CAUGHT: A Hitman Romance (11 page)

Soon, way too soon I can feel her muscles clenching around, as she rolls her eyes and her head falls back into her neck while she reaches her climax.

She is too beautiful, too fucking sexy. I have no choice but to follow her.

Nike

I watch in horror as he walks away from me.

Whistling.

It’s just a few notes, a very short, melancholic melody. A sweet song, actually.

A sweet song—if it weren’t for the memory that is attached to it.

Weeks have passed and I have put all my strength and effort into forgetting about that dreadful night. I have cast it aside like a bad dream, a nightmare that kept haunting me until I finally managed to lock it away. A big, heavy door is keeping that part of my mind sealed from everything else.

And now he has opened that door, giving way to a dreadful realization.

I am still sitting on the kitchen counter, with my bare behind touching the cold marble beneath. My legs are still shivering from the intense orgasm I just had a few moments ago and I am feeling dizzy.

He gave me a kiss and turned around, asking whether I want to join him in the shower before we go to bed—and then he walked away, whistling that melody.

I am actually amazed at myself for recognizing it immediately. After all, I have only heard it once, outside, on a rooftop, muffled by wind and from quite a distance.

But I am sure this is it.

For a brief moment he was whistling that same song the murderer sang that night on the rooftop.

It could be a coincidence, it could mean nothing. Maybe it’s just a song that many people know and whistle when they are lost in thought. It could be nothing but a fluke, a cruel trick the universe is playing on me to taunt me.

Or it’s that damn alcohol. Am I imagining things? Am I this drunk, still?

No. It’s not a fluke and it’s not imagination. Something tells me that it’s not.

It is the same song, whistled by the same man.

The man who is walking away on shaky legs, with his beautiful back turned to me as he heads for the bathroom. The man who just fucked me, like he has many times before.

The man I was about to fall in love with.

He is not whistling anymore, as if he just realized his mistake.

If it even was a mistake.

He may not remember that he whistled the exact same song on that night when he killed a guy. He may not be aware of what he is doing.

Or he might be doing it on purpose.

He stops walking just before he reaches the door to the bathroom in the open hallway and turns around to me. His eyes meet mine and I desperately hope that he does not see the shock written all over my face.

For a few painful moments, he just looks at me with an unreadable expression before he asks: “Are you coming?”

I nod. “Yes, I’ll be there in a minute. You… go ahead.”

He raises his eyebrows with confusion but turns around and disappears through the bathroom door.

I can hear my own heart beat pounding against the inside of my head.

This puts so many other things into place. It may have been a scary coincidence that I decided to approach him that night, but if he really is who I think he is, his weird behavior at our first meeting finally makes sense.

He thought I was playing a game, he got so intense and scary, because he thought I knew who he was. He thought I was going to confront him with what had happened just a few days prior to that encounter.

He wore a scarf over his face the night I witnessed him shoot that guy. If anything, I could have recognized him by his eyes, but it was too dark to even see what color they were. It was too dark to recognize anything particular about him, and everything went so fast.

It is one of many reasons why I never went to the police. I knew I couldn’t tell them anything useful, and I was afraid that all it would do was draw attention to myself.

What a twisted irony that he had to be at that fundraiser, looking like a fucking god. A god named Mars.

I always felt as if he knew something, as if there was a reason for his digging, his excessive interest in my thoughts right from the beginning.

He was trying to make me talk, to see whether I talk about this incident at all. That’s why he asked about my secrets so early on. It was unnatural, I should have known.

What if I had mentioned it? Would he have killed me right then and there?

Come to think of it, why hasn’t he killed me yet?

And what was with that talk about me getting inspiration for my own thriller novel? Is this what he was hinting at?

I have no answer to all those questions, but I decide that I’m not going to stick around to find out. I have to get out of here, and I have to be quick, because he is going to wonder where I am very soon.

I jump down from the kitchen counter and quickly fix my clothes, before I grab my little purse and head for the door as quickly as possible without making too much noise. My shoes are the only things that I will leave behind, because I wouldn’t be able to run in them anyway.

My heart beat is out of control and I force myself to keep my breathing as calm as possible when I pass the bathroom door behind which I can hear him showering.

He is waiting for me to hop in and join him. Who knows what else he had planned for the night? Maybe he was just being extra nice and extra fun tonight, because he was planning to kill me?

Was he trying to get me liquored up so the job would be easier?

The water stops running.

I inhale audibly and decide that I should be spending less time on thinking and more time running.

I dart forward and reach for the door, which luckily he kept unlocked. Just as I flee outside into the hallway, I can hear his voice behind me.

“Nike?”

I don’t bother closing the door behind me and start running. I have outrun him and his bullets before, I am sure I can do it again. All I have to do is to find the next police station—or anyone outside on the street who could lead me to one.

I don’t risk waiting for the elevator and make my way down the stairs instead. It’s the first time that I have taken the stairs in this building and I have to realize that running barefoot in pantyhose on sparkling new tiles is a dangerous thing to do. I am in danger of slipping and falling down the stairs many times, as my foot loses grip on the floor and am hanging on to the staircase for dear life.

I am almost downstairs, just reaching the second floor, when I can hear his voice upstairs. He yells my name again. Just once.

Then, I can hear him running down the stairs.

Nike

Hearing his steps behind me gives me another push, and I almost fall down the remaining stairs as I speed up and lose my grip on the floor once again.

A strong sense of relief takes a hold of me when I finally reach the door on the ground floor. I fall on to the handle and yank on it as hard as possible to open it.

The door doesn’t move.

“Fuck!”

I throw myself against the door, expecting it to open to the outside.

But it still doesn’t move.

I panic.

Why does this fucking door not open?

I try the handle again, using so much strength that I am starting to sweat while I alternate between pulling on the door and throwing my body against it. However, neither shows any effect. The door stays put, not moving an inch or even giving me a clue as to what might be the right way to open it.

My pulse is running wild and tears join the sweat on my face. I take a step back and lift my arms to push the unkempt hair back that has started to stick to my face.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I hiss helplessly.

I turn around to see if there’s any other way out. Meanwhile, his chasing steps are coming dangerously close.

I could cry out for help, I probably should. Some of his neighbors might hear me and open their doors. But a lump in my throat prevents me from making even the slightest noise with my voice.

I try to calm myself and close my eyes for a few seconds to breathe. In and out, quick but deep and deliberate.

Calm down. Calm down.

When I open my eyes, I quickly realize that this is exactly what I needed. There is a little hook at the side of the door, slightly above the doorknob, that I haven’t noticed before. I was too busy with panicking to see that there is this little extra lock at the side. I lift it up with my index finger and try the door again, pulling first, pushing next.

The door swings open to the outside and I jump out on the street just as his steps reach the ground floor behind me. If I had my running shoes on, I wouldn’t have the slightest doubt that I could get away from him, but seeing as it is and I am only in my pantyhose, I find myself praying for my life as I dart out on the street, escaping his grip by just a few inches.

“Nike!” I hear him behind me. It’s the first time that I hear his voice since he started chasing after me.

I don’t waste time on looking back at him but start running as fast as I possibly can without my shoes on. He is close, very close, I know it.

I can hear him panting behind me. This is all so fucking hopeless. Once again, there are no people on the streets who could help me. I don’t encounter a single soul and am losing hope with every single step I take. I may be a fast runner, but he is still a man, a fit man who—I am sure—does quite a lot of running himself. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t gotten a hold of me yet.

All my panicking and stressing has messed up my breathing, so that I cannot help but start to hyperventilate. It slows down my running tremendously and I am beginning to lose energy a lot sooner than I usually would.

I felt as if I was gaining some distance on him for a few moments there, but now his panting and his wide and strong steps are getting closer. The sound his feet produce on the sidewalk suggests that he is barefoot as well. That shouldn’t surprise me, because he just stepped out of the shower.

I cannot help but wonder whether he is wearing any clothes. A part of me wants to turn around, to check if he is following me naked. The thought would make me laugh, if the situation was any different, if I wasn’t running for my life right now. I scold myself for even occupying my mind with these silly thoughts. Who cares if he kills me naked or with clothes on?

I shriek in surprise when I can feel the tips of his fingers on my back, scratching my side as he tries to grab me. He is not yet close enough to catch me and his unsuccessful attempt costs him valuable speed, which I use to accelerate my own pace.

But I am so exhausted, so terribly exhausted. I gasp for air, desperate to fill my lungs, but my efforts are futile. Once again, it’s not my legs but my lungs that betray me. My legs appear to move on their own will, still moving in wide and fast leaps that could be called effortless if it wasn’t for my missing breath and energy.

Needless to say, his second attempt at grabbing me is successful. He gets a hold of my left arm, his hand fastening around my wrist as he pulls me to stop.

“No! No! Nooo!” I cry out.

The desperation is apparent in my shrill voice and tears blur my vision as I realize that this might be it. This might be my death sentence.

There is no one around, not a single person who could help me, no one who could hear me scream, not a single car driving by. He could just silence me here and now, breaking my neck with a quick twist before I even get to—

“Nike!” he yells at me, tightening his grip around my arm and pulling me close.

I struggle in his tight grip, but the more I do, the firmer his grasp gets. I am suffocated with fear, unable to yell for help. He pulls me close, twisting my arm on my back, thus immobilizing me before he puts his other hand above my mouth from behind.

Of course, now I find the will to scream, but the sound is muffled by his hand.

“Nike, calm down!” he urges, tightening his grip so much it hurts. I whine and whimper, trying to get out of his grasp, but it’s hopeless. I am completely at his mercy, and this time I don’t enjoy it one bit.

“Calm down,” he repeats, his mouth close to my ear. “Calm down and promise me not to scream and I will let you speak. Understand?”

His voice is harsh and deep, threatening. He could kill me right now. I know he could. That’s what they do in the movies, just a quick grab around the head, a sudden and rapid movement and the neck is broken.

Or maybe he took a knife with him. He could stab me, too. Any moment now.

I close my eyes, waiting for either of the two happening, but nothing of the sort follows. Instead, I find myself inhaling his delicious scent and enjoying the touch of his bare skin on me. It is so familiar, so comforting. This murderer’s presence is still soothing me, even now. I wouldn’t want anyone else to hold me the way he does right now.

Fuck. How messed up is this?

“Nike?” He asks again. “Nod if you hear me.”

I do. I nod within his scary embrace.

“Promise me you’ll be good,” he repeats. “And I will let go of your mouth, understand?”

I don’t react. He gives me a few more seconds to give him an answer, but I remain quiet and motionless.

“I need to know what is going on,” he says. “What the fuck is this about? Why the hell did you run away from me like this? Why are you scared of me?”

Is he fucking kidding me? He knows damn well. He should know. Is he playing dumb with me right now?

“I know,” I try to say, but it comes out all suppressed and incomprehensible.

Finally, he removes his hand from my mouth, and instead of screaming for help, I repeat my words.

“I know.”

My voice is faint, nothing more than a whisper.

He stiffens behind me, but his grasp around me loosens.

I could try to get away, I should. But instead I freeze, waiting for a reaction from him.

He doesn’t do or say anything, just keeps standing there behind me, still breathing heavily from our chase. His upper body is naked, I can feel his buff chest pressing against my skin, because my dress has a deep back neckline.

I love his body, his skin, his scent, his eyes, the way he looks at me, the way he claims and challenges me. But his deep interest in me wasn’t sincere, I know that now. He just wanted to interrogate me, make sure that I am under his control, and he might decide to silence me at any time now.

Tears are streaming down my face. Tears of sorrow, disappointment and utter fear.

“I know,” I repeat. “I know.”

“Know what?” he asks, but the tone of his voice reveals that he knows the answer to his question.

“Don’t make me say it,” I whisper.

“You have to say it,” he urges, still whispering. “Otherwise I cannot know what you’re talking about, Nike.”

The way he says my name is so gentle and sweet. It tears me apart. How can he do this to me?

“On the rooftop,” I whisper. “It was you.”

Silence.

We freeze and stand motionless like a joint statue. A statue of lovers, one might think. There must be something comical about us to anyone who’d walk past us right now, considering that he is half naked and I am in an evening dress without shoes.

“You are going to kill me,” I say, suppressing the urge to cry. It’s not a question, but a statement.

“Nike,” he breathes.

Everything that follows happens too fast for comprehension. Mars is about to let go of me and turn me around, but just as he distances himself from me, I hear him yell something that I don’t understand and I am pushed to the floor, accompanied by a loud bang.

The sound of a shot being fired.

I let out a shriek, more of surprise than pain, when I hit the ground.

A shot. He brought a gun and shot me.

Why does it not hurt?

There is no pain anywhere but on my knees and hands as I try to cushion the blow of me falling down on the sidewalk. Mars is still behind me. I hear him growl and stumble behind my back. Just as I want to turn around to look at him, he runs right past me, darting across the empty street into the darkness.

Just as I suspected, he is wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants that he must have fetched before coming after me.

And he is leaving a trail of blood behind.