Driven to the Edge: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance (4 page)

T
he second I
tell her which highway we’re getting on, I see the real fear rise up in her eyes. And I can’t blame her, really. She probably thinks I’m taking her out into the desert to execute her and leave her in a ditch somewhere.

It’s not her fault the evidence on Martinsen’s phone points toward Las Vegas.

Lucky for the other idiots on my Los Angeles list, my priorities have shifted. All that matters is getting Eloise back. I can come back for those assholes any day.

Flipping through Martinsen’s emails, I found confirmation of a flight booking: Long Beach to Las Vegas, two adults and a child. It could have been nothing, but the itinerary was booked by one of Martinsen’s goons, not the man himself.

Why would some employee forward the head honcho his flight details if he wasn’t flying with someone important? The names on the itinerary mean nothing to me, but the little girl is listed as ‘Sally,’ which is about as fake name as you can get.

If that wasn’t enough to confirm my suspicions, Martinsen had a text on his phone confirming a delivery in Vegas on that same day. Highly unlikely that they decided to move guns or product on a flight from Long Beach Airport when ground transport was so much more secure.

It all has to be about Eloise. I don’t know what they plan to do with her. Shit, maybe they don’t either. But I’m not going to give them a chance.

I don’t get much time alone with my thoughts, however. Alicia is real scared now. She starts begging as soon as we pull onto the interstate.

“Listen, I’ve done everything you asked...”

“Yes, you have.”

I decide to let her stay scared for a while. I’m not going to kill her--not if I can avoid it. I don’t know why I saved her in the first place, but she isn’t a part of this. Senseless murder has never been my M.O.

She thinks I can’t tell, but she keeps looking over toward the glove box. There must be a weapon or maybe another phone in there, something she thinks will help her. It’s a shame she’s decided to be such a pain in the ass about this; otherwise I’d admire her ingenuity.

Before the I-15 interchange, I tell her to pull over and gas up the Maybach. These armored bastards take the term gas guzzler to new heights. We really do need gas, but it’s also time to put her dreams of rescue to rest.

“Pop the gas cap open for me,” I tell her as she eases the Maybach up alongside a pump. “Same rules apply as last time. There’s at least two people working here, however many customers. They’re all dead if you so much as blink wrong.”

She nods several times, auburn hair bouncing about her chin with the force of it.
I’ll be good,
her eyes tell me.

I’m used to being obeyed.

Before I open up the door, I pop the glove box and look inside. There’s a smartphone in a turquoise case nestled in amongst all the paperwork. I grab it and pocket it on my way outside.

As I close the car door, I see that resignation creep back into her eyes. She thought she had me fooled. Now she’s back against the ropes.

I fill the car’s tank without incident, then stroll into the convenience store. I’m dressed a little out of its league, but hey, these things happen in the big city. I ask to use the bathroom, then detour into the ladies’ room and drop Alicia’s phone down a toilet. Even if someone finds it, who cares. It’ll be fried and there’s four separate highways within a mile of here. Good luck guessing which one we took.

On my way out, I buy some bottled water and trail mix and granola bars. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us. And despite what Alicia may think, I’m not some monster.

Once we’re on the open highway, the faint background tension that had been lingering in my chest dissipates.

We got out. Or rather, I got out.

See, I’m aware I’m not perfect. I know that given enough time, someone will turn up some material evidence linking me to Martinsen’s murder and the fire in La Jolla. My only hope is that Eloise is safe by then. Because I don’t intend to go down easy. And I certainly won’t go down until I’ve got her in the hands of someone who can take care of her.

That list of people is tiny, though.

In fact, it’s just Vin, who I’ve known since my pawn shop days, working the counter at a shitty cash-for-gold in North Vegas.

I pull my wallet out of my pocket and flip it open. Inside, there’s a photo: a dark-haired man, skinnier than me, his cheekbones prominent, eyes a little sunken. There’s a sandy-haired little girl sitting on his knee, fidgeting, not looking at the camera. He’s looking down at her and smiling like she’s the only thing in his life that can bring joy to his eyes.

There’s too much at stake for me to fuck this up.

By the time I fold the wallet away, I notice Alicia has been watching me. She’s got one eye on the road of course, but she’s also eyeballing me sidelong, as if she’s trying to figure me out.

Good luck with that, girl.

It’s a shame our relationship had to get off on the foot that it did. In another life, if I weren’t set down a path that ends at an inevitable crash and burn, I could see her taking me up on that offer I gave her earlier. Back at the hotel bar, a couple drinks, a cozy table off to the side somewhere.

I’d ask her why she was daydreaming in the airport. I’m sure I could get her to tell me eventually.

She’d have given in.

And then, instead of zip-tying her to my steering wheel, maybe I would have pinned her lithe little body up against the headboard in my hotel room, kissing my way down the skin of her neck, finding out what lies beneath that chic little sheath dress she wears.

Yeah. In another life.

For now, I’ve got a job to do. And it means taking this car all the way to Las Vegas.

I settle down into my seat and pop a bottle of water open. We’re going to be driving for a bit.

A
fter an hour
and a half of staring straight ahead at the fine grey ribbon of the interstate, I’ve got a plan. Or at least as close to a plan as I’m going to get now that the bastard holding me hostage got rid of my backup phone.

“Hey,” I say, cautious. I’ve got to remain respectful. Deferential.

“Hm?”

He looks up and over toward me like my presence in the car is an afterthought. Like he barely cares.

“I’ve got to use the bathroom.”

I try to force some awkwardness into my voice, make it sound more like an admission than a calculated ploy.

“That sign up there said this next exit has the last bathroom for forty miles.”

A heavy sigh escapes him. I hold my breath, awaiting his reply.

“And I suppose you just can’t hold it?” he asks with a note of sarcasm.

“I’ve been holding it for the last two hours,” I snipe back. And hey, that part is even true.

He takes a moment to decide. I can’t breathe the entire time he’s deliberating.

“Fine,” he eventually says. I pull the Maybach off the interstate toward the public rest stop advertised. It’s little more than a brick shack off in the desert.

To my dismay, it’s empty. I was hoping there’d be someone,
anyone
else there. Someone I could alert in secret. A trucker, a tourist family, anybody.

Instead, we’re the only car in sight. I hold back a curse and pull into a spot up against the side of the building.

“Do I need to go in there with you?” Jake asks. He’s got those heavy, serious eyes on me again. He’s weighing everything I say and do for a sign. Am I trustworthy, or am I going to try to escape?

I’ve never met a man with eyes quite like his. He looks at me like he’s already got me all figured out.

“No,” I say. “You don’t.”

I hope against the odds that the lie doesn’t show in my face or voice.

“Very well,” he says. He slips a knife from his boot, which causes me to tense up all over. I flinch away from him as he leans forward, but all he does is slip the blade under the zip-tie that binds my hand to the wheel. He cuts the plastic away with a gentle
snick
of the blade, leaving my poor abused wrist free.

I rub at the skin and find myself mumbling a quiet thank-you. Like he’d just done me a fucking favor.

As Jake pulls his hand away, he glides a thumb along the inside of my wrist, examining the red patches rubbed into it.

“You really don’t need to struggle,” he says, the rough pad of his thumb pressing into my pulse point. It sends a shudder through my entire body. I clench my teeth to avoid spitting in his face.

Something occurs to me: he sure seems interested in touching me. Is it possible the flirty facade he’d put on earlier wasn’t an act?

That could be something I could use to my advantage. As an absolute last resort.

I bite my tongue until he leaves me alone. Then I stagger out the driver’s side door and into the hot desert sun.

The sunlight beats down on my hair and face, surprisingly warm after the air-conditioned interior of the Maybach. My legs feel like they’ve fallen asleep, weak with a combination of disuse and nerves. I stumble my way into the women’s bathroom wondering if I’m going to puke.

But rather than heading for a toilet, I search the walls for a window.

If I can wriggle out the window and out the back of the building, maybe he’ll just leave me out here.

It’s a risk. I know how dangerous it is. But facing the desert alone and potentially dying of exposure sounds better than leaving myself in the hands of a murderer.

There’s a small window in the rear of the bathrooms. If I climb up onto one of the sinks, I should be able to reach it. Especially given the extra boost my heels give me. Wary of climbing onto the slippery porcelain in my pumps, I ease myself up carefully, grabbing the frame of the window for balance.

I open up the frosted glass pane and push it outward. The gap is narrow, but I should be able to fit through it. And the drop’s not that far, hopefully onto soft sand below.

With slow, deliberate care, I begin the process of wiggling through the window and out to freedom. By the time I drop through and onto the sandy ground below, my heart is racing a million miles a minute.

Apart from an electrical box and some solar panels, there’s nothing out back that could be of use to me. I contemplate carving an SOS into the wall or something, just in case I stumble out into the desert and die of exposure, but even in my worst nightmares I’m not that melodramatic.

Out a few meters into the wilds, there’s a drift of tangled bush and boulders. It’s too close for my liking, but the desert is flat and I’ve got to take what I can get.

I’ll hide out there until someone else shows up,
I think.
He sounds like he’s on a timetable, for whatever business he needs to get to. Maybe if I divert him too long he’ll just leave.

It’s as shaky as a plan can be. But it’s all I’ve got.

I make it two steps before something grabs me from behind, dragging me down into the dirt.

Crying out in both surprise and pain, I fall to my knees on the sandy ground. A hand winds through my hair and yanks my head up. I already know who it is before I even look up, before I see his thick, broad silhouette backlit by the desert sun. My mouth goes dry.

He’s probably going to kill me now.

He could bury me out here and nobody would ever know.

I flinch, anticipating the blow. Expecting it.

“Why?” he asks instead. His face is shadowed, backlit as it is, and it bothers me that I can’t read his eyes.

“W-what do you mean why?”

I shrink back down into the sand. If I’d actually had to pee, I probably would have pissed myself by now.

“I keep promising that I won’t hurt you as long as you behave. You keep not behaving. You are making this so difficult that I’d almost prefer to just put a bullet in your head and leave you be.”

Defiantly, I jut my chin up toward him, setting my teeth on edge.

“So do it then! That’s why you drove me out here, isn’t it? You’re done pretending to be the client you told us you were, so you don’t need me for your act anymore.”

The words bubble out of me in anger before I have a chance to think. My heart pounding, my pulse rushing in my ears, I try to calm the trembles running through my body. I can’t believe I just dared a man to shoot me.

What’s wrong with me?

Jake gives my hair a jerk, holding tight to it.

“If you weren’t useful to me, I’d have let you fall in that stairwell and brain yourself.”

He’s quieter now, though. Like he’s thinking. Maybe that’s a good thing.

Loosening his grip on my hair somewhat, he trails his fingertips down, brushing the backs of his knuckles against my cheek. Even in that brief touch, I can feel the raw power in his hands, the strength there. If it came to blows, I’d be no match for him.

He takes a deep breath, releases it slowly.

“Get up.”

He says it more like a weary boss than a livid murderer.

I find my feet, pushing slowly up off the sandy ground. He keeps his hand wound through my hair as I rise--just in case--but I think I’m done trying to run. For now, at least. If he’s sincere in what he says--that I’m still useful, that he won’t hurt me--then maybe I shouldn’t push my luck. Not until I’m certain I can get away.

“Let’s head back to the car,” he says. And my brain’s already working on another solution.

A solution I’m not looking forward to, but one that might just work.

Maybe I can be of use to him in more ways than one.

Flirting with a client to get a bigger tip at the end of a job isn’t too different from flirting with a client to keep him from killing me, right? Other than the much higher stakes.

I reach up toward his hand, the one that holds a fistful of my hair. I brush my fingertips over his knuckles, a slow and cautious touch designed to send a shiver up his spine. I leave my fingers atop his, then peer up into his dark eyes.

“I’m done misbehaving,” I promise.

I can see it on his face, he doesn’t trust me. But I can
make
him.

There’s a rumble of tires on pavement as an RV pulls off the highway exit and into the parking lot. Jake takes a step closer to me, but releases my hair. Instead, his hand finds a spot on my lower back, a heavy reminder that I better not try to run again. He guides me toward the Maybach, his body language turning casual, less deadly.

See, fellow tourists? We’re just two lovers on a stroll.

“That little stunt of yours means we’re behind schedule,” Jake says. He doesn’t get into the car until I’m back in the driver’s seat.

“I can make up for lost time.”

And that much is true. I can drive like a maniac if he needs me to. The Maybach can handle quite a bit.

I wonder what will happen once the Touring Club doesn’t hear from me on Monday.

Will I already be dead in a ditch somewhere?

I force the fear back. Despite my concerns, I have a new plan now. I’m going to make myself as useful as I can. I’ll seduce this son of a bitch if I have to, because I have to stay alive.

I turn the key in the ignition, but Jake reaches out and puts a hand over mine. I can feel the steely strength in his fingers.

“I want you to know that I basically saved your life back there,” he says. “You could have died alone in the desert. For no reason. I don’t know how many times I have to say I won’t hurt you unless you make me.”

I stay quiet.
Let him get it out,
I think.
If it calms him down.

“But know this: you are on your last fucking chance. What I’m doing is too important for you to screw it up. I will leave you in the dirt if you interfere with my work one more time.”

I can’t help but wonder: what’s he doing that’s so important? All the movies you see, all the books you read, they talk about hit men like they’re supposed to be these dispassionate robots. But I can see the fiery, almost crazy gleam in Jake’s eyes.

He cares a great deal about what he’s doing.

This isn’t just a job to him. Whatever it is he’s trying to do.

I can use that.

“Do you understand?”

He’s suddenly right up in my face, his eyes mere inches from mine. The intensity in his stare robs my breath for a moment. I don’t know what to say. So I nod mutely, my lips pressed together.

“I want to hear you say it.”

I dip my head in a tiny nod.

“I understand.”

He pulls away, leaving me alone again. For now. And when he asks me to drive, he doesn’t zip-tie me to the steering wheel again.

“Get us to about an hour outside Vegas. One of those little towns. Somewhere with a hotel.”

I was wondering if Vegas was his destination. He hadn’t said anything, but short of going on to Salt Lake City or further still, there isn’t much reason to be on I-15 this far out.

I can’t help but wonder who he’s coming to Vegas to kill.