CAUGHT: A Hitman Romance (12 page)

Mars

That bastard. I know he was aiming for me, but with his lack of experience and his terrible aim he could have shot anybody.

He could have shot
her
.

If I hadn’t seen him moments before he fired his pathetic shot, thus giving me a chance to push Nike out of his way, who knows what could have happened.

How could he be so stupid?

I curse myself for leaving the house without a weapon, something I haven’t done in years. It’s insane to go after an armed guy without having a gun on myself, let alone proper clothing. But I am furious with rage, fueled by anger and the fear of loss.

I could have lost her. For weeks, I was unable to make up my mind about what to do with her, how to deal with my only living witness. I thought I was indecisive and scared, but in reality I was waiting and hoping. Waiting for her to realize, and hoping for her to let it go. It’s almost a relief that she knows now, even though I have no idea how she found out, and her reaction doesn’t really make me believe that she could let it go just like that.

And now, on top of all things, he has to show up—with the intent to kill me. What a fucking loser.

I told Christian to stay out of this. I told him to live his life and leave me alone, which apparently he took to understand as an invitation to show up at my new home to kill me.

His shot was as bad as one would expect from a man like him. It’s nothing but a graze shot that hit my left side, hurting like a motherfucker but nothing that would take me down. I can still run, and the horror on Christian’s face as I make my way over to him speaks volumes. For whatever reason, he did not expect this. He actually thought he’d just shoot me down with that one pathetic attempt and that was that.

Well, think again, buddy.

He is paralyzed for a few moments, but instead of taking another shot at me, he goes for the most stupid option and turns around in an attempt to run away from me. I have no idea why he chooses to do that, but it puts me in a better position.

Even with the injury I manage to catch up with him surprisingly fast. It’s the second time this night that I have to catch someone who is fleeing from me, but unlike Nike, I don’t grab this idiot by the arm. He needs to be taken down and disarmed as soon as possible. If I were to pull him back at his upper arm like I did with Nike, he could just turn around and shoot me right in the face.

Instead, I tackle him by leaping forward, throwing my entire body weight on him and wrapping both arms around his neck. He chokes in surprise and falls down instantly. Even during that split second while we both fall down, I can smell the alcohol on him. He’s drunk, probably more than I am. The sex, the—albeit short—shower and the chase have sobered me up quite a bit. 

“You piece of shit,” I hiss as I pin him down, retrieving the gun from his hand with one quick move. It’s easier than expected, because he seems to surrender the moment I lay my hands on him.

I pull his arms back, crossing them over his back and keeping him in place with my legs and one hand while I point the gun at his temple with the other.

I groan in pain, but he hardly struggles. What a fucking loser. When I point the gun at his head, he squints his eyes shut, waiting for me to pull the trigger.

But I have no intention to kill this motherfucker. Not if I don’t absolutely have to.

No more killing. No more dead bodies haunting me. And especially not like this, close up, messy.

“What did I tell you?” I hiss in his ear, hovering over the poor bastard’s head. “What the fuck were you thinking, you useless piece of shit?”

“I’m scared,” he whines. “I’m scared, man. Everybody’s dead. You killed them, man! You were coming after me next, I just knew you would—”

“I told you I wouldn’t!” I interrupt him. “You fucking loser, I told you! You have to get your shit together and leave me the fuck alone!”

I nudge the gun against his forehead, enjoying the view of him flinching in fear.

“I should shoot you right now, you loser,” I whisper. “You know that right?”

He whimpers and starts sobbing.

So pathetic.

I love it. I cannot deny that I love this feeling of power over him. He is completely at my mercy, another idiot who was dumb enough to catch me on the wrong foot. I love the feeling of overpowering another man like this.

But I don’t love killing. It came easy to me, at least in the beginning, but I longer want this deed to be part of my life.

I hate Christian for putting me in this position. I hate the bastard so much.

“I should shoot you,” I repeat. “I should, and I could. But you know what, you little fuck?”

He doesn’t give me any kind of reply.

I let a few painful second pass before I continue to speak.

“I won’t,” I finally say.

He lets out a whimper of relief.

“I don’t want to kill you,” I continue. “I don’t fucking
want
to. Do you understand?”

He nods, as much as he can in his current situation.

“I’m done with that shit, Christian,” I say. “And I’m really fucking angry at you for not listening to me, not trusting my words. You should know better. If I wanted to kill you, you’d long be dead by now. Don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” he says, and finally dares to open his eyes.

“Don’t kill me,” he begs. “Please. I’m sorry. I should have listened!”

“Yes, you should have,” I agree. “And you’re lucky that I’m not a guy who holds grudges, because you know what makes me even angrier?”

He shakes his head no.

“That you aimed at me and my girl,” I say. “My girl! If you had killed her or even put the slightest scratch on her, I swear to God, you’d be dead by now!”

Christian looks at me, his eyes still watery and full of fear.

“Since when do you care for anybody,” he hisses.

I increase the pressure on his arms, causing him to groan in pain.

“That’s none of your business,” I say. “Just know this: If you ever bring her in a situation like this again, you’re dead. Instantly. No second chances then. If there’s even the slightest scratch on her, you’re gone. Understand?”

I bend his arms even further, and he whines.

“Okay, okay! Yes! I’m sorry,” he repeats in agony. “Please let me go.”

I stare at him for a few more moments, pondering whether this is a smart idea or not. He looks terrified and weak, like a beaten dog, even though I am the one with the injury. He probably has nothing more than a few faint scratches on his pale skin.

I loosen my grip, waiting for his reaction. He relaxes instantly and lets out a sigh of relief when I finally get back up on my feet. It is now that I am suddenly aware of the pain at my side. It fucking hurts and blood is running down my torso and my left leg.

Dammit, I might need medical attention with this shit.

I take a few steps back, keeping my eyes on Christian, who now slowly starts to get up himself. He is still in fear of me.

Good.

A faint gasp, very similar to the one I heard on the rooftop a few weeks back, is coming from behind me. It causes me to turn my eyes away from him, and when I turn around I see her standing there, barefoot, in her cute sexy dress and her hair wilder than ever. Nike stares at me in disbelief.

“Mars,” she says, before she darts forward. “Watch out!”

I react quickly, but not quick enough. Christian jumps at me from behind, knocking the damn gun out of my hand before he manages to tackle me in a similar fashion as I tackled him just a few minutes before.

We both fall to the ground, but this time he is on top of me, crying out with a wild shriek as he starts punching my face. Surprise got the better of me and when his first hit lands on my temple, I see stars and a dangerous darkness descending upon me.

Fuck! Nike!

I try to get a hold of his arms, but the guy is surprisingly strong, displaying a power that I never expected coming from him. Still, he is not a good fighter and has very little experience with a situation like this—a lot of his punches don’t land properly or hit nothing but air. Even this performance remains pathetic.

All of a sudden, he stops.

He freezes mid-motion, his face distorted in a grimace of pain and surprise, before his eyes roll back into his head and he collapses on top of me.

What the hell?

I am fighting unconsciousness, still processing the blows against my head and the pain at my side. It’s hard to focus, but as my vision sharpens, I see her standing there. The goddess of victory, wild hair and dark eyes looking down on us. My witness—and now, my accomplice.

Nike is standing there, holding the gun at the barrel, breathing heavily.

She is smiling.

Mars

It’s bright, so fucking bright. I barely manage to open my eyes, the light that hits me is blinding.

Squinting, I try to find my bearings. The blinding brightness and the unfamiliar environment make it hard to comprehend my situation.

Where the fuck am I? This can hardly be heaven.

Of course, it’s not, but there is an angel sitting next to me. Wild, light brown hair surrounds her pale and heart shaped face. Her dark eyes are on me and a faint smile graces her face when I look at her.

I lay in what appears to be a hospital bed. White and light green everywhere, stiff and clean sheet hugging my tortured body, a machine beeping next to me, and IV in my right arm.

“What the…,” I say, but my voice is hoarse and barely audible.

Nike jumps up from her chair and reaches over to a table next to the bed. Moments later, I am presented with a glass of water with a straw in it.

“Drink,” she says. “The doctor said your throat would be dry when you wake up.”

I furl my eyebrows. I don’t like this.

“I’m not dead,” I try to protest, but she just moves the straw closer to my mouth and beckons me to drink.

“I know,” she says. “That’s why you have to drink.”

I give in and take a few sips from the straw, like a fucking baby. But she’s right, my throat is dry and I feel instantly better after finishing the entire glass.

“Better?” she wants to know as she puts the glass away.

I nod reluctantly. “Thank you.”

Nike smiles and sits back down. She is wearing jeans and a dark sweater that compliments her slim frame. Very casual. I don’t think I have ever seen her in clothes like this. Her make-up is less obvious, too. She always looked so different for the dates we’ve had, so dolled up, dressed nice and fancy and painted like an actress. Now she just looks like… herself.

Fucking beautiful.

“You look better,” she says, as if she heard what I was thinking. “Finally getting some color in your cheeks.”

“Don’t talk about me as if I’m a baby,” I complain. “What happened? Why am I here?”

She tilts her head back

“You don’t remember?” she asks. “You passed out.”

Oh, I do. I remember her running away from me, because she somehow figured out that I was the guy who she saw shooting another guy a few weeks ago. And I remember catching her, and almost losing her when that idiot Christian showed up and decided to take a shot at me, at us. I remember chasing after him, I remember tackling him, I remember getting back up, and…

That last part of the story just hits me.

“You knocked him out,” I say, the amazement apparent in my voice.

Nike smiles and nods.

“Yes, I did,” she says with pride. “He was attacking you, and you were already wounded! I took his gun and hit him with the barrel, because I didn’t dare to shoot.”

“You didn’t dare, huh,” I say.

She nods, now looking at me with a serious face. “I have never shot a gun in my life before, Mars.”

She clears her voice and checks the door behind herself, before she continues to speak.

“But I know you have,” she adds, now whispering. “I know you killed a guy. Many even. You know I saw you that night—”

“I know,” I interrupt her.

I look at her, mirroring her serious expression. “I have known from the beginning, Nike.”

She inhales audibly, clearly stressed now.

“I didn’t tell anybody,” she assures. “No one. Not even Amanda.”

“I know you didn’t,” I say.

“No, I mean, even now,” she adds. “Even after what happened last night. I didn’t tell anybody anything.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“But you must have called an ambulance,” I say. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

She nods.

“I did,” she says. “And the police, I called them, too.”

My heart stops for a moment. She called the cops?!

“What the fuck were you th—”

“Don’t worry,” she interrupts me, raising her hand to beckon me to stop speaking. “I told you, I didn’t tell them anything.”

“But what did you tell them?” I ask. I’m worried out of my mind. If the was police was there, that means they have Christian—and with the state he was in that night, I can be certain that he talked.

“It was easy, really,” she says, shrugging. “Self-defense. He shot at us first—with a gun that he owns illegally, by the way—and when you tried to confront him, he attacked you and I knocked him out so he would let go of you.”

“Where is he?” I want to know.

“In the hospital as well, but under strict watch,” she says. “That was quite a blow to his head. He has a concussion. They are waiting for him to get better until they can arrest him.”

“Arrest him?” I repeat. “He’ll talk. He’ll talk for sure.”

Our eyes meet, and a cold shiver runs down my spine when Nike nods.

“He already did talk,” she says. “But he was uttering nonsense for all they care. He said things about you being a mobster and a threat to him, and me, and… well, everybody.”

She pauses and looks at me in anticipation.

What am I supposed to say to that? I don’t want to lie to her, and I am sure she knows that most of what Christian said is true anyway.

“They didn’t believe him,” she continues. “Because he was drunk and confused.”

“Do you believe him?” I ask.

Nike swallows hard and looks at me with hurt, dark eyes.

“I may have been unaware all this time,” she says. “But I’m not stupid, Mars. I told you: I know.”

“Yes, you did,” I admit. “But—”

“Tell me,” she interrupts. “Tell me who you are.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Just what I said,” she retorts. “Tell me who you are. I know I cannot trust your words from before. You’re not just a stockbroker, a good and innocent man who uses his money to act as a patron for charity projects.”

I chuckle.

“Well, I try to be. I want to be,” I say. “A good man.”

She nods. “Okay. But I still want to hear your story. Full disclosure.”

What choice do I have? She already knows too much. My hands are tied—and so is my heart. It’s better for her to know all of it instead of relying on the superficial knowledge she has now.

And it’s best if she hears it from me.

So I tell her. All of it. About my deadbeat father, my careless mother, about Joseph and his guys, about my talent and about me working my way out of a terrible situation by doing terrible things. I tell her about the mob and my relationship to it, and I tell her about Joseph’s death and my plan to leave this life and what I had to do to get out.

“What you witnessed was my last hit,” I finish my tale. “The last guy I had to eradicate to be free.”

“Mhm,” she mumbles.

“You don’t believe me?”

She makes me wait for a few painful moments before she shakes her head.

“I do believe you. I want to,” she says. “I heard you talking to him. I heard what you said about being done with it, about not wanting to kill ‘anymore’ and about not wanting to kill him.”

She pauses for a moment and gathers herself.

“And I heard what you said about me,” she says. “About not wanting me to get hurt…”

She looks down in her lap where she is playing with her fingers nervously.

“Well,” I say. “He shot at us. He has terrible aim. He could have killed you.”

“Yeah, but,” she says, choking. “Wouldn’t that have made things easier for you?”

Her voice breaks and her eyes are tearing up, while she tries to suppress the urge to cry.

“I mean,” she utters. “I saw you. I know. I am a reliable witness. I could talk. It’s why you stuck around, no? To make sure you know what I am up to, what I am thinking and doing—and to kill me if I turned out to be a danger to you.”

“Why haven’t you?” I ask.

“Huh?”

“Why haven’t you talked?” I clarify. “You had plenty of time—and a perfect chance last night, to come clean. Tell the police everything. Help them solve that mobster murder. Get me arrested. Be safe from me.”

She shakes her head.

“I couldn’t,” she says. “I was too shocked, confused… I didn’t know what to tell them.”

“Now you do,” I interject. “You know who did it. You knew last night. Why didn’t you tell them?”

She looks up, tears are streaming down her beautiful cheeks, and I hate that I am the reason for them.

“I wanted to talk to you first,” she says. “I wanted to hear it from you.”

“Well, now you have,” I say, sounding harsher than I intended. “Yes, I did it. I killed that guy. He was a terrible man, working for the mob his entire life. He killed dozens of people, just like everybody else on my list. I worked as a hitman for them. That’s how I got my money in the first place, that’s how I was able to gather enough to invest and become even richer.”

“And get out,” she says. “You said you were done with it? You wanted to get out.”

“Yes, I did. I still do,” I agree. “I told you, that guy, the night you saw me. He was the last on my list, the last guy I had to get rid of before I could leave and forever be done with it.”

“And that Christian guy?” she asks. “How come you didn’t want to kill him?”

“Because I thought he was harmless,” I reply. “He is, really. He was roped into it even more than I was. I never expected him to freak out like this.”

“And… me?” she asks next. “How come you didn’t kill me?”

I look at her. She has stopped crying and meets my eyes with a serene preparedness.

“I wanted to,” I admit. “But I couldn’t.”

“Why?” she wants to know.

I growl. Is she really making me say it now?

“You messed up that plan,” I say.

“Oh, yeah?” she asks, now tilting her head to the side with amusement. “How?”

“By being you,” I say. It comes out more angry than sweet.

But Nike nods.

“So, you have no intention of killing me anymore?” she wants to know.

I shake my head. “No, that would mean I’d lose you. And if you heard what I said to Christian, you know that’s something I don’t want.”

I look at her. “I want you. I want you in my life. Close.”

Her face is unreadable, pale, with dried up tears that messed up her subtle makeup.

“I want that, too,” she whispers. “That’s why I didn’t tell them. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You are insane,” I say.

“Maybe,” she agrees. “But so are you.”

She gets up from her chair and fills the glass with some more water.

“Besides,” she says as she brings the straw close to my mouth again. “It was kind of satisfying. Knocking that guy out. I felt so strong and powerful. Like a lioness.”

I chuckle and almost choke on the water.

“There will be no more of that, though,” I say after she retrieved the straw. “No more violence. No more shootings.”

She shrugs. “Yes, I think I’d prefer that, too.”

“However, Christian might repeat what he said,” I argue. “He will say it again and again, sober and well aware. They will start to believe him then.”

“Maybe,” she admits. “But if what you told me is true—wouldn’t he get himself in trouble as well? I mean, how does he know about all that mobster stuff, if he wasn’t involved in it himself? They would get him for that, too. Years and years of helping those guys to hide in his place? He helped to cover up tons of crimes. Murders, too! He’d be in a lot more trouble then. If he just sticks to this one argument with you, saying that he snapped under the influence, he could get away easy.”

She may be right about that. I just wonder if Christian sees it the same way. It’s not like his recent behavior suggests that he can deal with these things reasonably.

“I have to go,” Nike announces. She puts the glass back on the table. “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”