffin wasn’t the first foster kid she brought into the house, and he wasn’t the last. But he does hold the record for longest stay. Four months is a long time when you’re a kid, when you’re a teenager and unable to settle, and when you’re a young mom and suddenly caring for a teenage boy.

  She’s probably worried sick. She brought me to my most recent doctor’s appointment just the other day—the day Griffin showed up—and then… nothing. I told her in the car that I needed space to process it. But she probably didn’t expect me to haul myself
to Europe.

  Not that you’re doing much processing, Hadley.

  I go to my bag, which Griffin had moved to the table, and slide it open. After a full thirty seconds of riffling through it, I pause, close my eyes, and try to remember the last time I had my phone.

  In the garage, I realize. I had talked to my dad, saw someone through the window…

  “And I threw it in the backseat of the car,” I say out loud, smacking my palm to my forehead. It takes exactly two seconds to find the keys Griffin had hung up by the door, and I yank open the door to the stairwell.

  I eye it before I heave a sigh and start down the stairs.

  In retrospect, maybe I should’ve just waited for Griffin to get back before I started on this adventure. Going down stairs is supposed to be easier, but I still end up leaning against the wall halfway down, trying to regulate my breathing.

  The door on the second floor opens, and a woman pokes her head out. She says something in Dutch, and I shake my head. In English, she says, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, fine, thanks,” I murmur. I force myself off of the wall and to continue down, even when my thighs start to burn. I have the knee joints of an eighty-year-old lady. They creak with every step.

  Finally, I get down to the car. It’s cooler down here, and there are a few more cars than when we arrived. I’d assume they belong to the other residents.

  I beeline for Griffin’s little convertible. I just touch the door handle when someone grabs me from behind.

  My hand slides off without resistance. I’m half-expecting it to be Griffin, except the grip isn’t friendly. A hand covers my mouth and pulls me backwards so fast, I lose my footing. My heels drag for a few feet before I regain purchase.

  Panic floods through me, and I start protesting.

  Better late than never, Hadley.

  I flail, my elbow hitting something soft, and the grip on my mouth loosens for a split second.

  “Stop,” the voice orders.

  That’s not in my cards. I fight harder, going for the knees, the elbows. Get them to bend in unnatural ways. The eyes, the throat, the nose—all soft spaces.

  I close my eyes and throw my head backwards, and shock hits me when the crunch hits my ears. The grip on my mouth is light enough to rip free, and I do, scrambling away from the man and toward the canal.

  I burst out of the garage, gulping in the cool night air. I’m free for three, four strides, and then a body hits me from behind. We hit the ground hard, but I take most of the impact. I’m knocked breathless for a second, mouth gaping but unable to draw in air.

  He hauls me up, and I finally get a good look at him.

  Bald.

  Hooked nose, which is a little off center and gushing blood.

  Evil eyes.

  Air floods my lungs, and I start screaming. That’s why you’re supposed to do in an emergency—scream. Except, he clamps a hand over my nose and mouth, pulling me close.

  “I hate screamers,” he informs me. His accent is slight, but it sounds German. “Hadley, is it?”

  I blink at him, trying not to panic that I can’t breathe.

  He’ll let go, he’ll let go.

  “Bit of a nasty situation your boyfriend has found himself in,” he continues. “This isn’t personal, love.”

  I claw at his wrist while he smirks at me, and finally—finally—he says, “Promise to be quiet?”

  I nod against his hand, frantic.

  He drops his hand and I gasp, choking on air. He fully lets me go, which may or may not be dumb, because I could just try to run again. The canal is at my back, the apartments in front of me. I don’t think I could make it up the three flights of stairs to safety.

  So, in a way, I have nowhere to go.

  “Who are you?” I manage. If I live through this, at least I’ll have some useful information to share.

  He chuckles. “My name’s Patrick, love. We’ve been hunting the Angel of Death for quite some time now. He’s been lucky enough to stay undetected. Until recently, that is.”

  I shake my head. Second time in less than twenty-four hours that I’ve heard that name. It swirls around in my mind. Still, I say, “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Griffin Anders, born to Shirley and Mark Anders. The first died. The latter was an abusive shit. Foster care took him when he was a teen and brought him to the Weatherlys—your family—for four months. He then transitioned to the Wallace household, who raised him until he turned eighteen and joined the service. Sound familiar?” He recites these things like memorized facts, a list in his mind.

  I swallow.

  He laughs at my expression. “That’s only the beginning of his story. But I think that’s enough to prove that we know the same man.” He raises his eyebrows at me. “You seem like a smart girl. I just can’t figure out why you wouldn’t opt to get treatment.”

  I freeze. “Excuse me?”

  His laugh gets louder. “We didn’t travel all the way to New York to not do our homework.”

  I shiver, but I don’t say anything. I can’t.

  “Scared you speechless, did I?” He shakes his head. “My friends picked you up outside of your apartment and offered you a deal. The Angel pays for his crimes. You still on board with that, or do you need more convincing?”

  “What are you going to do to him?”

  Patrick shrugs. Patrick is such an unassuming name for such an evil man. There have been too many fantastical things happening lately, and the regularity of his name in such an irregular situation is just one of them.

  “Ain’t up to me, love.” He starts to walk backwards, whistling a little bit, before he pulls something out of his pocket. “You might want to call your mum,” he adds, throwing my phone to me. “She sounded a bit worried in the voicemails. Something about a car outside of her house at all hours…”

  12

  GRIFFIN

  She’s standing outside, staring at the water, and for a second I almost don’t recognize her. Her hair glints in the moonlight, but she looks small, like she’s sinking into the ground.

  I debate calling out, but something keeps me quiet. As I walk toward her, I realize she’s on the phone. Her voice floats toward me. “It’s for your protection,” she says. “No, it isn’t funny. Calm down—”

  Her mom, I have to guess. Her shoulders push back, and she slams her finger against the phone screen. She shoves it in her pocket and spins back toward the house. Toward me.

  She gasps, slipping on nothing, when she realizes I’m there.

  I reach out and grab her hand to steady her, but it has the opposite effect. It unsteadies me more than I want to admit. We both freeze, and it’s an odd experience to exist outside of ourselves for a moment. She’s just a girl, and for the first time in my life, I’m a regular guy.

  Her fingers tighten on my hand for a moment, and my heart cracks open.

  She blinks in the pale moonlight, clears her throat, and says, “You owe me an apology.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “You’re the one with an obvious aversion to a completely normal human emotion.” She frowns and tries to pull away from me, but I don’t let her go. “Hadley.”

  “I don’t have an obvious aversion. It’s quite subtle.”

  My thumb moves across the back of her hand. I like doing that because she shivers. Every. Time. “I kissed you, and you had a little meltdown about dying.”

  She looks away. “Because I am,” she mutters.

  “I can’t prove you wrong unless you let me,” I whisper. “I’m not saying you don’t have valid points, but they’re a little flawed.”

  Hadley finally stops trying to pull away from me. Give and take.

  “How?” she asks.

  I pull her back toward the house, watching out of the corner of my eye as she walks next to me. Part of me wants to scoop her up and carry her. The other part—the majority—is practicing restraint.

  We get into the garage and she tenses, looking around, before almost run
ning toward the door. “You okay?” I ask.

  “Fine,” she mutters. “How are they flawed?”

  I roll my shoulders back as we start up the stairs. I’ve never wished for this place to have an elevator more than I do now. “Hadley, are you okay?”

  “Peachy,” she says.

  We walk up the stairs in silence, and we pause twice before I lift her into my arms for the last flight. She doesn’t protest too much, just wraps her arm around my neck and puts her chin on my shoulder. She stares off behind me until we’re in my apartment.

  Once she’s on her feet again, she throws herself on the couch. I smile. “Thirsty?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Water?”

  “I can do that.”

  Ordinary, I tell myself. You can do ordinary.

  Carrying sick girls up flights of stairs, getting angry at them for not wanting to fall in love—those are normal, right? I’ve been waiting for this forever—although, like an idiot, I didn’t realize it until I was back in Bitterwood—but there’s a wall between us now. It comes up at the most inopportune moments.

  I pour both of us glasses of water and sit next to her on the couch. I exhale. “I’m not used to doing the normal thing,” I say. “Earlier? That’s my normal. I’m sorry I walked out.”

  “This isn’t normal for me, either. Abductions. Being in a foreign country. Guns and shit.”

  Guns and shit. I chuckle, but I sober quickly. “We’re both out of our comfort zones, which reminds me of your flawed points. You said that love will make me want to fix you.”

  Hadley blinks at me, and I shake my head.

  “I already want you to get better. It doesn’t take love to do that, it just takes a decent human being.”

  She looks out the window—pointedly away from me. “You know what I like to remember?” She continues without waiting for an answer, “You always knew when I was having the worst moments of my life. Even when you were gone, you still managed to come back and keep the bad guys away.”