Hitman's Desire: A Bad Boy Romance (5 page)

P
arker bursts through the door
. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, strolling into the living area. I’m fully dressed now. And I’m relatively certain that I look just as I did prior to my momentary indiscretion with Ryker. My hair is little more tousled. And my makeup certainly needs a touch up.

“I thought I heard screaming.” Parker eyes me suspiciously.

I let out a phony laugh. “The neighbors were going at it. I think they’re newlyweds.”

Parker’s eyes narrow. “Where’s the perp?”

“I think he’s in the bathroom.”

Parker nods. He’s holding a bottle of single malt scotch. “Room service brought this up. Listen, I’m kind of hungry.”

“Yeah, I’m about to order up some food.” I grab the menu from the couch and hand it to Parker. Ryker strolls out of the bedroom, flashing that devilish grin. He looks more than satisfied. “Order me the medallions of beef, topped with crab. Some sautéed mushrooms on the side.” He strolls to Parker and snatches the bottle from his hand. Then he ambles to the minibar and pours himself a glass.

He swigs it down and swirls it around in his mouth. “Ah, now that’s good scotch.”

“Can he do that? Will the Bureau pay for that?” Parker asks.

I shrug.

“I can. And they will,” Ryker says. “I’m valuable, buddy boy.” He taps his head. “What’s in here is priceless.”

Parker rolls his eyes. “Just order me a burger and fries. I’ll be outside if you need me.” Parker starts for the door, then he turns back. He mumbles, “Mills and Freeman are taking over at 6am. Am I on door duty all night?”

“Comes with the territory, Probational Agent Parker,” I say.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Parker strides for the door. It clicks shut behind him as he leaves, and I’m alone again with Ryker.

“No Mills and Freeman,” he says. “ Just you. And I’ll tolerate this Parker kid.”

“I can’t watch you around the clock.”

“I don’t trust anyone. I think you’ve got a mole in the Bureau.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Do you trust me?”

His face tightens, and his eyes survey me as he contemplates the question. “I fuck you.”

Ouch, that hurt. Not like we have anything more than physical. But the cold hard truth of it stings a little bit.

“Don’t get me wrong, I like fucking you.”

I breathe again. I don’t know why that makes me feel a little bit better, but it does.

“I think you like fucking me,” he says.

“Is that what you think?”

“And for that reason, I think you’re not going to bite the hand that feeds.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t even pretend this isn’t the best sex you’ve ever had.”

I burst into a fake laugh. “It’s not bad. But I’ve had better.” I’m such a liar.

“Well, then. Maybe I shouldn’t trust you.”

“No. You can trust me,” I say, sheepishly.

“Good. Because I might want to fuck you again.”

“Sorry. That was the last time.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

I scowl at him.

“Are you gonna order food, or what?”

I roll my eyes and pick up the phone. Room service answers, and I place our order.

Ryker pours himself another drink. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”

“You are enough to drive a woman to drink, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

I shake my head.

Ryker sits on the couch. “You know, I’d feel a lot better if I had a gun.”

“Not a chance.”

He shrugs.

“Relax. You’re safe. Nobody knows we’re here.”

T
here is
no such thing as safe. Especially in this business. And especially when I don’t have a gun. I’m starting to regret this deal. But if I’m out on the streets, everyone’s going to be gunning for me. Lord knows I’ve made a lot of enemies. I can handle enemies. But I can’t handle every member of the mafia all at once.

I’ve always stayed professional. Neutral. A contract is a contract, just like any other. Most people respect that. But there is an unwritten rule. You don’t take a contract on a family boss unless it’s sanctioned by the Commission and the other families. It’s like invading a foreign country and taking out a dictator. It leaves a power vacuum. Creates turmoil and uncertainty.

Even mobsters don’t like turmoil and uncertainty.

Over the years, I’ve managed to stay impartial. But mob guys don’t necessarily like freelancers. They want you to swear allegiance to them. I’ve never done that. Call me commitment phobic, though I do have my regular clients. I’ve worked for Big Nicky Capello more than any other boss. We get along, and he’s always been straight up with me. But I’ll never swear allegiance to any of these scumbags. Then they own you. And nobody owns me. Sure, there are perks that come with being committed to a certain family. But it’s not for me. I guess it’s like marriage. I’ll never settle down.

“Tell me the truth,” Scarlett asks. “Did you kill Vic Falco?”

Shit. Does this broad really think I’m going to open up to her, just because she’s got magic pussy? I make it a habit not to talk about my work.

“What were you doing before we met last night?” Scarlett asks.

“Just because we have great sex, doesn’t make us soulmates.”

She looks like I just punched her in the stomach. Chicks. Why do chicks always have to get attached? A few good strokes and boom… they want to talk
feelings
.

“I have no desire to be your soulmate. And don’t flatter yourself,” she says. “The sex is just okay. Not great.”

Ouch. The girl can punch back. “Liar.”

Her eyes narrow at me.

“I didn’t kill Falco. That would be suicide.”

“How do you explain the shell casing? The security camera footage?”

“I was visiting a friend in the building. The shell casing is a plant.”

“A friend? Who?”

Scarlett looks confused. She doesn’t know if I’m lying, or if I met another woman there. I can see all the options running through her mind. She’s wondering if I fucked some girl in Vic’s building, then fucked her later that night. Right now, I think she’s hoping I killed the guy. It makes me chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

“You.”

She scowls at me.

“Look, I’ll tell you everything once I have a signed deal in my hand. Till then, if we have to talk, let’s talk about anything but Vic Falco.”

“How did you get into this line of work?”

My face tightens.

“Hey, that’s not Vic Falco.”

I shrug. “Just fell into it, I guess.”

“People don’t just fall into becoming cold blooded killers.”

“You ever killed anyone?”

“No,” she stammers.

“It’s easier than you think. The first one stays with you a little longer. You never really forget your first. But they get easier after that. We’ve all got to die sometime. I’m just changing the date.” I smile.

She stares at me slack-jawed, looking pale.

“Don’t blame me. Blame the Army. They taught me how to kill.”

“You were in the Army?”

“Special Forces. I’m not really doing anything different now than I was then. Just the targets change.”

Scarlett’s green eyes gaze at me, trying to process the monster that I am.

“What about you?” I ask. “Why did a hot little number like you join the Bureau?”

“To put away dirtbags like you.”

“You seem to like dirtbags.”

Scarlett squints at me. “Apparently, I have horrible taste in men.”

I smile at her.

“My father was a cop. 32 years on the job.”

“So you followed in his footsteps?”

She nods.

“Did you ever want to be anything else?”

“All little girls want to be ballerinas. Or princesses. But I’m a little too clumsy to be a ballerina. I keep checking the employment section for princess openings, but they don’t ever seem to come up. Besides, putting away bad guys is steady work. It’s kind of recession proof.”

I chuckle. Smart, sexy, and a dry sense of humor. I like that. “Your dad still on the force?”

Scarlett grows quiet. Her face is sullen. “He’s dead. Gunned down in cold blood.”

My stomach sinks. “I’m sorry.” Then the blood drains from my face as I make the connection. Holy shit. What a coincidence. I don’t even need to ask his name. I should’ve put it together sooner. Her dad is Special Agent Tom Fox.

And I am the one who killed him.

She looks at me with murder in her eyes. “I’m going to get the son-of-a-bitch that killed him.”

“
A
ny leads on his murder
?” Ryker asks.

“Still unsolved. Case went cold.” I sigh. “Look, I really don’t want to talk about it right now.”

Ryker nods. His face is melancholy. And he seems genuinely compassionate. It’s a softer side of him I haven’t seen before.

I hear the card key enter the slot, and the door clicks open. Parker pushes through and holds the door open for room service.

The server pushes the cart in through the foyer. He’s a small Asian man, dressed in a tuxedo shirt and black vest, with a black bowtie.

“Smells good,” Parker says. He looks like he could eat a horse. He’s so preoccupied with getting that burger, he’s not paying attention to anything else.

I should be paying more attention too. But I don’t notice the discrepancy in the man’s uniform. His gold acetate nameplate reads:
Amir Ahmed
. Definitely not an Asian name. In a flash, the server pulls a 9mm from under a silver dish dome. The gun has a suppressor on the end of it. With lightning speed, he zips off two rounds into Agent Parker. I hear two dull thumps as the bullets impact Parker’s flesh. Crimson blood splatters and blooms over his shirt, like an ink stain.

Smoke wafts from the barrel. The smell of gunpowder fills the air. The server spins the angry black barrel around and points it straight at my chest. It all happens fast. Faster than I can draw my weapon from my shoulder holster.

I dive to the ground as two rounds streak toward me. I hear the bullets tear through the air, streaking past my ear.

I tumble and roll behind the couch. A flurry of stuffing and fabric explode into the air as the shooter peppers rounds in my direction.

Zip.

Zip.

Zip.

The glass coffee table shatters. Shards pelt me in the face. I swing my weapon around and take aim. But Ryker is sprinting toward the server. I can’t take a chance on hitting him.

The shooter whips his firearm toward Ryker. He’s about to squeeze off a round when Ryker grabs the shooter’s wrist, pushing it toward the the wall. Ryker twists his massive body to the side to clear the barrel. Several rounds blast into the sheetrock, spewing flakes of white gypsum.

Ryker grabs the barrel, pushing it around toward the shooter. He moves with textbook precision. The force snaps the shooter’s finger, caught in the trigger guard as it bends backwards. Ryker strips the weapon and fires two quick bursts into the shooter’s chest.

Blood splatters, and the Asian man tumbles to the floor. His chest makes a sucking, gurgling sound as his lungs fill with fluid. He bleeds out in a matter of moments.

Ryker searches the body and finds two extra magazines for the 9mm. The dead man isn’t carrying any ID. Ryker also finds two photos. He shoves them in his coat pocket and tucks the gun in his waistband. He puts the two extra magazines in his pockets.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Arming myself.”

“You can’t do that. Give me the weapon.”

“Take it from me,” he dares.

“This is a crime scene, and you’re removing evidence.”

“So?”

I shake my head. “Look, you acted in self-defense. Clearly justifiable homicide. Added to your laundry list of kills, I don’t think it will be a big deal. I’ll call Murphy and get backup here immediately.”

“No. You won’t. Your people were the only ones that knew we were here.”

Ryker strides to me and grabs my arm. He pulls me toward the door.

“Let go of me.”

His firm grip digs into my arm.

“We’re getting out of here,” he grumbles.

We stop in the foyer. I check Parker for any sign of a pulse, but he’s long gone.

Ryker peers into the hall. He spins into the corridor, weapon drawn. Both directions look clear. With my weapon ready, I follow behind him. Together, we clear the area and move toward the stairwell.

Ryker kicks the heavy door open. A metal switchback stair case spirals its way seven stories down. We both push into the stairwell like a tactical assault team. Ryker angles over the railing—the stairwell looks clear all the way down.

We plunge down the staircase. My heels clink on the metal steps, the sound echoing off the walls.

“Who was that guy?”

“Serpent Syndicate,” Ryker says.

“How do you know?”

“He’s got the tattoo.”

Suddenly, the door to level 5 bursts open. Ryker and I snap our weapons toward the motion.

A woman in her mid-40s shrieks with terror as she stares down the barrel of our firearms. “Please don’t hurt me. Take what you want,” she stammers.

Ryker and I both relax. I flash my badge. “FBI, ma’am.”

The woman exhales and takes a good look at Ryker. Her eyes gleam as she leers at his magnificent form. “Are you sure you don’t want to rob me? Take anything,” she flirts. “Anything at all. Just be gentle… Or not.”

I roll my eyes. “Take the elevator, ma’am.”

She backs out of the stairwell, and we continue our descent. When we reach the first floor, I crack open the door and peer into the lobby. It’s the usual traffic of people coming and going. A few people are standing in line at the checkout counter with rolling travel bags. There is a man on the couch, reading a paper and drinking a cup of coffee.

I spy an exit at the end of the hall that leads to an alley. Ryker and I conceal our weapons and spill out into the lobby. We head passed the concierge, down the hall to the exit. Then push through into the alley.

It’s dark and cold. A mercury vapor light overhead bathes the alley in an orange glow. Steam billows from an exhaust port. I check both directions. It looks clear. But dumpsters and stacks of trash make great hiding places. We keep our weapons ready, clearing the alley as we go. The smell of rotten garbage wafts from the dumpsters. We snake through a maze of alleyways and emerge on East 73rd Street. Ryker flags a cab and we slip inside.

“Where to?” the cabby asks.

“The Lexington Hotel on West 61st Street.”

“Look, I have got to let someone know what’s going on,” I say.

“No.”

“I can trust Murphy.”

“Can you?” he asks, skeptically.

“He was one of Dad’s good friends. You said yourself, the shooter was Serpent Syndicate.”

“So. He could have been freelancing for any number of individuals… or agencies.” Ryker pulls the two photos from his coat pocket—one picture is of him, and one is a picture of me.

Shit.

“Someone’s got a contract out on you too,” Ryker says.